When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 37 Can We Expect the "Capello" Duo? (Please Read On!)

"That's genius! Pure, unparalleled talent! Cooper, did you see that? His explosiveness, his decision-making—it's just like a young Ronaldo!"

His round, gentle face always carried a refined smile, and his silver-gray hair was neatly combed back, making him look like a regular at a long-established café in Milan.

Behind his glasses, his eyes simultaneously gleamed with the shrewdness of a businessman and the fervor of a football fan, sometimes seeming to be calculating transfer budgets, and other times as excited as a child over a brilliant goal.

He wore a well-tailored dark blue suit, his tie was always neatly tied, and he wore an Inter Milan team crest brooch on his chest.

Inside the stadium's VIP box, Moratti's eyes gleamed, and his fingers unconsciously tapped the armrest.

Cooper calmly stroked his chin, his eyes fixed on the situation on the field:

"He and Martins are both eighteen. If they were to race, who would win? I don't know."

He paused for a moment: "There's no need for comparison beyond that."

Moratti gently stroked his cigar, his gaze still fixed on Roy, and continued in a low voice:
“Imagine, we had to pay three million dollars to the University of Chile team when Pinilla was nineteen, but this kid only needs four and a half million euros. The signing fee and salary are negotiable.”

He paused, his brow furrowing slightly, his fingers unconsciously tapping the armrest of the private room:
"But the question is—when can we sit down at the negotiating table? What if Real Madrid suddenly beckons to him in the summer?"

Cooper, still focused on the game, replied expressionlessly:

"What will he choose? Will he go to the Bernabéu to sit on the bench, or come to the San Siro? We will at least give him a chance to compete for a starting position."

Moratti gave a wry smile, took off his glasses, and wiped them:
"Damn Florentino. He always makes young people believe that even being a benchwarmer at Real Madrid is more promising than being a key player elsewhere."

Cooper finally turned his head, his eyes calm to the point of being cold:
"Then let's not wait until summer. Let Oriali contact his agent now—before Real Madrid even gets a whiff of it."

Moratti took a deep breath, put his glasses back on, and a determined look appeared on his lips:
"You're right. Some opportunities are fleeting."

Cooper stared at the field, a shrewd look appearing on his cold face: "Gamara is nothing but trash in my eyes."

“But what’s interesting,” Cooper continued, “São Paulo president Amaral has always had a soft spot for this ‘trash.’ Back when Gamara was at Flamengo, they had their eye on him. Trading Gamara for Kaká? That was a pipe dream. But if we pay a reasonable transfer fee in addition to this ‘trash,’”

Cooper drew a number on the table with his index finger, "and that will bring that young genius from São Paulo to the Meazza."

"Pazza Inter (Crazy Inter Milan)!"

Behind the glasses, those eyes that always carried a melancholy shone brightly at this moment. Moratti began with the slogan most familiar to the fans, his fingers unconsciously tapping on the glass of the box.

"If we're lucky enough."

His voice trembled slightly with excitement, "Kaka and Roy, this duo—"

At this point, he suddenly stood up.

Cooper looked at the president, nicknamed "The King of the Nerazzurri," who gestured with his hands to indicate the attack route: "A Brazilian magician, a French lightning bolt, the sparks they can create."

Moratti suddenly turned around, his blue and black cufflinks gleaming under the lights. "Enough to guarantee the glory of the Meazza for the next ten years!"

His leather shoes left excited marks on the carpet, as if he could already see the two young men fighting side by side: "Think about it, Cooper! Kaka's elegant through balls, Roy's violent breakthroughs, plus Vieri... no, no! We should buy back Adriano, plus that kid's finishing touch!"

Moratti suddenly lowered his voice, "This will be an even more glorious chapter than the 'Grande Inter' era."

He hummed a light tune: "Chi non salta nerazzurroè!" (Those who don't dance are Juventus fans).

Stomping lightly to the rhythm, the snake spirit badge on the tie clip gleamed under the light.

At this moment, he was not an oil tycoon, but just an old boy dreaming of blue and black.

Outside the box, Roy broke through again, and the French fans in the stands erupted in deafening cheers.

Thirty-seventh minute.

Henry received the ball on the left wing. Facing the pressure from the Israeli right-back, he suddenly swept the ball diagonally towards the edge of the penalty area with the outside of his right foot!

"Henry! The magician's pass! Look at that tearing motion with the outside of his foot! A gap has been ripped in the Israeli defense!"

Roy receives the ball outside the penalty arc, supports himself with his left foot, and flicks the ball in the opposite direction with his right foot, feigning a breakthrough to the right!

Israeli defensive midfielder Heim Revo was deceived, and Roy instantly stopped with his left foot, then cut the ball with his right foot in the opposite direction, directly bypassing Revo!

"Roy! Left foot brace! Right foot flick! Sudden stop! Cut the ball! My God! That's like a waltz! He's using Heim Revol as a stake!"

Henry made a diagonal run into the left side of the penalty area as Roy broke through, drawing away two center-backs!
Trezeguet then moved laterally, pinning another defender near the penalty spot!

Israeli commentator stubborn but flustered:
"It's alright! Our defense is still intact! The French are just wasting their time! They can't score—Heim Revo was only slightly out of position! Those fancy moves by the French are useless! Our defense is rock solid! Wait... where's Vieira?! Where's the center-back?! Where is the center-back?! No... no! How could he have gotten such an easy shot?! Our defense is like paper!"

When everyone thought Roy was going to shoot himself, Vieira started jogging from the center circle, but after entering the attacking third, he suddenly changed direction three times, shook off his marker, and ran into the top of the penalty area!
0.5 seconds before receiving the ball, Roy glanced back and his eyes locked onto Vieira, who was running ahead.

He feinted a shot and then passed the ball back in a triangular pattern with the inside of his right foot!
Vieira unleashed a powerful shot!

He unleashed a powerful shot with the instep of his right foot, sending the ball soaring like a cannonball into the top right corner of the goal.

The ball's trajectory first rose rapidly, then dropped noticeably. Israeli goalkeeper Duduawat barely managed to touch it with his fingertips as he made the save, but he couldn't stop it!

The French commentators went absolutely wild!!! "VIEIRA! BOOM!!! This powerful shot shattered the Israelis' dreams! 2-1! The Blues have taken the lead! This is the fury of France!"

Vieira sprinted to the sidelines, pounded his chest and roared at the Israeli bench, directly responding to their earlier mockery of him for "missing a shot"!

The entire French team surrounded him in celebration. Henry laughed and ruffled Vieira's bald head, while Roy pointed to his eyes, indicating, "I saw you a long time ago."

Vieira was furious. Before the match, he had planned to stand up for his good friend Wiltord and question Roy about why he had taken his number 11 jersey.

But at this moment, his blood was ignited by Roy's uncanny assist, and he had long since put all grudges to the winds.

He grabbed Roy and slapped him hard on the back like an excited brown bear, roaring with his face turning dark red: "Well done, kid!"

Wiltord stood on the bench, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape. He watched as his closest brother, Vieira, was celebrating more enthusiastically than anyone else with his "enemy," Roy, arm in arm!
Wiltord's heart was roaring:

"Patrick! You, with your thick eyebrows and big eyes, have also betrayed the revolution?! We agreed to boycott this kid together!!"

Three minutes of added time in the first half.

Israeli striker Amir Turghman attempted to dribble forward, but Vieira charged at him like an enraged rhinoceros, bringing him down with a fierce and fair challenge!
"That's absolutely a foul! Vieira is practically wrestling!"

Human sorrows and joys are not interlinked.

While the Israeli commentator wailed, the French commentator sneered:

"Perfect defense! Who does Turghman think he is? Daring to play with his feet in front of Vieira?"

After receiving the ball, Makelele deftly cut inside, shaking off the pressing Itan Tar, and then passed it to Lizarazu on the left wing.

The French left-back dribbled forward at high speed, suddenly changed direction and cut inside, attracting the defense before passing back to Makelele.

Just as Makelele received the ball, Zidane quietly moved forward, subtly pointing with his finger – “Pass it here!”

The moment the ball reached the feet of France's number 10, the penalty area waltz began.

Zidane received a through pass from Makelele, took a touch with his left foot, and effortlessly dribbled past the onrushing Abukasius.

Facing the defender Harazi, he stepped on the ball with his right foot, turned, and suddenly flicked it to the left, pinning Harazi to the spot!

After breaking into the penalty area, Zidane unleashed a powerful left-footed shot! The ball struck Bernardo's leg and deflected into the net!

"ZIDANE! Magical footwork! Deadly deflection! 3-1! This is the gift that the god of football has bestowed upon France!"

While the French commentator was going wild, the Israeli commentator was breaking down:

"Another deflection?! Is our defender cursed today?! This ball... this ball could have been blocked! Bernardo, why did you stretch out your leg?!"

Zidane pointed to the sky expressionlessly, as if the goal had been part of his calculations all along.

The Israeli players walked off the field dejectedly, while the goalkeeper furiously pounded the goalpost in frustration.

The entire French substitutes rushed to the sidelines, and Wiltord, forgetting his anger, raised his arms in celebration!

With a 3-1 lead at halftime, the atmosphere in the French team's locker room was electric, but each player's performance was completely different.

Santini slammed his hand on the tactical board, the whiteboard marker flying wildly as he drew three exclamation marks over "5-game winning streak".

"45 minutes! Just 45 more minutes! We'll be the first team in all of Europe to secure a spot in the European Championship!"

France has a 9-point lead and only needs one more point to qualify for the next round.

Santini was inwardly laughing hysterically. Jacquet's record? It'll be mine soon!
Zidane quietly wiped his boots, occasionally glancing up at Santini's tactics board.

"The Israelis will be pressing like crazy in the second half. Makelele, you and I switch positions to control the tempo."

Suddenly glancing at Roy, Roy, after listening to the tactics, habitually put on his headphones and transformed into a music enthusiast.

This kid's passing is alright, but we need to teach him when to slow down.

Vieira glanced at Zidane, then, shirtless, began to pound on the wardrobe, acting like a captain and denting the metal door.

"Anyone who slacks off in the second half, I'll shove their leg up their ass! Especially you, Wiltord!"

He was thinking about Wiltord again, but Roy was in top form.

Even though he was substituted in the second half, he still managed two key breakthroughs and one assist.

If Wiltord wants to "uphold justice," he'll have to prove himself.

"I can do his (Roy's) job better when I'm on the court."

Wiltord said.

(End of this chapter)