When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 76 suggests he change his name to 'Wiltold - Museum Guide'.

The opening match of the 4th Confederations Cup took place on June 18, 2003.

The lights at the Stade de France stood out starkly against the sparsely populated stands.

Zico sat on the Japanese team's coaching bench, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the edge of the tactics board—the memory of that match five years ago still lingered, when Zidane's two headers shattered Brazil's dignity like hammer blows, and he could only sit on the assistant coach's bench, watching Ronaldo's staggering figure being swallowed up by the French tricolor flag.

"Sir, the players are all ready in the tunnel."

The translator's voice brought him back to reality.

Zico straightened his dark blue tie, a color that reminded him of the sea in Rio de Janeiro, but at this moment it reminded him even more of the Kirin Cup match at Nagai Stadium in Osaka—the disappointed Japanese faces in the stands 11 days earlier when they lost 1-4 to Argentina.

In the 23rd minute, Shunsuke Nakamura received a cross from the edge of the penalty area and delicately curled a left-footed shot into the far corner of the net.

Zico suddenly sprang up from the coach's bench, raised his fists high, and a rare smile appeared on his lips.

The Japanese bench erupted in cheers as players imitated Nakamura's signature "glasses celebration," and blue and white confetti rained down from the stands like snowflakes.

In the area for Japanese wives, Nakamura's fiancée, Manami, held up a fluorescent sign that read "Give Shunsuke more love."

In the 51st minute, Hidetoshi Nakata dribbled past two players in the middle and unleashed a powerful shot from 25 meters out, the ball flying straight into the top corner.

Zico merely nodded slightly this time, but his eyes flashed with a sharp light, and he slapped his assistant teacher hard on the back with his right hand.

The giant taiko drum of the Osaka support group resounded, and fans held up "Heiju-sama" light boards and danced "samurai dance". A burly man cosplaying a Sengoku period warrior even wielded a prop samurai sword.

In the 68th minute, Shunsuke Nakamura headed in a goal to seal the victory.

Zico finally smiled, making a "3" gesture with both hands as he turned to the Japanese fans' stands.

In an instant, a 30-meter-wide Rising Sun Flag was unfurled, and hundreds of folding fans were simultaneously unfolded beneath it, each bearing the Chinese characters "必胜" (Victory is certain).

Just as the final whistle blew, a giant vertical banner suddenly appeared on the east side of the stands that read "Jiko-san, Arigatou (Thank you, Mr. Jiko)".

A great coach, very capable!
Three hours later, France will face Colombia.

The match began in a somewhat subdued atmosphere at the Stade Gerland, where 38000 spectators witnessed defending champions France take on South American powerhouse Colombia.

Without Zidane, Vieira and Makelele, the French team fielded a 4-4-2 formation under Santini, with Coupet replacing Barthez in goal, while Colombia relied on a defense led by the Córdoba brothers to prepare for the challenge.

In the 5th minute, the French team executed a brilliant pass, and the Stade de France instantly erupted!
Desailly dribbled the ball in the middle of the backfield, while Mexes moved to the left to receive the pass, and Lizarazu made a high-speed run down the left flank. Coupet loudly directed the defensive line's positioning from in front of the goal.

Desailly calmly passed the ball to Pedretti, who then played a pass to Dacourt.

Dacourt shakes off Colombian midfielder Jorge Lopez and makes a diagonal pass to the right wing!
The Canal+ commentator shouted excitedly:

"Wiltord has the ball! Roy has made a run into space! Pass it! -- Wait, he didn't pass it?!"

Wiltord received the ball on the wing and looked up to see Roy already making a high-speed run forward!
The moment Roy started, his eyes sharpened: "Opportunity!"

He then gestured for Wiltord to pass the ball.

But Wiltord, who had the ball, chose to ignore it, and Roy gradually slowed down, his expression becoming increasingly gloomy.

Another commentator found it unbelievable:
"What is he doing?! Roy is completely unmarked! Wiltord is going to get dispossessed if he cuts inside! Oh my god!"

Wiltord didn't pass to the open Roy, but instead dribbled inside himself!

He wanted to pass the ball diagonally to Henry on the left wing, but Colombian center-back Cordoba anticipated it!

Yepes pressed forward, Wiltord hastily passed the ball back, and the French attack ended!

"This is simply criminal! Roy is in such a good position! Wiltord would rather force the ball to Henry than pass it to him?!"

French fans booed loudly: "Pass it! Selfish!"

Santini shook his head on the sidelines, clearly dissatisfied with the attacking decision.

"We all know the story between these two, the battle for the number 11 jersey. It seems it's not over yet!"

(Close-up shot: Roy shrugs in dissatisfaction, Wiltord walks away expressionlessly, the two exchange no words.)
Canal+ Commentary Summary:

"If France wants to win, Wiltord and Roy must solve this problem! Otherwise, this kind of waste will continue!"

(The camera cuts back to Roy, who kicks the grass hard, clearly still angry.)

15 minutes.

Kapo took a 40-meter diagonal pass from 25 meters out on the left flank, accurately finding an opening on the right.

Colombian left-back Bedoya misjudged the header, and the ball bounced and landed on the right edge of the penalty area.

Wiltord chests the ball down, and Cordoba quickly covers but maintains their distance.

Roy suddenly surged forward from the middle, forcing Yepes to follow up.

Roy's ghostly movement.

In his first sprint, Yepes feigned a forward run, causing Yepes to lose his balance.

He braked suddenly and made a run back, retreating abruptly to the vicinity of the penalty spot, completely shaking off the defense.
At this point, Wiltord has three choices:

A cross-court pass to Roy, an absolutely open shot.

He played a through ball to Henry, but Martinez was already marking him closely.

He broke through on his own, but the angle was already sealed off.

But Wiltord clearly saw Roy in a perfect position, yet he took an extra step.

He managed to pass the ball across to Henry before Yepes could cover.

Henry's shot was weak and easily saved by Cordoba due to insufficient preparation.

Roy charged straight at Wiltord, pointing at the ground: "Are you fucking blind?! Why didn't you pass to that position?!"

Wiltord remained expressionless, his tone icy: "That's not the best position; you'll get double-teamed even if you get the ball."

"Putain! That's my business!"

Wiltord pointed to his eyes and smiled: "Passing the ball is my job!"

The Canal+ commentator exclaimed in frustration:

"Once again! Wiltord is ignoring Roy once more! This choice is utterly absurd!"

Watching the slow-motion replay:

"Look at Roy's art of positioning! He completely fooled the entire defense! If the pass is in place, this is a textbook example of beating the offside trap!"

The commentator said angrily:
"This isn't a technical problem, it's an attitude problem! The rifts in the French team's locker room are becoming public on the pitch!"

The Colombian players exchanged glances, clearly preparing to exploit the weaknesses on France's right flank.

(After the game resumed, Roy and Wiltord no longer exchanged glances, and the French team's attack on the right flank completely devolved into individual battles.)
In the 39th minute, the air at the Stade de France suddenly froze!
Wiltord delivered a cross from the right wing. The ball was slightly mishit, but instead flew towards the six-yard box with a strange spin.

In a panic, Velasquez raised his arm, and with a dull thud, the ball struck his elbow squarely.

"Handball!! Penalty!!"

The referee's whistle pierced the sky, and his finger pointed firmly to the penalty spot.

Henry picked up the ball and slowly spun it three times in front of his chest—his signature move.

Oscar Cordoba bounced back and forth in front of the goal line, but the Arsenal king's eyes never left the bottom right corner of the goal.

Run-up, pause, shoot!

A low, powerful shot found its way into the net; Oscar Cordoba, despite guessing the right direction, was still a fraction of a second too late!

"BUUUUUT!!! Thierry Henry!!!"

The commentary booth erupted in cheers. "That's his 19th goal for the national team! The defending champions have finally broken the deadlock!"

The celebratory scenes are even more intriguing—

Wiltord was the first to rush toward Henry, his leap onto his teammate's back almost ferociously, his right hand slamming hard against the team badge on Henry's chest.

This Arsenal striker has finally gotten his revenge after Roy stole his number 11 jersey.

"Well done, old buddy!"

Wiltord yelled in Henry's ear, deliberately raising his voice so that everyone around could hear, "Some people wear number 11 to score goals, while others can only watch from the sidelines!"

His gaze swept sideways to Roy, who was clapping expressionlessly, and a mocking smile appeared on his lips.

What's even more outrageous is that Wiltord deliberately ran to the camera on the sidelines, made the number "11" with two fingers, and then exaggeratedly made a "throat-slitting" gesture—it was obvious to everyone who he was mocking.

Henry maintained his composure, only whispering as he high-fived Wiltord, "Take it easy, rookies always need time to adapt."

But the combination of that statement and his gesture of touching Wiltord's number 14 only made it seem more malicious.

The broadcast cameras cleverly captured the following simultaneously:

Roy stood at the center circle arc, his clapping rhythm noticeably half a beat slower.

Govou on the bench winked at Cissé.

Santini started scribbling on the tactics board again.

As the celebrating crowd dispersed, Wiltord deliberately walked around to Roy, pretending to adjust his socks, but actually saying, "Kid, the number 11 jersey isn't for pajamas."

Roy's smile widened suddenly. He leaned forward and whispered in Wiltord's ear in a voice only the two of them could hear, "Fuck you, Wiltord."

Each word, hot with each breath, hit the other person's earlobe: "I fucking never wear pajamas."

He suddenly sat up straight, making an exaggerated embracing and shaking gesture with his right hand, "Only a giant baby like you hiding in Thierry's cradle needs this!"

Wiltord's face turned ashen instantly, but then he suddenly let out a mocking sneer.

He deliberately looked Roy up and down, his gaze finally settling between the man's legs: "Then why can't your little thing reach into Colombia's goal?"

The sound was neither too loud nor too soft, just enough for Desailly and Henry, who were nearby, to hear clearly.

Roy's smile suddenly turned dangerous; he tilted his head, revealing his canine teeth, like a wolf poised to pounce.

"Then you should let your wife be the starting goalkeeper on the other side!"

He deliberately raised his voice so that the entire French defense could hear him clearly.

These words exploded on the field like a bomb, even causing Henry, who was drinking water on the sidelines, to choke and cough.

Wiltord instantly flew into a rage, grabbing Roy by the collar: "You fucking—"

The veins on his neck bulged out like earthworms.

His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails dug deep into his palms.

Roy nonchalantly took a half step back, tilting his head to admire the other's furious expression, and even raised an eyebrow provocatively.

"You little brat."

Wiltord managed to squeeze out a few words through gritted teeth, but was interrupted by Desailly's sudden appearance.

"enough!"

The old captain stood like a wall separating the two, but Roy could still see Wiltord's face contorted with rage over Desailly's shoulder—an expression that looked like he had swallowed a fly whole.

Roy whistled and deliberately bumped Wiltord with his shoulder as he turned around.

His gait was extremely arrogant, as if the entire stadium was his territory.

As he passed the cameras on the sidelines, he even licked his fangs at the camera, looking every bit like a mischievous devil.

"Ladies and gentlemen! We are witnessing a conflict more exciting than the match itself! Wiltord and Roy—the former and current owners of the number 11 jersey—are putting on a showdown at the Stade Gerland that rivals a Hollywood blockbuster!"

"This is football! This is locker room politics! When number 11 meets number 14, when the new generation challenges the veterans, the sparks are always more dazzling than the goals! Although the score is still 1-0, this undercurrent of tension has already laid a heavy foundation for the next match between France and Japan!"

"I'm commentator Dubois, bringing you live coverage of this 'unofficial fighting tournament' from the Stade Gerland!"

In the 41st minute, France almost extended their lead! Dacourt's long-range shot from outside the penalty area grazed the post, giving the Colombian goalkeeper a scare.

At halftime, France led 1-0, but the performance fell far short of the fans' expectations.

Wiltord kicked over the metal stool with a loud crash that shook the locker room.

He bared his teeth, his lips twisted into a mocking arc, and deliberately raised his voice so everyone could hear him—

"This puppy didn't score a single goal in the first half, but he's barking the loudest than anyone else!"

The locker room fell silent instantly; even Henry, who was tying his shoelaces, stopped.

Giuly slowly raised his head, his gaze locking onto Wiltord's back.

Roy, who had been lounging lazily against the wardrobe, slowly straightened up upon hearing this, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. He tilted his head, like a wolf sizing up its prey, and then spoke slowly—

"Oh? So the goal was scored because of your pass? Not because the damn defender reached out?"

He paused deliberately and glanced at Wiltord.

"How many good passes did you make in the first half? Oh right, zero."

Some of the younger members were trying not to laugh, and Ge Wu even whistled.

Rothen was drinking water, and the mineral water bottle was being squeezed so hard it made a "crackling" sound.

He suddenly choked, so he deliberately sprayed the water forward and wiped his mouth with his hand.

Henry sighed, stepped forward, and stood between the two, his voice low but brooking no argument—

"That's enough, this is the Confederations Cup, not a street brawl."

He turned to Wiltord and said, "You have more experience, don't argue with a kid."

He glanced at Roy again: "And you, number 11 isn't for arguing, it's for letting your feet do the talking." Roy shrugged. "Fine, then watch me in the second half. But my condition is that I have a reliable passer on my right."

Pires suddenly spoke, his eyes icy: "Roy, you're too arrogant."

Wiltord sneered, "I hope your feet are tougher than your mouth."

When Roy heard Henry trying to mediate, he not only didn't back down, but instead scoffed and interrupted him.

"Of course my feet are hard."

He tilted his head, his eyes sweeping defiantly over Wiltord.

"But could you please not have this brat appear to my right? I don't want to be infected by his bad luck!"

The locker room erupted instantly; Govou burst out laughing, and Mexes whistled.

Wiltord jumped to his feet, the stool crashing to the ground, and pointed at Roy's nose, roaring—

"You little bastard! You think wearing number 11 makes you Zidane?!"

"When I won the European Championship, you were still wetting the bed!"

Desailly rushed over to stop him, but Wiltord had already shoved Henry aside and headed straight for Roy.

Henry had initially intended to maintain order in the locker room, but Roy's "bastard" and Wiltord's "little bastard" completely ignited the powder keg.

His expression instantly darkened, and he grabbed Wiltord's arm, his voice low but barbed.

"Enough! If you two keep causing trouble, believe me, Santini will substitute you both!"

He turned and glared at Roy.

"And you, don't think you can run wild here just because you scored a few goals!"

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Wow, the king has spoken? Then this is no fun."

Spread your hands.

"Fine, then I'll shut up—anyway, even a dog wouldn't catch the ball that some people pass to them."

The locker room fell into complete silence; even Desailly froze.

"boom!"

Coach Santini slammed the tactical board on the ground and called out names directly—

"Roy! Wiltord! You two, now! Right now! Get out of here and calm down!"

"Henry, you're the captain. If you can't control them, then you shouldn't be playing!"

Roy sneered, shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and made a funny face.

Wiltord kicked the wardrobe hard and slammed the door shut as he left.

Henry sat alone in the corner, his eyes weary. He was trying to take control of the locker room, but he found that he could do what Zidane could not.

Coach Santini slammed his tactical board shut, his voice as cold as ice.

"Wiltord, you'll switch to the left wing in the second half."

"Roy, continue on the right flank."

His gaze swept over everyone.

"If anyone causes trouble again, I'll replace Govou and Cissé, and you two will both be benched!"

The locker room was completely silent, except for the cracking sound of Wiltord's clenched fists.

Canal+ commentary begins:
"In the second half, the French team's tactics board may not be the key - how to prevent number 11 and number 14 from fighting each other is Santini's biggest problem!"

(The camera cuts back to the pitch, where players from both sides enter, with Roy and Wiltord on either side, exchanging no words throughout.)
The role-switching experiment had a disastrous start.

Santini made a bold adjustment at halftime, moving Wiltord to the left and Capo to the right. This decision quickly turned into a tactical nightmare:

In the 48th minute, the right flank collapsed for the first time.

After receiving the ball on the right wing, Capo habitually drifted to the wing, overlapping with Thuram's run down the wing.

Colombian defensive midfielder Lopez easily intercepted the ball and immediately launched a long pass to Hernandez, who was making a quick run forward.

France's right flank was wide open, forcing Desailly to commit a tactical foul and receive a yellow card.

In the 53rd minute, the left flank also failed.

Wiltord received the ball on the left wing and attempted to break past Martinez three times, but failed. Henry, who was used to attacking with the ball, was also dissatisfied with Wiltord's failure to pass the ball in time.

Patiño exploited the space left by Lizarazu's forward run.

Colombia's counter-attack forced Coupet to make a brilliant save.

The subsequent failed positional switch led to a chain reaction of loss of control in the midfield.

58 minutes.

Pedretti was forced to frequently fill in on the flanks, causing the central defense to disappear.

Dacourt faced a one-man attack from three Colombian midfielders.

The broadcast cameras captured his helpless expression as he shrugged at the coaching bench.

63 minutes.

France lost possession for the fourth consecutive time and launched a counter-attack.

Fans behind the coaching bench began chanting "Substitution!"

Santini stood with his hands in his pockets, expressionless.

65 minutes.

Colombia launched their most dangerous attack of the game.

Capo's casual cross pass was intercepted by Velázquez.

Colombia broke through the French defense with just three passes.

Becerra's shot hit the crossbar, and the Stade de France fell silent.

Data statistics (43 to 67 minutes):
France's passing accuracy plummeted to 61%.
Colombia had 4 shots, 3 of which came on the counter-attack.

Wiltord and Capo lost possession a total of 7 times.

Canal+ commentators provide tactical analysis:

"Santini's positional experiment was a complete failure! The French team was like a warrior with his left and right arms cut off. Wiltord was sleepwalking on the left wing, and Capo couldn't find his rhythm at all on the right. Colombia's counter-attacks were like sharp knives piercing the heart every time!"

(The camera switches to the substitutes' bench, where Giuly has already started warming up, his eyes burning with fighting spirit.)

67 minutes.

Santini finally made a change, replacing the out-of-form Wiltord with Giuly, allowing Capo to return to his familiar left wing.

Canal+ commentator: "Giuly is on! Santini has finally come to terms with reality—the French team needs Monaco's magic on the right flank!"

Three minutes later, the change was almost immediate, and a storm broke out on the right flank!

After intercepting the ball in the middle, Pedretti quickly passed it to Dacourt, who delivered a 20-meter low through ball with the outside of his right foot.

The ball pierced through the double-team of Lopez and Velázquez, precisely finding an opening on the right flank.

The moment he received the ball, Bedoya pounced fiercely.

Giuly lightly pushed the ball with his right foot, feigning a downward push, then suddenly pulled the ball back with the inside of his left foot.

Fried dough balls! The ball passed between Bedoa's outstretched legs.

As the Colombian left-back staggered and turned, Giuly had already broken into the heart of the defense.

Roy dropped back from the forward line to receive the pass, with Yepes close behind.

Juli looked toward the middle, but lightly pushed his ankle in a straight line.

Roy delivered a brilliant backheel pass, and the two completed a dream-like one-two pass with a combination of eye contact and a backheel.

Giuly surged forward and swept across the penalty area, forcing Cordoba to come out and block.

While everyone's attention was focused on Giuly, Roy had already made a ghostly run and quietly circled behind Cordoba.

Henry held Martinez back at the far post.

Capo suddenly lunged forward from the left flank, drawing Cordoba's attention.

Roy fired a low shot from a tight angle straight towards the near post.

Cordoba deflected the ball with his toe, and it grazed the outside of the goalpost before going out of play.

The goalkeeper, still shaken, pounded on the goalpost to confirm its location.

Canal+ commentators went wild: "Giuly came on for only 180 seconds! France's right flank went from being paralyzed to becoming a high-voltage electric grid! This combination was like dissecting the Colombian defense under a microscope!"

Desailly has rushed into the penalty area and is ready to shoot on the rebound.

Mexes raised his hands in the backfield to signal his teammates to get back on defense.

Thuram angrily kicked an advertising board from the sideline: "So close!"

71 minutes.

Pedretti intercepted a pass from Colombia in his own half, looked up and observed for only 0.5 seconds—

"Boom!"

A 40-meter cruise missile streaked across the sky above the Stade de France, the ball spinning wildly as it plummeted toward the center circle.

Under Yepes' close marking, Roy suddenly made a run to create half a meter of space and used the inside of his right thigh to control the ball steadily.

Yepes pounced like a giant bear, while Roy moved as nimbly as a cat.

Feign to stop the ball with your right foot, but actually push it gently with the inside of your foot.

The ball went through Yepes's legs.
He then made a sharp 180-degree turn and successfully dribbled past the ball!
Oh là là!

A tsunami of gasps erupted from the stands. Seeing the situation was dire, Colombian captain Cordoba sprinted down the middle to cover for his team.

Faced with Cordoba's blockade, Roy made an illogical move.

Instead of slowing down to adjust, he suddenly poked the ball with his toe!
Crotchless!

Cordoba's legs stiffened as if he had been electrocuted, and Roy had already whizzed past him on his left!

Bedoya launched a flying tackle from the side and behind, and Roy was about to fall at the last moment.

Extend your left leg to its maximum extent, opening it 90 degrees like a compass.

The right leg is straight as a bowstring.

Complete the volley when the body is at a 45-degree angle to the ground!
The ball, with an uncanny arc, swept past Yepes' raised studs by 10 centimeters and nestled into the top right corner of the goal! Cordoba leaped into the air, but his fingertips were still a full 20 centimeters away from the ball!

"BUUUUUUUUT!!!!!"

Canal+ commentators deliver a frenzied commentary:
"This is an alien invasion! This is lightning splitting the night! Roy has torn Colombia apart in the most brutal way! Look at the trajectory of this goal—from his own penalty area to the opponent's goal, he only touched the ball four times, yet he humiliated the defenders three times!"

After rolling and falling to the ground, Roy immediately jumped up and slid across the three stripes on the sidelines!
Pedretti was the first to rush over and hug him, yelling in his ear, "Fuck Wiltord!"

Giuly jumped onto Roy's back and pointed at his number 11 jersey, gesturing towards the bench!
Henry smiled, shook his head, and clapped, but his eyes kept glancing at Wiltord on the bench.

When the DJ played "Can't Stop," Roy ran to the corner flag area—

He picked up a discarded Colombian flag, slowly tied it to the corner flagpole, and then turned to blow a kiss to the camera.

Wiltord got up and headed straight for the locker room, while Santini pretended not to see him.

Roy, surrounded by reporters, was pouring mineral water over his head.

When a reporter brought up Wiltord's performance in the first half, he raised his eyebrows: "I don't understand what his role is? Is he there to manage the shots on goal?"

He grinned, revealing his fangs, and suggested he change his name to 'Wiltold - Museum Guide'.

When a L'Équipe reporter provocatively asked whether he deserved the number 11 jersey, Roy casually tapped his chest with his hand: "See it clearly?"

Pointing to his jersey, he said, "This is the French team crest, not a nursing home access card!"

The most explosive response was directed at Henry: "Thirry is certainly great—"

"Anything else?" the reporter asked expectantly.

"No need to say anything more."

Roy smirked and turned to leave.

--------------

Oliver Kahn, the best goalkeeper and player of the 2002 World Cup and arguably the best goalkeeper in the history of Bayern Munich and the German national team, recently announced that he will retire after the 2006 World Cup in Germany.

Kahn is 34 years old this year, and will only be 37 in 2006; for a goalkeeper, this is far from the age where he has to retire. However, in an interview, Kahn stated that he is tired of football and is now more interested in becoming the general manager of Bayern Munich after retiring.

"2006 will be the end of my professional playing career. I don't see anyone more suitable than me to play the role of Hoeneß's replacement," Kahn said.

—German Sports Weekly

(End of this chapter)