When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 110, Adidas: It's time to turn the page.
November 24, 2003, Hermitage Hotel, Monaco.

Mark Parker pushed a matte black box toward Roy.

"open to take a look."

Roy lifted the box, and inside lay a brand new pair of Mercurial Vapor 2s—a dazzling red, with a cold silver Swoosh on the side, chrome studs, and matte red stud bases.

Mark Parker tapped the conference table with his finger and turned on the projector.

“This is the standard model,” he said. “If you want to customize a special color scheme, it normally takes 12 days.”

The screen displays detailed production steps:
Design confirmation (3 days): The designers need to spend three days discussing the design, and they can argue about the ratio of red and white on the shoe upper several times.

Material preparation (5 days): The specially made red leather needs to be transported from a factory in northern Italy, which will take several days to arrive.

Handmade (2 days): Italian master craftsmen will sew the pieces by hand. They are meticulous in their work and can only make a few pairs a day at most.

Quality inspection and transportation (2 days): After completion, strict inspection is required to test the stilettos for firmness and whether the upper will come unglued before finally packing and shipping.

Roy picked up the sample shoes from the box, glanced at the hastily written word "sample" on the inside of the tongue, and frowned slightly.

He couldn't help but wonder: Is this still the Nike he remembered, the one where "if the glue comes undone, it's genuine; if it doesn't come undone, it's a Putian product"?
Roy picked up the sneakers and examined them closely, gently stroking the surface with his fingers.

He looked up and gave a genuine smile: "Very beautiful!"

Mark Parker's lips curled slightly upward as he tapped his fingers lightly on the table.

“Honestly,” he said with a hint of sarcasm, “I can’t believe you scored so many goals wearing Adidas shoes, but they won’t even give you a decent contract.”

Monaco's jerseys and equipment are sponsored by Puma, but Roy always wore Adidas shoes, only covering the three stripes on the side of the shoes with white tape.

This is a habit he developed during his time in Real Madrid's youth academy.

Having trained and competed in the same brand of shoes for many years, his feet were already familiar with the feel and weight of Adidas.

Every time you start running, stop suddenly, or change direction, your muscles will naturally make the most adaptive response.

In an effort to retain the rising star, Monaco FC eventually agreed to allow him to continue using Adidas shoes after negotiations.

This decision greatly worried Puma – their sponsored team's most important young player was wearing a competitor's product.

Parker said bluntly:

"Under normal procedures, it takes 12 days for the new shoes to reach you."

“But you’re not an ordinary player.” Parker smiled, tapped the remote, and the screen switched to a new design.

“Your custom design will have something special,” he said, pointing to an enlarged diagram of the sole. “Look at these cleats.”

“The forefoot ignition studs will be the same red as the upper,” Parker said, pressing the remote control. “The heel braking studs will be pure white, so they will blend in with your socks when you run.”

He zoomed in on the details: "The main stud is bright silver, matching the Swoosh logo. All the stud bases are matte black, which makes it look more understated and the overall style is more restrained."

Roy noticed that this color scheme allowed the shoes to maintain the understated quality expected of professional equipment despite the bold red base.

The silver main nail stands out against the black base without appearing obtrusive.

The final shot focuses on the shoe collar: "A red and white trim will be added here, in Monaco's style."

Parker smiled and said, "We've initiated a special production process for this."

"They could arrive as early as the 26th, but unfortunately they won't make it in time for the match against Eindhoven on the 25th."

"Thank you for your trouble."

Mark Parker stared at Roy's smile and suddenly had a sense of déjà vu.

His thoughts drifted back to 1984, when he had just joined Nike's design department and watched as a 21-year-old rookie named Michael Jordan tried on the Air Jordan 1 that would later change the world in a conference room.

"When Puma signed Pelé, no one expected that football business would turn out like this today."

Parker thought to himself, fiddling with his cuffs.

Adidas's gamble on Maradona's madness ultimately resulted in one of the most legendary marketing campaigns in World Cup history.

Nike has been searching for a face that can define a new era for years – Ronaldo should have been that person, but that mysterious convulsion before the 98 World Cup final brought everything to an abrupt end.

Dust particles floated in the projector's beam, much like the lights that stayed on all night at Nike headquarters when Jordan made his comeback in 1995.

Parker clearly remembers that when 32-year-old Jordan returned to the court wearing jersey number 45, the entire marketing department was anxiously discussing "where is the next Jordan?"

At this moment, 27-year-old Ronaldo is battling injuries at Real Madrid, while this young man from Monaco...
"Thank you for your trouble."

Roy repeated himself, his voice pulling him back to reality.

Parker suddenly realized that history never repeats itself, but business legends always need new vehicles.

After Jordan came Kobe, and after Ronaldo? The answer to this question may lie in these red and white sneakers.

Mark Parker stared at Roy's youthful face, a meaningful smile playing on his lips.

The reports from Nike's research department over the past few months flashed through his mind—frame-by-frame analysis of match footage, Roy's signature goal celebrations, and even every outfit he was photographed wearing on the streets of Monaco, all of which became irrefutable evidence of the young man's commercial value.

Adidas did nothing and yet enjoyed the benefits for so long.

Thinking about this, Parker almost burst out laughing.

“Well then,” he said seriously, his smile fading, “it’s time to turn the page on Adidas.”

At 10 p.m., Luo Yi had just finished showering when Du Chen's name lit up on his phone screen.

"Voetbal Inside invited me to be a guest!"

"Voetbal Inside" is one of the most famous football talk shows in the Netherlands, broadcast by RTL 7, and has a very high influence in the Dutch football circle.

It is usually broadcast live on the same night as the Champions League or UEFA Cup matches, and there are also special programs after the matches.

Du Chen's voice sounded excited on the other end of the phone, "It's the Champions League broadcast, the same day as your match."

Roy smiled as he dried his hair.

"What do they want to talk about?" Roy asked.

"Our story, like how we met," Du Chen's tone suddenly became cautious, "What parts do you think we can talk about?"

He couldn't help but laugh: "Except for the parts that make you blush, you can improvise about the rest."

Du Chen's soft laughter came from the other end of the phone.

“I’ll be careful,” she paused, “though what they really want to hear is what brand of cereal you eat for breakfast and whether you sneak some potato chips after training.”

Her voice carried a sense of understanding, yet also a hint of helplessness.

Du Chen knew all too well the true nature of this show—on the surface, it was an invitation for her, his girlfriend, to be a guest, but in reality, every question contained a hidden agenda.

Behind the seemingly friendly smiles of those hosts lay a voyeuristic desire to pry into Roy's private life.

What they wanted to know was never Doutzen Kroos's story, but rather what Roy, the invincible player on the court, looked like after taking off his jersey:
Is Roy's daily routine really as rumored, with him waking up at 4 a.m. to train?
Does his dietary restrictions reflect the extreme self-discipline he developed during his time at Real Madrid's youth academy?
Besides football, are his personal hobbies also related to collecting sneakers or classical music?
Is his true personality, the polite image he presents under the spotlight, just a carefully designed disguise?

More secretly, they wanted to get information out of her about another side of Roy that no one else knew: whether he would smash things after losing a game.
After being harassed by the media, do you also swear when you get home?

Are staff members treated as kindly as fans?
Even in intimate relationships, will that domineering man on the court also show unexpected tenderness?
Although Du Chen is new to the world of fame and fortune, she possesses an innate keenness.

Like a sponge, she mastered the rules of the game in this circle in just a few months without any instruction.

She could see clearly the probing behind those seemingly casual conversations, and the calculations hidden beneath those friendly smiles.

Just like now, she fully understands the true purpose of the show inviting her.

Although she is just a new model who has just started to make a name for herself, she can already accurately sense the subtext behind every question.

They'll start with seemingly harmless questions like "Where did you go on your first date?" but ultimately they'll try to dig up bombshells like "Is Roy as controlling in private as he is on the court?"

If the host asks in a friendly tone, "How do you usually get along?", it translates to, "Is Roy this perfect in private too?"

Asking "What are his little-known habits?" is actually asking "What are the quirks or secrets of this popular star player?"

Du Chen recalled a fashion gala she attended last week, where a senior agent had said to her meaningfully, "In this industry, naivety is the greatest sin."

She smiled politely at the time, but silently memorized this survival rule in her heart.

Now, when faced with the invitation to the show, she knows clearly that every question about her will ultimately become a tool for dissecting Roy.

Roy laughed on the other end of the phone and said, "Here's a universal formula for solving this problem: Roy is Roy. I did it this way today because I wanted to; I didn't because I didn't want to. It's that simple."

He paused, a casual chuckle in his voice: "Tomorrow? Who knows? Maybe I'll change my mind. People aren't museum exhibits, they don't need a label to explain themselves. Those reporters always love to ask, 'Why did you choose that kind of shot?'"

At this point, he mimicked the reporter's exaggerated tone, "'Was it a meticulously designed tactic? Did it have any special meaning?'"

Du Chen could almost picture him right now: sprawled on the sofa, with that lazy smile on his face that made her both annoyed and amused.

“Actually, the answer is very simple,” Roy continued. “The ball came to me, I felt I should kick it this way, so I kicked it. That’s all.”

I could hear him getting up on the other end of the phone. He must be pouring that same glass of ice water again, without fail, with two slices of lemon, never with ice.

"do you know?"

"Those guys who are busy creating a persona for themselves all day long live like they're walking a tightrope. What about me?"

He took a swig of ice water and sighed contentedly, "I'm too lazy to even look for the wire."

Roy added, "But don't let them gossip too much, you know those TV hosts." Before hanging up, Roy heard Du Chen whisper, "I'll wear the dress you gave me."

On November 25, 2003, the PSV Eindhoven team bus slowly drove into the Stade Louis II in Monaco.

Inside the car, Hiddink was giving the players their final instructions.

"Monaco has won all four of their group stage matches and has already qualified for the knockout stage."

The veteran Dutch coach adjusted his glasses. "They won't fight us to the death today, but we shouldn't push them too hard either."

"Maintain good defensive spacing and strive for a draw. We'll give Deportivo La Coruña a proper welcome back at the Philips Stadium."

"Coach," Robben raised his head defiantly, "their right flank defense has weaknesses."

“Arjen,” Hiddink said without looking up, “your knee is worth more than this game.”

He turned to the whole team and said, "Just try to get one point today, and we'll deal with Deportivo when we get back to our home ground."

Amsterdam, The Netherlands.

Du Chen sat on a soft chair in the dressing room, her fingers stroking the hem of her dark red plaid skirt.

The wool fabric has a wintery feel, and when paired with the fitted red and white Monaco jersey, the whole look is both youthful and capable.

Black fleece-lined tights encased her crossed legs, and the metal buckles of her over-the-knee boots gleamed coldly under the makeup lights.

The agent was excitedly flipping through the ratings report: "You know what? Right now, all over the Netherlands..."

A soft knock on the door interrupted him.

The assistant poked his head in and said, "Roy's manager, Claire, is here. She says she has a few things to say."

When the door was pushed open, Du Chen's fingers unconsciously clenched the hem of her skirt.

Du Chen's wariness stemmed from Claire's overly close working relationship with Roy: she not only took care of all the professional details of Roy's career, from training to endorsements, but also the tacit understanding between them that allowed them to naturally adjust their ties, and Claire's privileged position of always knowing Roy's schedule before Du Chen did, all of which made Du Chen uneasy.

Claire strode in, her height of just over 1.7 meters appearing exceptionally tall and slender with her upright posture.

She wore a well-tailored ivory turtleneck sweater with a dark gray suit jacket, exuding a sophisticated and professional aura.

"excuse me."

Claire's eyes lit up, and an elegant smile curved her lips: "Darling, you're so beautiful."

Her gaze lingered on Du Chen, “Like the Pearl Girl in Vermeer’s painting, even the light seems to favor your silhouette.”

Du Chen was taken aback, not expecting such a comment.

As she approached, she carried a refreshing but not pungent scent.

Claire's smile deepened as she added, "When you're on camera later, remember to let the audience look into your eyes."

The makeup artist tactfully stepped aside.

Claire naturally half-squatted down, a movement that brought her line of sight to Du Chen, who was sitting down.

"Listen, darling."

Claire said in a voice only they could hear, "No matter how they try to get around it, remember three things."

She held up three fingers, bending one as she spoke, "I won't mention specific names, I won't compare myself to others, I'll only talk about things that actually happened."

“For example, if asked your opinion on the referee,” Claire whispered, mimicking the announcer’s tone, a gesture that suddenly brought her to life. “You could consider saying, ‘The referee’s job isn’t easy.’”

Du Chen nodded. "I understand. After all, not every story is suitable to be told in its entirety."

Smart Girl
Claire secretly admired him, "That's right, the most wonderful stories are hidden in the blank spaces."

A voice urging the audience to start the show came from outside the door, and Claire stood up.

Before leaving, she suddenly turned back, a small smile playing on her lips: "By the way, this outfit is very clever."

"You won't steal the spotlight from the competition, yet you'll be memorable enough."

"Thank you, after all, I have to live up to the expectations of the person standing on the sidelines."

Du Chen meaningfully smoothed out the Monaco team crest on the jersey, saying, "Just like you said, let's only talk about the facts that happened."

She slightly raised her chin, a perfectly timed smile playing on her lips: "Of course, after all, I know better than anyone how to make the most beautiful assist without being offside."

Her response was both polite and cleverly steered the conversation back to football, while implying that she was the one standing next to Roy.

Claire raised an eyebrow slightly, a hint of surprise flashing in her eyes, but it vanished in an instant.

But he quickly regained his composure, as if he had expected it all along.

In the Monaco locker room, the players' shoes made a clattering sound on the floor.

Roy sat on the bench, looking down at his brand-new red Nike Mercurial Vapor 2 sneakers.

These shoes were supposed to require at least two weeks to break in, but Nike, for promotional purposes, forced him to wear them for the game ahead of schedule.

Fortunately, the brand used a machine to simulate his foot shape for artificial break-in, and with a full day of adaptation training yesterday, there shouldn't be any major problems with wearing it.

Suddenly, Juli clapped his hands and shouted, "Brothers, let's go out and teach the Dutch a lesson!"

He had barely uttered the words when he seemed to realize something, glanced at Roy who was tying his shoelaces, and smiled as he corrected himself, "I meant the men of the Netherlands!"

A burst of laughter erupted in the locker room.

Adebayor winked mischievously and shouted in a thick African accent, "The Dutch women raved about me after the last match!"

He exaggeratedly wiggled his hips, which made the younger team members laugh even harder.

Roy didn't even look up, only his lips twitched slightly, as he continued to focus intently on adjusting the tightness of his shoelaces.

The lights of Riazor Stadium pierced the cold night sky of Galicia.

This stadium, known as the "devil's home ground," was filled with an almost tragic silence at this moment.

The giant Tifo in the North Stand slowly unfolds—a sinking Galician fishing boat, with the score of "9:3" on its hull resembling two bloody scars.

Lorenzo, the security guard at the entrance, tightened the collar of his cotton coat. He had worked here for twenty years and had never seen such a strange pre-match atmosphere.

There were no songs, no drumbeats, no cheers as usual; instead, fans spontaneously passed around black scarves, with 30,000 black scarves slowly flowing through the stands.

With trembling hands, veteran fan Manuel wrapped a scarf around his neck. The humiliating defeat at the Stade Louis II two weeks ago has kept this old sailor, who experienced Real Madrid's five consecutive Champions League titles, awake at night.

“We’re not here to watch the game,” said Carlos, leader of the North Stand, who had personally experienced the tragedy at the Stade Louis II.

At that moment, he roared into the microphone, his voice amplified throughout the venue via makeshift loudspeakers:
"We're here for a funeral!"

Behind him, the fans silently raised nine fingers, representing the nine goals conceded in the previous round.

Inside the tunnel, the Athens AEK players exchanged uneasy glances.

Captain Casapis swallowed hard.

Goalkeeper Mikelidis kept adjusting his gloves, as he always felt they were uncomfortable.

On the other side, the Deportivo La Coruña players stood in a silent line, each tightly gripping the hand of a caddie.

The children seemed to sense the unusual atmosphere and all lowered their heads, not daring to make a sound.

As the two teams walked out of the tunnel, the big screen was playing a replay of the highlights of the goals conceded in the previous round.

A low sob suddenly rose from the stands, like a wounded beast licking its wounds.

The sound grew louder and louder, gradually coalescing into a suppressed wave.

Irueta straightened his tie, the blue and white striped silk trembling slightly at his fingertips.

This tie, soaked with sweat in Monaco two weeks ago, has now returned to the battlefield, carried by the sea breeze of Galicia.

He suddenly walked over and patted each of his disciples on the back with his rough, calloused hands, like an old captain inspecting every mast before a storm.

Valeron looked up at the scoreboard, which showed 0:0.

But everyone knows that the real score started at 9-3.

Just then, a roar came from the north stands, like lightning splitting the dark clouds:

"Charge! Super Deportivo!!!"

That shout instantly ignited the entire stadium.

Thirty thousand black scarves were raised at the same time, and the sound wave swept across the grass like a tsunami.

The caddies shrank back in fright, only to see the Deportivo La Coruña players' eyes suddenly light up.

At this moment, Riazor Stadium seems to have returned to that magical night in 2002.

At the time, Real Madrid invited all the legendary players, including Di Stéfano and Gento, to the Copa del Rey final during their centenary celebrations. The Bernabéu was covered with white sashes, but Deportivo La Coruña shattered their celebration dream with two blunders.

"remember!"

Irureta finally roared, "We're the villains who dare to overturn Real Madrid's birthday cake!"

(End of this chapter)