When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 24 A True Man Should Be Like This (Please Read On!)
Paris, April 1, 2003.

"Deschamps' 4-4-2 was not conservative, but a meticulously planned tactical rebellion. He dismantled French football's obsession with the 'technical 4-2-3-1' formation, and with discipline, speed, and ruthless efficiency, forged Monaco into the most dangerous hunter in Ligue 1."
The two defensive midfielders, Bernardi and Max, always maintained a distance of 12 to 15 meters between them.
Giuly and Rothen's wing attacks and crosses are no longer blind long balls, but rather low, sweeping crosses around the edge of the penalty area. The data team discovered that Roy's success rate in getting into position near the penalty spot is as high as 68%.
On Deschamps' tactics board, Roy's name should be circled in red, with the caption: "No defense, only killing." Monaco's counter-attack goals account for 77%, the highest in Europe.
Running is an obligation, passing is a responsibility, shooting is a privilege—and privileges are reserved for the most ruthless.
This isn't a 4-4-2 formation; it's a mobile guillotine: Deschamps is the swordsman, Roy is the falling blade, and the entire Ligue 1 is a prisoner stretching its neck to be slaughtered.

The headquarters of L'Équipe at 4:30 a.m.

Vincent Durok, a senior writer for L'Équipe, closed his laptop and completed the final draft of his latest column, "The Youth Storm in Monaco: How Deschamps Revolutionized Ligue 1 with a 4-4-2."

Outside the office's floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline of Paris's 15th arrondissement was still shrouded in the dim indigo light.

Since joining the company in 1995, Duruk has focused on in-depth football reporting, with expertise covering tactical analysis, player psychology, and club power struggles.

He excels at surgical narrative and biting metaphors.

He once called Wenger "the Darwin of football in a suit" and compared Real Madrid's "Galácticos" to "a Venetian shipwreck repaired with gold leaf".

Drucker rubbed his aching temples and dialed the internal line to his assistant who was keeping him company all night: "Mary, don't let anyone into my office for the next three hours, including the editor-in-chief."

The curtains weren't fully drawn, and a ray of morning light slanted across the floor, illuminating the Monaco tactics board photo nailed to the wall, Roy's running heat map, and a half-cup of espresso that had long since gone cold.

He needs to get some sleep to maintain his vital signs.

At 9:15 a.m., he sent a text message to his secretary:
"I have to catch a train to Lille in two hours. But I won't be interviewing him in Lille."

I hope he achieves a resounding victory or a crushing defeat, as that would be beneficial for the interview.

Ambitious journalists like Vincent Duruk have absolutely no interest in lowbrow gimmicks.

What he wanted was for his pen to cut through the skin of a football player, allowing readers to see the pulsating blood vessels and the possible festering sores within.

"I've already scheduled an interview with Roy's agent for 4 PM the day after tomorrow in Paris. I'll provide a few interview locations; you'll be responsible for arranging and confirming them: the Bois de Boulogne, the Café Chopin in the Latin Quarter, the Stade de France, and the alley behind the Sacré-Cœur Basilica in Montmartre."

After Roy's sudden emergence, a new TXT document was created on Drucker's computer titled "The 'Man-Made Genius' of Monaco, Deschamps' Science Fiction Novel".

The reason is that the training load and competition intensity are questioned as exceeding the physiological limits of teenagers, coupled with Monaco's notorious reputation for child labor.

But he later discovered that things did not develop as he had expected.

Now he wants to verify all of this.

He wanted to get a basic understanding of what kind of person Roy really was.

Two hours before the match, the Monaco team bus slowly drove towards the Lille-Pierre Mauroy Stadium, only to be greeted not by cheers, but by an angry wave of red.

Several fans held up signs and frantically displayed them towards the bus.

"Deschamps, shut up!"

(White background with red lettering, graffiti style, the letter "O" is drawn in the shape of a noose)

"Roy? Traitor!"

(Below is a drawing of a crying cartoon child, a satire of his past being abandoned by youth training.)
Dozens of fans turned their backs to the team bus and lifted their jerseys to reveal the words "Youth Training Glory" printed on the back.

Several radical young men gestured a throat-slitting motion through the car window, their lips moving clearly, saying, "We'll cripple you."

Someone even threw out a worn-out children's soccer ball, implying that Roy had forgotten where he came from.

Deschamps sat in the front row of the bus, his knuckles against his chin, his eyes fixed on the increasingly frenzied protests outside the window.

His temple twitched slightly; this was not the result he wanted.

He opened his notebook and drew two heavy horizontal lines on the attack arrow he had originally drawn for Roy, wanting to change it to a more conservative support position.

And whispered to the old teaching assistant, Pettit:

"Have Rothen retreat more; don't leave that kid to take on all the firepower alone."

He kept his voice very low, as if afraid that Roy in the back row would hear him.

Roy wore headphones, his face expressionless, and his eyes didn't even look out the window.

Guns N' Roses' "Rocket Queen" was playing on my Apple iPod (2nd Gen).

Axel Ross's voice seemed to emerge from afar, with a husky, seductive quality; Duff McKehan's bass gave the headphone diaphragms a low-frequency massage; and mixed in the background were real female voices improvised in the studio—that moan that went down in rock history.

Deschamps actually felt guilty because he hadn't slept well the night before the press conference and was momentarily distracted, inadvertently letting slip Giuly's comments.

If Mourinho knew this, he'd be green with envy.

My meticulous pre-match psychological warfare preparations are no match for your talented players' momentary lapse in concentration.
This isn't to say that Deschamps is particularly upright; a more accurate term would be "old-fashioned." He's too pretentious.

In some ways, Roy and Mourinho are similar people: you can love me or you can hate me, I don't care, it means I'm deeply in your heart.

Love and hate are not antonyms; their common opposite is indifference.

When Giuly came over and started cursing, Roy just smiled and said, "They're much more civilized than the Marseille fans; at least they didn't throw Molotov cocktails."

"I am so sorry that I made such a big mistake. You shouldn't have to bear this kind of pressure."

"But if they boo you today, you'd better not do anything too extreme."

Before going on the field, Deschamps looked ashamed. During his pre-match speech, he deliberately stood next to Roy and lingered on his shoulder for three seconds longer, a gesture he had never used before.

Roy's expression remained calm.

"It doesn't matter, and I'll try my best not to do anything that would make Lille fans resent me."

Roy stood up from his seat, crossed his arms behind his head, and arched his muscular and highly flexible body backward, the joints of his bones creaking like a composite bow being slowly drawn.

His voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable certainty:
"But unfortunately, they are no different from everyone else when it comes to the fact that they should fear me."

"My mother taught me that when killing fish, you have to be quick and ruthless; hesitation will only make you more likely to get scratched by the fins."

The locker room fell silent instantly, and Deschamps' pupils contracted slightly.

Vincent Duruk sat in the stands, quickly taking notes on the fans' reactions to prepare material for his post-game interview.

I recalled the Lille fans' discussion about that monster who was let go.

"Roy? That kid used to be in our youth training program!"

An elderly fan with a gray beard slapped his thigh and shook his head.

"I heard that some coaches even said he was too skinny and couldn't handle physical contact. But look at him now! He's devastated the entire Ligue 1!"

"Is he going to 'kill his father' today?"

Several young men were laughing and joking, holding up signs that read "Son of a Traitor," which were not yet unfurled.

"How do we defend against him? With chains?!"

Several fans laughed, half-jokingly.

"I heard his first step was even faster than Tim Montgomery's!" (Bolt is two years younger than Roy)
"Really? Stop fucking bragging. I watched the IAAF competition in Paris last year. Wait, which side are you on anyway?"

Someone shouted, their voice filled with anger.

"Ungrateful? There's no need to say that."

A middle-aged man wearing glasses pushed up his glasses and sneered.

"We didn't keep him back then, and now we blame him for getting stronger? But he shouldn't disrespect Lille. We haven't done anything to wrong him."

"If he had stayed at Lille, he would have become our favorite player just as well, a true son of Lille."

As the Monaco players walked out of the tunnel, the entire stadium erupted in a huge chorus of boos.

Roy jogged across the field, his expression calm, without even glancing at the home team's stands.

As the boos from the stands grew louder, he merely raised an eyebrow slightly, his expression a mixture of pity and a touch of almost cruel composure.

He then smiled and waved to the traveling Monaco fans.

"ROOOOOI!"

The roar of more than a thousand red and white fans crashed against the stadium dome like a tsunami.

Then they started singing, and the team song "Daghe Munegu" was adapted by the die-hard fan group, with the lyrics becoming "Roy tears them apart!"

A burly man covered in tattoos in the front row pulled open his shirt, then took off his jersey with Roy's number printed on it, and waved it wildly for more than a minute in the biting cold wind.

On TV, the Canal+ commentator was joking, "Is Roy Lille's nightmare today, or a wanderer returning home?!"

"Roy? That skinny guy we eliminated?"

Several young, extreme fans imitated monkey movements, but their tone was somewhat hesitant.

"Roy's footwork is too fast! Bonar and Brunel are like they're on slow motion!!!"

In the first few minutes of the match, both sides launched some probing offensive and defensive tactics.

But in the seventh minute, Lille launched a major offensive. Bernardi intercepted Lille striker Butoye in his own half and then sent a diagonal pass to Roy, who was already positioned in the center circle to receive the ball and make adjustments.

As Roy received the ball, he keenly observed the double-teaming intentions of Lille's two midfielders, Bonal and Brunel, from the flanks and rear.

Bernardi's pass went slightly to the right, and Roy tapped it with the inside of his right foot.

Leaning the body to the left induces Bonal to shift his center of gravity.

Suddenly lower your left shoulder, flick the ball laterally with the outside of your left foot, and at the same time, pretend to start a sprint with your right foot.

Brunel was tricked into sticking out his leg to intercept.

He actually poked the ball through Bonar's legs with the toe of his right foot.

In the next instant, Roy sprang up and accelerated to bypass Bonal on the left.

"Brilliant! A fluid combination of a nutmeg and a dribble past the defender! I wonder what the Lille fans are thinking right now! Roy spent six years at Lille, and this is the first time he's showcasing his talent at the Stade Pierre-Mauroy, but he's standing on the opposite side of them!"

When Roy nutmegged Bonal, the North Stand fell into absolute silence for 0.5 seconds, as if even the foam on a beer glass suspended in mid-air was about to freeze.

Then came an instinctive cry of alarm: "Merde! (Damn it!)"

At first, some people booed, but after seeing Roy's dribbling, some fans whispered among themselves:

"Was this kid really one of our youth academy trainees?!"

Several veteran fans shook their heads: "Letting him go was incredibly stupid."

"Real Madrid didn't give him a chance, so what's the point of letting him go! Do you know how much that brainless management team was after in terms of youth training compensation? I heard it was 2,300 euros! They're insane!"

After getting past the two players, Roy looked up and scanned the left flank, discovering that Rothen had already started moving.

"Roy looked up! He saw Rothen! He delivered a low, through ball with the instep of his right foot!! The ball moved with incredible speed, as if under a slow-motion spell, perfectly placed at Rothen's feet! Monaco's attack flowed like water! Lille's defense was dismantled!!"

(Slow motion replay)

"Watch it again! That change of direction! That composure! An 18-year-old body housing the soul of a seasoned scoundrel! Bonar is still finding his balance!!!"

Fifteenth minute.

"Roy!!!!"

As the Canal commentator shouted out.

The fans in the front row of Lille's North Stand seemed to be pushed by an invisible hand, and they unconsciously leaned back against the backrest.

But they still stubbornly insisted in a mocking tone:
"Let him shoot! Let him shoot! It's like catching a fish for a spineless coward like Wenbe to dodge a shot!"

With his back to defender Gregory Taforo, Giuly made a series of changes of direction before suddenly dribbling the ball down the wing and bursting forward.

He then delivered a cross pass.

Before Giuly made the cross, Roy had already started moving towards the edge of the penalty area, but suddenly stopped and turned back.

He deceived Lille midfielder Fernando D'Amico, who was marking him.

He stopped the ball with the inside of his left foot, deliberately letting it go more than a meter away from his body, to lure defender Bachu into pressing him.

When Bach rushed in, he lightly brushed the ball with the outside of his right foot to change direction, while simultaneously crossing his left and right legs to switch positions, creating shooting space in a flash.

He quickly took two steps outward with the ball, made a slight adjustment, and then spun the ball with his right foot, sending it straight into the top right corner!

"That curve! That dip!! A knuckleball! Heading straight for the top right corner—Wembe!! Wembe made the save!! A world-class save! But Roy's shot made the heart of the entire Pierre-Mauroy stadium stop for a second!!!"

Lille goalkeeper Wembe made a diving save, barely tipping the ball over the crossbar with his fingertips.

The home team's stands collectively gasped, letting out a long hiss. Then erupted in applause, as if relieved to have escaped unscathed.

The commentator's voice was unusually excited: "Wumbery saved Lille! But Roy's shot was world-class! He's got killer instinct today!"

As Wembley made the save, someone clutched their heart, their lips trembling.

Several female fans pulled their scarves to their mouths and bit them.

The boy wearing glasses slipped his glasses down to the tip of his nose, but forgot to push them back up.

Roy turned around and grinned, revealing an indifferent smile.

He gave Julibi a thumbs up.

(The camera cuts to Roy)
"He licked his front teeth! Was he smiling? No! It was the cold regret of a hunter missing his prey! Lille fans should be thankful their goalkeeper is still standing!"

"Stop pretending!"

Young Lille fans on the sidelines shouted insults, but quietly rolled up the "traitor" banner they had prepared.

Killing one's former master?

Don't overdo it. My brain works on a single thread; I'll kill whoever stands in my way.

Twenty-first minute of the match.

Rothen made a series of changes of direction to get close to the penalty area line and unleashed a low shot, which was cleared out of bounds by the Lille center-back.

Monaco are awarded a corner kick.

Before the corner kick was taken, Lille fans were still deceiving themselves.

"Just mark Pulso closely, that kid is no threat in the penalty area!"

Before Giuly took the corner kick, Roy had already quietly retreated three steps from the penalty spot, closely followed by Lille defender Charme, who was marking him.

Giuly took the corner kick, and Pulso jumped up at the near post to head the ball.

Within the referee's blind spot, Roy concealed his right elbow against Chalme's ribs while simultaneously inserting his left leg between Chalme's legs to restrict his jump.

As the ball landed on Pulso's head, he turned and flicked it, sending the ball flying straight into the open space at the far post.

It crashed to the ground and bounced and spun around.

The next instant, a figure flashed to the side, twisted his body as he sprang up, locked his right ankle at a 90-degree angle, and swept across like a golf club.

Roy forced his way into space despite being closely marked by Chalme.

"Adjust your footwork!!! Right-footed volley! BUUUUT!!!!! The net is trembling! Wembe didn't even have time to raise his hand! 1-0! Monaco takes the lead! Roy, this former Lille youth academy product, announces his return in the most brutal way!!!"

The home team's stands seemed to be paused, with the insulting banners halfway up frozen in mid-air.

Several elderly people with white hair suddenly took off their hats and pressed them to their chests, a gesture used by the people of Lille in mourning.

"What monster did we release back then?"

There was a tremor in his voice.

"How much is he worth now? Ten million? Twenty million?"

Their bitter smiles sounded like the tearing of banknotes.

Someone crushed the beer glass, and amber liquid seeped out from between their fingers.

Roy walked back to the center circle expressionlessly.

The Canal+ commentary was even more intense than when the goal was scored:

"He didn't celebrate, he didn't roar, he just turned and walked away, but that composure was more deadly than any knee slide! Lille fans, how are you feeling now? Regret? Fear? Or have you finally realized what a genius you once had?!"

Lille fans fell silent, but Monaco's away fans broke the silence with an unprecedented roar. The camera panned to the away area, where a fervent middle-aged female fan became excited upon seeing the scene. Tears washed away her mascara, leaving two black streaks on her face, and she screamed at the camera: "I watched him go from a child to a beast!"

The fans chanted, "Roy will tear them apart!"

The tempo was eight beats faster than usual.

“This child…is more refined than us.”

The middle-aged man with glasses who had spoken earlier was clearly a rational person; he raised his eyebrows and then clapped a few times.

"Frank, why are you so late?"

In the dormitories of the players in the French third division, Arles, when Ribery opened the door, sweat was still sticking to his work clothes, and his knuckles still carried the rough feel of warehouse cardboard boxes.

Several players huddled together, their faces illuminated by the television screen, the commentator's voice practically lifting the roof off:
"Roy! It's Roy again! Monaco leads 2-0! This kid from Lille's youth academy? No, he's Monaco's sharpest weapon, he's destroying Lille!!!"

Ribery's expression froze instantly.

The blue light from the television reflected on his face, and the long scar on his right cheek twisted slightly as he frowned.

The corner of his mouth twitched, initially showing a hint of an instinctive smile, which was then pressed into a hard line by his clenched teeth.

Unconsciously, his fingers crumpled the warehouse pass into a ball, the edge of the plastic card cutting his palm.

At that moment, a storm was brewing within him.

First, there's an absurd sense of dislocation.

"That's Roy? The Roy who stole mussels from the dock with me and grilled them? Now he's called 'The Blade of Monaco' on TV?!"

Then came burning envy.

On TV, Roy did not celebrate after scoring. He was surrounded by his jubilant teammates, but he slightly opened his hands and pressed them down, indicating that he would not celebrate. However, the pride in his eyes seemed to be overflowing.

This morning I moved forty boxes of frozen fish, and tonight I went to move furniture.

"His sneakers cost more than my monthly salary."

Then he frowned, a surge of sharp pride and fierce fighting spirit welling up inside him.

"We haven't been in touch for so long. I thought we were best buddies. Yeah, what could a Ligue 1 star and a third-division warehouse worker possibly have to talk about!"

The next second, an even more ruthless thought pierced through.

“I also want to play in the top league. Why can’t it be me? My change of direction is even crazier than his! He will remember who the real king of Boulogne-sur-Mer is.”

He suddenly kicked the wardrobe, denting the metal door, the sound drowning out the replay of the goal.

He grabbed the remote and turned the volume up to the maximum, making his roommate curse.

He didn't want to watch the rest of the game anymore. Before leaving the room, Ribery stared at Roy running freely on the field, his memory flashing back to when he was twelve years old.

When playing football on the beach, Roy always complained that his left foot felt like it was filled with lead.

Ribery finally smiled.

He felt he should still be happy for Roy.

He was unaware of the idiom "A true man should act like this".

He just knows.

He wanted to be like that too.

Through football.

Alles was promoted from the fourth tier to the third division last season, and the team was facing a major financial crisis. Ribery's weekly wage was only 180 euros, and he was still owed three months' salary.

He came with his father, François Ribery, and when the weather was warm, he would go with François to work on construction sites as a paving worker or as an assistant to the painters.

But now that the weather is cold, I can only find a day-wage job at the warehouse moving boxes.

This is the lifestyle of players at the bottom of the ladder.

For example, Vardy; a decade or so later, everyone could hear his name.

But next year, at the age of seventeen, in addition to playing for Stockbridge Youth Park, his official job is a 12-hour shift worker at a carbon fiber factory, and he also has to work as a warehouse porter, and then drag his exhausted body to participate in team training at night.

Reality isn't like in Football Manager, where your talent will definitely be discovered.

It's even possible that some people possess historically great talent, but due to an accident or injury, or simply because they don't like football, they will never have the chance to show it in their lifetime.

The score was 1-3 after the match, and with Giuly scoring another goal in the second half, Monaco won the game without any suspense.

The hotel where the team is staying.

After rinsing, Roy used a towel to dry his wet hair, water droplets sliding down his neck.

There was a gentle knock on the door. He opened it, and a figure walked in.

“Mr. Roy? I am Claire Bertrand. Mr. Migliorgio assigned me to handle your media affairs.”

She was very tall, about 1.7 meters, with a cold, sculpted look. Her long, golden-brown hair was styled in a low bun, and she wore a pair of minimalist platinum stud earrings. She wore red-soled high heels, and her long legs were encased in sharply tailored black suit trousers.

Her eyes were a classic Parisian blue, with long, meticulously arched eyelashes, and she looked at people with the focused attention of someone appraising a work of art.

Claire handed Roy a document; her nails were nude matte with no extra embellishment.

"There are four options for the location of the interview with Trudeau."

Roy looked up and saw that she had already marked option 3 with an asterisk in pencil—you might be more relaxed at the Stade de France.

Which one do you prefer?

Claire gazed intently, awaiting Roy's choice. A faint scent of fig perfume wafted over, mingled with a hint of the bitterness of black coffee.

Roy scoffed. "Where should I choose? I'm afraid it's Drucker who wants me to choose."

Do you think I'm a warrior and will definitely choose the battlefield?
If you want me to choose, then I'll choose, and Roy points to other options.

Claire's eyes flashed with surprise, but she quickly observed calmly and confirmed it.

Lift your finger to turn to the next page of the document:
"Additionally, your sponsorship contract, FedCom advertising shoot, theme..."

FedCom is the European logistics arm of FedEx, headquartered in Brussels.

They are also Monaco's kit sponsor.

Claire tapped her finger lightly on the last line and smiled gently:
"I think their advertising ideas are pretty good."

The two have finished their meeting.

She pulled a Montblanc pen from her Hermès briefcase and immediately wrote her revisions next to the terms, her handwriting as sharp as a paper cutter.

“Migliorio said you would ask for that, and he was right.”

Before leaving, she turned and smiled, her tone neither humble nor arrogant: "The car will be waiting for you downstairs at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

After Claire's high heels disappeared down the corridor.

Roy suddenly recalled what Miriam had told him:

“First, I apologize, but this is not an insult. I have said the same thing to Zinedin.”

"From today onwards, you are no longer just a player, but an 'asset'."

----------

The chapter, which is over 6,000 words long, is so long that the odd number of chapters is driving my OCD crazy.

Also, to clarify, even without any other key players in the subsequent matches after that last-minute winner against Rennes, Monaco would have already won the Ligue 1 title this season (historically, they were just one point away from winning).

So, aside from one or two important matches later on, some will be skipped, while others will focus on showcasing the protagonist's performance.

Next season's Champions League matches and key Ligue 1 games will feature detailed descriptions of both teams' lineups, truly showcasing a diverse range of players.

Let me briefly discuss Ribery here. I've read many football articles, especially those about coaches, using Ribery as a temporary fix. But as a Ribery fan (I own more than ten jerseys), I want to say that Ribery's fall to the lower leagues wasn't just a case of his talent being wasted. His personality (although loyal, he was hot-tempered, rebellious, and emotional in his youth) and his skills (he received almost no formal youth training after being expelled from Lille's youth academy) – frankly, his early playing style was that of a streetball player – were largely related to these factors.

In the original timeline, he had to go through years of hardship and then meet his mentor (the coach of Mayz) before he could gradually mature. That's why this event involving the protagonist was designed to accelerate his growth.

Then, if he enters the top league earlier and encounters a good coach, that "Allianz Arena King" will definitely appear sooner.

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(End of this chapter)