The players hurried off the field, using the scant five minutes to catch their breath.
In the top-level VIP box, Trapattoni’s gaze was fixed on the Brazil bench. He watched Chen Yu, who was crouching in front of Ronaldo and massaging his legs, and his expression was slightly awkward.
His prediction had failed. Argentina had actually equalized!
After a moment of thought, as if to ease the awkwardness, Trapattoni began his analysis. "Scolari has the right idea. Ronaldo has incredible individual skill. As long as he can get the ball up front, he has the ability to create a threat. But Ronaldinho and Juninho have limited passing ability, and Brazil is defending too deep. They’re too disconnected from Ronaldo."
"Their only option is to play long balls over the top. It’s too simple, with no variation. It’s basically just a random kick from the back, leaving Ronaldo to take on three defenders by himself. Ronaldo has shown the quality of a true football legend, but playing like this is asking too much of him."
"Plus, Argentina has Redondo. He’s tough in the back and has a strong ability to intercept. In the first half, the Brazil Team tried many long passes to Ronaldo, but Redondo anticipated the ball’s landing spot every time and worked with his defensive line to shut them down."
The others in the box looked at him.
’So?’
"So, I think if Brazil doesn’t make any adjustments, Argentina has a better chance of winning. Argentina has been keeping Brazil under pressure the whole time. And with the golden goal rule in extra time, Batty’s long shots are a huge threat and more likely to result in a goal." Trapattoni stroked his chin and began to seriously consider how Italy would deal with Argentina.
Especially Batty. His current form was unbelievable.
Before Batty sought treatment from Chen Yu at the end of last October, he had already played nine rounds in Serie A.
In those nine matches, Batty started every single one but scored only one goal.
But the previous season, when Rome won the championship, he had played 28 matches and scored 20 goals.
So it was clear that after winning the title, Batty’s performance had fallen off a cliff.
But his form right now... you could only say it was even more ferocious than during that championship season. His speed, his physical strength—it was like he was back in his prime.
And it was all because of Chen Yu.
But Trapattoni couldn’t really say anything. Baggio, who was older than Batty and had suffered more severe injuries, was still alive and kicking.
On the bench, Chen Yu noticed Ronaldo’s expression was a little dazed.
"What’s wrong? Afraid of losing?" Chen Yu asked.
It was understandable. That goal had been a virtual last-second equalizer; it was bound to affect the players’ mentality.
"No." Ronaldo quickly shook his head, denying it. But after a moment’s hesitation, he added in a low voice, "It’s not that I’m afraid. It’s just... a shame. We could have won."
In front of Chen Yu, Ronaldo had nothing to hide.
They should have been waiting to celebrate. But now... a draw, extra time, and maybe a penalty shootout.
This was the semi-final. All of Brazil was watching them.
If they lost, never mind the four wasted years, just thinking about what the fans and media would say afterward was enough to give him a headache.
And the break was too short to properly adjust his mindset. The fear of an uncertain future was like the feeling before an exam, never knowing what questions would be on the paper you were about to receive.
"I need to use the bathroom," Ronaldo said suddenly.
As if by some strange impulse, he felt the urge to pee.
Chen Yu thought for a moment, stopped what he was doing, and grabbed a nearby drink bottle. He handed it to him, gesturing for him to go take care of it behind the advertising hoardings.
"Is the size big enough?" Chen Yu joked.
Ronaldo’s face instantly turned red. He glanced at the mouth of the bottle. "It’s a little small."
After saying it, he couldn’t help but laugh first.
"Go on, go on," Chen Yu said with a wave.
This bit of banter suddenly eased much of Ronaldo’s tension. He grabbed the bottle and went.
Watching him go, Chen Yu sighed silently.
Through his studies in psychology, Chen Yu had come to believe that while the saying "personality determines destiny" was too simplistic, it definitely held some truth.
The Ronaldo before him, if you were to say he was physically and technically ready to be crowned the king of football, was perhaps still a bit lacking psychologically.
He was a kind person, forever that sunny young man who had worked his way out of the slums. Because of that, he truly lacked some of the competitive fire and fighting spirit of players like Batty, Baggio, or even Kobe.
In a competitive sport where only champions and first place matter, you really need a certain kind of killer instinct to be crowned king.
Ronaldo returned, grinning as he boasted to Chen Yu that one bottle hadn’t been enough.
’What nonsense.’
’In a high-intensity match like this, you’re just sweating. Where would all that pee come from?’
Looking at him, a strange thought popped into Chen Yu’s head: if the Brazil Team lost this World Cup, perhaps it would be a better motivator for Ronaldo.
Only through loss can one truly crave victory.
Not even 26 years old, Ronaldo had already won more honors on talent alone than most players could in a lifetime. But perhaps for that very reason, he had grown complacent and lazy.
And failure could give him a goal to strive for in the rest of his career, to chase more glory until he truly became a generational football king.
But the thought was fleeting. It wasn’t as if Ronaldo had no desires at all.
Besides, Maradona had already been crowned king at 26, so why couldn’t Ronaldo, who was also nearly 26, do the same?
"Don’t overthink it." Chen Yu pulled Ronaldo out from under the sunshade, pointed to the middle of the field, and said, "Think about it. In another 120 minutes, 7,200 seconds, you could be in the middle of a pitch, lifting the championship trophy. At that moment, you’ll have a lifetime to look back, to remember all the blood, sweat, and effort you poured into winning that trophy."
"But what you have to do right now is win. Because you are Ronaldo, the invincible Alien. Win this match, and then, just like when you were a kid and swore you’d conquer everyone who looked down on you with your skills, show the whole world that you didn’t just piggyback your way to a World Cup title. Show them you have the ability to bring a World Cup back to Brazil with your own two hands!"
Sometimes, you had to admit, a good pep talk really worked. After Chen Yu’s speech, the resolve in Ronaldo’s eyes clearly hardened.
He stared silently at the field before him. Not far away, the referee was already looking at his watch, signaling for both teams’ players to return to the pitch.
"Chen, four years ago I lost. This year, I won’t lose." Ronaldo took a deep breath and walked onto the field.
Chen Yu sat back down.
He had done what he could do and said what he could say. Now, their fate was in their own hands.
Extra time began.
Scolari didn’t change his formation. After careful consideration, his conservative instincts won out.
And Belsa didn’t change his formation either. There was nothing wrong with his tactics—the fact that they’d managed to equalize was the best proof. He believed he could win the match with the same strategy.
Batty, who had been tasked with the coin toss, once again brought Argentina good luck. They would kick off.
The whistle blew. Batty passed the ball back and immediately charged forward.
Just two minutes later, Batty unleashed a powerful, thunderous shot that sent a chill down the spines of all the Brazilian fans in the stands.
Lopez, who had sat down next to Chen Yu, broke out in a cold sweat. He sucked in a sharp breath, then asked curiously what Chen Yu and Ronaldo had talked about just now. He had noticed them speaking while he was discussing things with Scolari.
"Oh, nothing much. I just told him I had a dream last night that he won the championship," Chen Yu said with a smile.
"Really?" Lopez’s eyes lit up. Then he grinned and said, "I had the same dream last night."
Chen Yu gave Lopez a strange look. ’Are you serious?’ he thought.
Lopez watched Ronaldo lingering up front and sighed. "Back in ’98, the pressure on him was just immense. He was like a taut bowstring, ready to snap at any moment. But this year, I feel he’s much better. Look, he was even able to smile and laugh just now. It shows he’s grown from that defeat. That’s why I really think we have a great chance this year."
Chen Yu nodded. Just as he was about to ask for more details about ’98, Lopez suddenly shot to his feet.
Chen Yu quickly looked toward the field.
On the pitch, Argentina’s attack had been broken up once again. The wall of defenders in front of the goal was like an impenetrable fortress.
Carlos, who had been quiet for the entire match and had barely made any forward runs to steal the show, burst forward the instant the ball was won. Gilberto Silva launched a long kick straight down the left flank.
He led him by a good distance. Carlos was like an unbridled stallion, running wildly.
Saneidi desperately tracked back in pursuit, but he couldn’t catch up at all.
Lopez’s hands trembled with nerves, and he muttered incessantly as if chanting a prayer.
Scolari hadn’t changed the formation for extra time, but it was impossible not to make any adjustments at all. The one change he did make was to instruct Carlos to watch for opportunities to push forward and then cross the ball to Ronaldo.
The goal in the first half had come from a combined play between Ronaldinho and Juninho. Scolari didn’t believe for a second that Belsa wouldn’t make adjustments to counter that.
At a time like this, they needed another passing route, and the best option was naturally Carlos.
Scolari had also given specific instructions: don’t dribble too much. Once past the halfway line, start looking to pass to Ronaldo. Ronaldo wasn’t the strongest at poaching right in front of the goal; instead, he needed space to build up a sprint.
A sprinting Ronaldo was unstoppable!
So, after crossing the halfway line and taking one touch, Carlos passed the ball directly.
Ronaldo, in full sprint, extended his leg to control the ball perfectly. Without breaking stride, he put his head down and charged forward.
There were only four men in front of him!
Redondo was the defensive midfielder. Unlike Simeone, he preferred to carry the ball deep.
Samuel’s expression changed drastically. This familiar scene was happening again.
In that moment, he decided to stop worrying about left or right and just charged straight at him. If he had to, he’d commit a foul. So what if it gave Brazil a free kick?
Chen Yu rose to his feet involuntarily, his eyes glued to the action.
As they made contact, a subtle change of pace from Ronaldo disrupted Samuel’s rhythm, allowing him to power past him.
Samuel turned and grabbed for his jersey. RRRIP! He missed.
Ronaldo stumbled but didn’t fall. Instead, he accelerated, and while Ayala and Pochettino were still hesitating, he took a heavy touch and forced his way between the two of them.
It was a one-on-one!
Countless eyes were fixed on Ronaldo. His steps became slightly messy, but he quickly corrected his balance. Facing the onrushing Caballero, who was trying to close down the angle, he calmly chose to chip the ball.
The ball flew over Caballero. It didn’t go wide, and the post didn’t make a last-second appearance. It just bounced and rolled into the net.
Ronaldo slowly came to a stop. It was as if someone had suddenly turned up the volume, and a massive roar of celebration flooded into his silent, ringing ears.
Nearby, a grief-stricken Caballero pounded the ground with both fists.
He turned around slowly. Samuel was already on his knees, his face a mask of regret.
Ahead, his teammates were sprinting wildly toward him.
They had won!
Ronaldo raised his right arm and broke into a wide grin.

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