0026 The Best Player (Seeking Monthly Tickets and Favorites)

As the undisputed hero of the day, Lu Deyang was hoisted up by his teammates, sitting on their shoulders and pumping his fist toward the stands.

The Stadio Luigi Ferraris had descended into madness. It was only a 2–1 victory, and certainly not a cup final. Yet, to defeat the reigning Serie A champions—with their number seven tearing apart the world's best defense, composed of four world-cup winners—was as inconceivable as the fall of the Berlin Wall.

"Deyang!"
"Deyang!"
"Deyang!"

For the past several matches, Boskov had denied Lu Deyang any opportunity, which had dampened the fans' expectations significantly. They had begun to think perhaps he was just a showman who lacked substance on the pitch. Even so, for a young player, he was decent enough; after all, he was handsome and could dominate the newspaper headlines, which was no small feat for Sampdoria.

No one had expected Lu Deyang’s debut performance to far exceed their wildest dreams. Were their expectations too high before? No, they were far too low!

Sampdoria had performed well in recent years, but today’s match was their most exhilarating experience. The final, decisive goal had been a glimpse of heaven for the fans. Had it not been for the protective railings, there was no telling how many fans would have stormed the pitch. Male fans wanted the hero’s jersey, while female fans simply wanted to spirit him away to their beds.

Football was a sport that set blood boiling. When a fan claimed they would be willing to share their girlfriend with someone like Mourinho, they likely meant every word of it.

Mantovani wiped the corners of his eyes. Wonderful! Simply wonderful. The president, who was devoted to the rise of his hometown club, had taken a massive gamble that summer. While the signing hadn't cost much, the limited slots for foreign players in Serie A were precious. He hadn't brought in teammates of Van Basten or Gullit, nor had he scoured South America for stars like Caniggia or Balbi. Now, it appeared his gamble had paid off—and completely so.

The team boasted several world-cup winners in their thirties, the core strength of Mancini, Pari, and Vialli in their mid-twenties, and young talents like Lanna and Lu Deyang, both under twenty and already capable of starting or rotating into the first team. Such a Sampdoria squad now possessed the strength to contend with the "Big Three" of the north—even if Sampdoria itself was a northern club.

Though the match had ended ten minutes ago, his heart still raced. This was the football he had always craved.

In a corner unseen by Mantovani, a middle-aged man wiped his glasses and left the stadium, looking somewhat disappointed. Massimo Moratti had witnessed the "Grande Inter" era created by his father; his love for Inter Milan was second to none. He had handed over the family business to his brother and held only about two billion in personal assets—hardly a fortune among football club owners. Yet, his obsession with football was beyond the comprehension of many wealthier men. Looking back at the young number seven one last time, Moratti suddenly felt the urge to buy Inter Milan and, while he was at it, bring that number seven to the Meazza.

Amidst the roaring crowd, Monica walked to the base of the stands. Lu Deyang jumped straight over the advertising hoardings.

"Kiss her!"
"Kiss her!"
"Kiss her!"

The fans chanted in unison. Lu Deyang leaned in, and the two shared a kiss through the security netting.

*Click.*

The pitch-side photographers were going wild. This was destined to be tomorrow’s front-page headline. Ever since this kid arrived at Sampdoria, their jobs had become much easier.

...

Trapattoni was intercepted in the tunnel by a reporter from RAI 1. The veteran coach, who had no intention of attending the press conference, agreed to a brief interview.

"Giovanni, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the Inter players?" the reporter asked.

Both *La Gazzetta dello Sport* and *Tuttosport* used a ten-point scale for player ratings, unlike the five-point scale used by West German media.

"Ten. The players performed excellently. It is not their fault we didn't win; I made some errors in my tactical control of the match," Trapattoni admitted candidly. At a time like this, shifting the blame to the players was useless; it was better to be gracious.

"Are you saying you are the reason for today's defeat?"

"Yes. If we had focused more on attacking rather than defending, the outcome might have been different. Sampdoria’s firepower shouldn't have been stronger than ours. I will learn from today’s match."

The veteran coach smiled faintly and walked away, unwilling to speak further. Football is played with one's feet; whatever a loser says will only be mocked.

In the press room, which was somewhat shabby by Ferraris standards, Boskov sat as if on the throne of a Roman consul, surveying the room as if it were his own kingdom. Lu Deyang, the hero of the day, attended the conference with him—mostly because he had come up with a profitable idea to monetize the massive traffic surrounding him and Monica.

"Vujadin, can you talk about Deyang’s performance today?"
"Deyang, will you ride your bike onto the pitch again?"
"Deyang, do you have anything to say to Galliani?"
"Mr. Boskov, will Deyang become an important player for the team from now on? Why did you bench him before? Is there conflict between you?"
"Deyang, what did Bergomi say to you? How do you rate this defeated opponent?"

The reporters were frantic. If it had been the "Three Musketeers" defeating the "Three Horses," it would have been popular, but not nearly as sensational. Those two groups were both strong, and victory could have gone either way. But today, Lu Deyang had single-handedly torn apart the West German and Italian backlines. The reporters were already prepared to write that Lu Deyang had defeated Inter Milan all by himself.

Boskov chuckled, pulled the microphone closer, and said, "There are no issues between Deyang and me. Deyang visited me before the summer training camp. He is a polite and well-bred young man, and a genius. The reason I didn't field him earlier was because I wanted him to appear in matches in peak form, and as you have seen, the result speaks for itself."

He felt no guilt saying this; after all, his decision to keep Lu Deyang on the bench had indeed been with the boy's development in mind.

"Then how would you evaluate Deyang’s performance today?"

"Impeccable!" Boskov replied. "I don’t like to use such adjectives for a young man, as I worry about him becoming arrogant, but I truly cannot find a single flaw in his game. When you dribble past Matthäus, Bergomi, and Brehme in succession, you are... one of the best players."

The veteran coach paused. He had wanted to say "King of the World," but he feared the media would hype the phrase and put too much pressure on Lu Deyang. Before the age of the internet, the spotlight could be lethal, and the reach of traditional media far exceeded what would come later. One had to remember that Manchester United's super-genius George Best had retired only a few years prior. Both were number sevens, both were dazzling talents, and Boskov was genuinely afraid of Lu Deyang becoming the next Best.