0057 You Are My Hero-Se é irmão, venha jogar bola(Ye Liangchen, o Enterrador do Amor)

"DEJAN!!!"

"DEJAN DEJAN DEJAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Martin Tyler was losing his mind.

For the first time, he felt the true, passionate charm of football.

Revenge after humiliation—what a marvelous phrase.

What could not be accomplished against the England national team had now become reality.

The veteran commentator spared no praise: "A magnificent goal! After multiple attempts to assist his teammates, Dejan finally realized that shooting himself was the better option. Simple, efficient, and graceful. It is an incomparable masterpiece, reminiscent of Sir Stanley Matthews. Sir Matthews never received a red card in his entire career and earned the reputation of a football gentleman. Dejan's performance is dreamlike; perhaps he should be called the Dancer of the Green Pitch!"

"There is only one path left before the Argentinians, and that is to watch Dejan take away a victory from the San Paolo Stadium. Even if he extends his hand of sin once more, it will change absolutely nothing!!!"

Swish, swish, swish, swish, swish—

Pezzotti had a lingering feeling that Vujadin Boškov’s punching speed was getting faster.

If he kept managing Lu Dejan like this, he might just break the Guinness World Record one day.

Maradona leaned forward with both hands on his knees, panting heavily.

This was the side effect of participating in defensive duties all afternoon.

"Are you alright, Diego?"

Careca walked over and asked.

"I'm fine," Maradona pushed his hand away and said.

"You... you haven't been touching that stuff lately, have you?" Careca persuaded, "When they invite you to parties, giving you money and women, they're just using those gatherings to cover up their deals. Diego, an athlete cannot keep messing with that stuff."

"Damn it, I said I didn't!"

Maradona said with a flash of annoyance.

Ever since his days in Barcelona, he had first touched that poison.

And that stuff was terribly hard to quit.

Careca looked at Maradona with deep concern.

He understood that this super genius was angry with himself. Perhaps, given a second chance, Diego would never have agreed in his youth to rely heavily on painkillers just to maintain his appearance rate.

After the restart, Maradona once again dribbled forward on his own, losing his composure slightly.

Even so, the magic in his feet never diminished.

After shaking off Vialli and Dossena in succession, he used a spin to evade Carezzo's outstretched foot, turning directly to spray the ball out wide.

De Napoli received the ball, adjusted it instantly with his right foot, and chipped it straight into the penalty area.

Carnevalale and Careca rushed into the box almost simultaneously.

Yet both players jumped with the intention of heading the ball backward.

Crack—

Pellegrini blocked the ball with his head, sending it soaring high into the air.

Vierchowod met it with a powerful nod, clearing the ball out of the danger zone.

Just as Dossena gained control of the ball, Maradona aggressively rushed forward to press him, forcing Dossena to quickly pass it to Lu Dejan.

Lu Dejan received the ball and turned, noticing that the Napoli half was wide open. Without a second thought, he cocked his right foot and launched the ball forward.

Insane!

The Napoli fans were practically losing their minds.

Vialli and Salsano charged forward like twin ghosts, sprinting frantically.

They had even left the Napoli defensive line trailing behind them.

Giuliani spotted this immediately and decisively rushed out of his penalty area.

To hesitate any further would mean certain death.

Fortunately, the ball landed closer to him, and he slid in to clear it right under Salsano's nose. Ferrara, tracking back, secured the ball, turned, and launched it far down the pitch with a booming clearance.

"Roar!"

Giuliani roared, thrusting his arms into the air as he got back to his feet.

The surge of adrenaline under immense crisis had pushed him into top competitive form.

He was thoroughly pleased with his own decisiveness.

The ball once again flew across the halfway line. Carezzo jumped to chest it down, but someone immediately sprang from behind him and stretched out a foot to snatch possession.

"Maradona!"

Maradona executed a drag-back and turned, launching another attack from the right flank.

Crippa sprinted forward in tandem.

Lu Dejan was positioned too far up to track back in time, so Lanna stepped up directly to meet him.

Maradona played a quick give-and-go and drifted toward the center.

Crippa received the ball, adjusted his footing instantly, took two touches, and slid it right back. Without breaking his stride, Maradona poked the ball into the penalty area, accelerated, twisted his body, and unleashed a ferocious strike that sailed past Pagliuca's outstretched fingertips.

Having scored, Maradona sprinted past the advertising boards, venting wildly.

There was frustration regarding the match's flow, an apology to Careca, and the crushing weight of pressure from every direction lately.

Even knowing he was in the wrong, he would never choose to apologize.

That was simply the kind of person he was.

Fortunately, Careca wouldn't hold a grudge.

He decided he would lead his good brother to victory and take him out for a wild night of celebration after the match!

"DIEGO!!!"

The Napoli fans roared frantically. Suppressed for over sixty minutes, they finally had an outlet to release their emotions.

Just as Maradona believed in himself, the Napoli fans firmly believed that their number ten would ultimately lead them to victory and defend the honor of the San Paolo Stadium.

True to form, Careca rushed up immediately to wrap his arms around Maradona, celebrating with him.

Maradona felt a wave of relief wash over him.

He waved his right hand as he walked back, preparing to press his advantage.

Passing Lu Dejan, Maradona paused briefly in his tracks, but ultimately said nothing and returned to the center circle.

Making bold declarations before winning could easily turn into a joke.

***

Boškov turned and walked toward the bench. Chiesa sprang up like a reflex.

The veteran manager nodded with satisfaction and said, "In five minutes, you're on."

With that, he sat back down in the coaching chair.

Losing?

Did you even ask my number seven about that?

"You are my Napoli, my life. You are my heart, my love..." Italian team anthems tended to be lyrical, perhaps because all their attributes were maxed out in the arts.

Maradona stood in the center circle, reminding his teammates to stay focused.

After Salsano played a square pass, Vialli immediately turned and fed it to Pari.

Pessuring came quickly, prompting Pari to pass backward instantly. Pellegrini received it and immediately sprayed the ball out to the left flank.

Crippa hurried over to intercept Lu Dejan.

Lu Dejan turned sideways, cushioned the ball with the instep of his left foot, carried it forward a couple of steps, and then used his left heel to knock the ball behind his right leg, swiftly stepping over it with his right foot.

Executing a half step-over, he immediately nudged the ball forward with his instep.

Crippa instinctively stuck out a leg, but he was clearly a fraction too slow. Before he could readjust, his center of gravity was lost, and he slipped to the turf.

"Boo!!!"

In a single encounter, the tough-tackling Italian defensive stalwart had been shaken to the ground.

Just a minute earlier, the Napoli fans had been dreaming of an equalizer or even a comeback, but now they realized a glaring problem.

Damn it, every time that number seven got the ball, a wave of dread washed over them.

It meant that whenever he touched the ball, Napoli was in mortal danger.

Fusi stood his ground, legs spread wide with a slight crouch, lowering his center of gravity.

To say there was no pressure would be a lie.

Yet, by preparing in advance, he could better judge the timing of his challenge.

Smack—

Lu Dejan nudged the ball with his right foot, flashing it rapidly past Fusi's right side, while accelerating past his left.

A nutmeg and go!

Fusi remained frozen in his comical defensive posture, turning his head to watch.

"Damn it, stop him!"

Giuliani yelled from the goal line, waving his arms.

Baroni and Francini converged on Lu Dejan almost simultaneously. With teammates tracking back swiftly this time, they didn't need to worry about the center.

Smack—

Mid-stride, Lu Dejan twisted his body and lofted the ball with the outside of his left foot, sending it soaring across the entire pitch to land precisely on the right wing.

Pari leaped, cushioned the ball into the field with his foot, and darted forward upon landing.

The ball kept rolling toward the center, forcing Pari to chase after it.

Seeing this, Ferrara threw himself into a sliding tackle, causing Pari to leap out of the way to avoid contact.

Noticing the ball rolling toward Lu Dejan, Pari made no effort to restart his run.

Lu Dejan collected the ball and drove diagonally into the penalty area. Francini, having scrambled back to the center, slid in to tackle immediately, but his movement was far too obvious; Lu Dejan executed a simple drag-back to breeze past him.

In the goal, Giuliani constantly adjusted his position, determined to prevent Lu Dejan from beating him at the near post once he entered the box, but he instantly regretted his split-second decision.

Right at the edge of the penalty box again!

Near the right corner of the large penalty area, Lu Dejan slipped his right foot underneath the ball.

Bang—

Accompanied by a crisp sound, the ball lifted into the air, tracing a gorgeous parabolic arc.

Tens of thousands of eyes across the stadium locked onto the flight of the ball. Giuliani leaned back from a stationary position, stretching his right arm to its absolute limit, but he brushed only air. The ball cleared him cleanly and nestled deep into the left side of the netting.

3:1!

He leaped, punching the air.

Upon landing, he was instantly engulfed by his teammates.

The San Paolo Stadium watched these events unfold with cold indifference, as if it had nothing to do with them.

The players had given everything they had on this play.

The defenders reacted, and the goalkeeper was positioned correctly.

Yet, damn it, the opponent played without any logic, chipping the ball directly from the edge of the box.

Even if Dino Zoff were in goal, he might not have saved that.

It left them feeling as though they were punching cotton—full of force, yet utterly clueless about how to apply it.

They had always believed in individual heroism.

Diego Armando Maradona was the king of Naples, a deity in their hearts.

Yet now they realized that even the king of gods had a destiny he could not fight against.

"Boss?"

Chiesa looked toward the technical area, where Boškov was sitting with his legs crossed, holding a massive cigar.

"Ahem, ah... wait a little longer."

Boškov coughed twice and waved his hand.

He wanted to make the substitution right now, but as the manager, when he said five minutes, it meant five minutes—he couldn't make the change after just two minutes.

Chiesa had no choice but to continue stretching on the touchline.

The Napoli players were running out of patience, with very little time remaining in the match.

As soon as Careca kicked off, De Napoli surged forward on the dribble, harboring a single obsession: to get as close to the Sampdoria penalty area as possible and feed the ball to Maradona.

Pari launched into a flying tackle.

De Napoli quickly poked the ball away to evade it.

Carezzo, following up, managed to hook the ball into his possession.

De Napoli lunged forward instantly, wrapping both arms around Carezzo's waist and dragging him down in a rugby-style tackle. Right before falling, Carezzo managed to flick the pass away.

"Pass to Dejan!!!"

Chiesa shouted from the touchline.

***

Boškov couldn't help but give a thumbs-up.

This kid was quite sharp; seeing him busy smoking, he helped shout out the instructions.

Dossena turned instantly and played the ball toward the left flank. The pass was slightly overhit, and under defensive pressure, Lu Dejan had to cross the halfway line before bringing the ball under complete control.

Seeing Lu Dejan turn, Crippa immediately raised both hands to signal he committed no foul.

At that moment, Lu Dejan nudged the ball and initiated a lateral surge.

Crippa hurried to keep pace.

"What an idiot!"

Fusi cursed under his breath.

Crippa tried to press tightly, but failing to find an opening, he gave up and ran toward Fusi to execute a double-teaming trap.

Instead, Fusi stepped forward aggressively, dropping his shoulder to trick Lu Dejan into driving left, but Lu Dejan executed a sudden drag-back, immediately poking the ball right with his foot, completing a brilliant nutmeg to burst straight through the gap between them.

Fusi and Crippa could only chase helplessly behind Lu Dejan, looking frantic yet entirely ineffective.

Realizing his teammates were useless, Francini abandoned Vialli and Salsano, standing his ground alone. Lu Dejan was clearly the ultimate threat.

The distance between the two rapidly closed.

Francini felt a tremor in his legs.

Because he knew he only had one chance, and he had to seize it.

Crack—

Just as Francini lowered his center of gravity, Lu Dejan dipped his right shoulder to shift his weight. Francini instinctively moved to cover, but the next second, he saw Lu Dejan flick the ball forward with his right foot and accelerate.

Damn it, I've been faked out!

The moment he spun around, Lu Dejan had already forced his way into the penalty area on the dribble.

Salsano, standing in the path, quickly scrambled toward the right wing to clear the lane.

"Slide tackle him!"

Ferrara wanted to slide in too, but he had no chance.

Lu Dejan's explosive acceleration was simply too fierce; in the blink of an eye, he had reached the edge of the six-yard box while adjusting his stride.

Unchallenged, Lu Dejan twisted his body and unleashed a shot with his left foot. The ball skimmed swiftly across the turf toward the right corner of the goal, leaving Giuliani grasping at empty air once again.

"You're a damn genius!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Vialli spun around instantly, dropped to his knees, cupped Lu Dejan's right boot, placed it on his own thigh, and used the inner lining of his jersey to wipe Lu Dejan's cleats.

Damn it, he was treating the Napoli defense like training cones.

Vialli genuinely didn't know how else to express the surging excitement in his chest.

With a teammate this phenomenal, anything was possible!

Nike executives watching through television screens felt their hearts skip a beat.

None of them could have predicted that a pre-match gamble would yield such astronomical returns.

Even before it fully settled in, they could already envision the massive wave of publicity this would generate.

"Dejan!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Ahhhhh, another long-range solo run! No flashy showboating, just a simple change of pace to easily slice through Napoli's midfield and defense. In the psychological duel between man and man, in the one-versus-many confrontation on the pitch, Dejan has displayed peak competitive form. Every tactical duel ends in his victory, and maintaining such composure upon driving deep into the box... I honestly begin to wonder if he is a robot or some paranormal prodigy. Why does he never make a mistake on the pitch?!"

"It's over, the Argentinians have lost. I knew it—justice may arrive late, but it never fails to show up. Praise be to Dejan, and thank him for everything he has done today."

"Thanks to the broadcasting network's decision to air this match, allowing us to witness a truly great game."

Martin Tyler even began to sniffle.

It had been too long.

The English had waited far too long for this day.

The only regret was that the man who brought down Maradona wasn't wearing an England shirt.

Seeing the substitution board go up, Lu Dejan walked straight toward the touchline.

Clap, clap, clap—

Half the stadium at San Paolo applauded, while the other half sobbed quietly.

Maradona stared at that retreating figure, his fists clenched tight.

For the very first time, the thought of changing himself sparked in his mind.

The next time they met, perhaps he would have shed those poisons entirely.

He, Diego Armando Maradona Franco, would never yield to anyone in this lifetime.

"Go take a shower."

Boškov stepped forward to greet him.

"I'm a bit hungry, Coach, I'm going to grab something to eat."

Lu Dejan said.

The physical toll of today's match had indeed been substantial.

"Alright, I'll give you a call later!"

Boškov smiled, mimicking the gesture of holding a phone to his ear.

Watching this from behind, Chiesa felt his heart skip a beat. The gap between humans truly made the gap between humans and dogs look narrow.

After returning to the locker room to quickly wash up and change into casual clothes, Lu Dejan headed out of the stadium.

Before he even exited the arena grounds, he spotted a child standing alone near the stadium exit.

"Little guy, are you lost?"

"I'm English."

His London accent was quite pronounced.

Switching to English, Lu Dejan asked, "Can't find your mum?"

"No, the match is over, and you're my hero!" the boy replied.

Hearing the sound of high heels clicking behind him, Lu Dejan instinctively turned his head to see a woman nervously smoothing down her hair.