ctnovel Chapter 47 Carnival!
Chapter 47 Carnival!
"Bang!"
The ball flew high, crossed the sideline, and slammed hard onto the commercial sign on the sidelines.
The referee immediately blew his whistle.
The whistle blew short and loud, and the referee turned around, raising his arm to point out of the field.
A Real Sociedad player touched the ball out of bounds; it's an Atletico Madrid throw-in.
A dead ball has appeared.
……
at this time.
Royal Society Command Area.
Manager Philippe stood at the very edge of the white line, less than half a meter from the grass on the field.
His leather shoes were firmly planted in the mud.
With his hands tightly clasped behind his back and his chin slightly raised, he tried his best to project the calm and composed demeanor of a tactical mastermind.
Philipp's face was completely expressionless, as if the team that was trailing 5-1 and being dominated was not his team at all.
But in fact.
His shirt back was already completely soaked with cold sweat from the shock, clinging stickily to his skin, and he even shivered when the wind blew.
Philip kept a close eye on the ball that had crashed into the GG sign from mid-air.
I heard the referee's whistle signaling that the ball was dead.
Philip finally loosened his clenched teeth.
He exhaled a long, almost imperceptible breath of hot, stale air.
"Phew... Damn it, finally dead ball..."
Philippe prayed frantically in his heart, his eyes occasionally drifting towards the Atletico Madrid coaching bench.
"Shouldn't those bastards at Atlético Madrid be getting some new players by now?"
"What the hell is that Chinese defensive midfielder wearing number 13?!"
Philip was genuinely scared.
He looked at Li Jing on the field, who was still running around with his long legs, intercepting attacks, and whose breathing rhythm had not been completely disrupted.
This feeling of despair is ten times more terrifying than when I watched the video three days ago.
The video only contains numbers and images.
They were standing outside the sideline.
Philippe could truly feel the suffocating feeling of being dominated by number 13 in every corner of the stadium.
It's been almost seventy minutes since the start of the show!
He single-handedly turned Real Sociedad's four-midfield attacking tactics into a joke by defending them one-on-one!
"It's 5 to 1 now, the devil has to give up eventually."
His eyes were fixed intently on the sidelines.
……
The center line sideline.
Switching players area.
The fourth official held the heavy electronic substitution board in his hand, its glaring red and green numbers already flashing.
For Atletico Madrid, there's Koke, Adrian, and Mario Suarez.
The three of them had already thrown the heavy substitute jacket far away.
Wearing identical red and white striped short-sleeved competition uniforms, they stood neatly outside the white line, waiting to go on stage.
Simeone is planning to use all three substitutions at once.
"Beep—!"
The referee blew his whistle, pausing the throw-in and signaling for a substitution.
The fourth official held up the electronic sign in his hand.
The first sign lights up.
Red #9! Green #7!
A sparse round of applause rang out in the Anoeta Stadium, for Falcao who had completed his hat-trick.
The home team's fans hated the team to the core.
But for a world-class striker who can score a hat-trick here, basic respect was still shown.
Falcao strode to the sidelines and gave Adrian, who was about to enter the game, a big hug.
Followed by.
The fourth official deftly pressed the button and raised the second sign.
Red #19! Green #4!
Diego Costa, with his full beard, wiped his sweat, gestured to the audience to leave the field, and gave a high-five to Mario Suarez.
Both forwards were substituted.
……
The home team's coaching bench.
Philip's eyes were fixed on the substitution card in the fourth official's hand.
His neck was stretched out very long, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his nails almost digging into his palms.
He is waiting.
A terrible thought suddenly popped into my head.
It won't be anything special.
Li Jing won't be down, right?
Philip stared intently at the LCD screen displaying the player change information, muttering to himself incessantly.
"13! 13! Quickly show 13!"
Under Philip's expectant gaze.
The fourth official pressed a few keys with great efficiency, and then raised the substitution card in his hand for the third time!
……
Tens of thousands of eyes were on the Anoeta Stadium, including countless fans watching on television.
Everyone's attention was focused on the flashing sign.
The green number above lights up: 6 (Kirk).
And the red numbers above lit up instantly!
"23!"
The extremely bright red number "23" stood out brilliantly against the night sky above the stadium!
……
Philippe, the manager of Real Sociedad, had his hands behind his back, trying to appear calm and collected.
The moment I saw the number "23".
The expression on his face completely collapsed!
That tactical mastermind's hypocritical mask was shattered without leaving a trace!
"What?!"
Philip broke out in a cold sweat, his eyes widening like two peeled eggs, and he took a huge step forward.
He didn't care at all that the muddy water under his feet had splattered his expensive suit pants.
Philip's heart was pounding, but he maintained a composed facade.
"What the hell is going on?! What the hell is going on?!"
"Where's number 13?! Why isn't number 13 playing?!"
Philip was so enraged and his defenses were breached that the veins on his forehead bulged out, throbbing like little earthworms under his skin.
"A heartless and insane madman!"
"That Chinese defensive midfielder was like a mad dog, sprinting around our half for almost seventy minutes!"
"One person did the work of four!"
"Shouldn't you be more careful with your monster kid's money?!"
"How old is he! You're using him so recklessly, aren't you afraid he'll strain his muscles and ruin his life?!"
"You don't care about your child's career?!"
"Does he even understand football? Did Messi play like this at 20?"
Philip was practically screaming in his head, yelling wildly in Simone's direction.
"It's already 5-1! The game is over!"
"Why aren't you substituting that key player for a rest? Can't you at least follow the most basic rules of football?"
He was completely devastated.
What kind of insane head coach is this?
Even with a large lead, they didn't change their tactical core, keeping them on the field to continue running all over the place.
Is this an attempt to strip Royal Society of its face, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it tens of thousands of times?
This hysterical, incompetent rage, ironically highlighted Li Jing's terrifying tactical dominance on the field to its absolute peak!
It can force the opposing coach to the point of cursing on the sidelines for not making substitutions.
You won't find another one like it in the entire La Liga.
……
The sidelines were filled with heated arguments.
But at this moment, inside the Anoeta Stadium...
Atletico Madrid's players on the field, including De la Bella, who had just kicked the ball out of bounds.
They all stood there, stunned.
The entire stadium fell into an extremely bizarre state of confusion.
Captain Gabi was just about to reach out to catch the ball inbounds.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the substitution board held high on the sidelines.
Gabi froze, his deep eyes filled with intense confusion.
He strode over to Li Jing and extended his left hand, which was wearing the captain's armband.
He pointed directly at the sign in the hand of the fourth official on the sidelines.
Gabi turned to look at Miranda, the center-back who was slowly walking over from a distance, with a question mark on his face.
"Guys?"
Gabi tugged hard at the hem of his jersey, making a loud noise.
"Number 23?!"
"Is there any guy in our Atlético Madrid first team who wears the number 23 jersey?"
……
Miranda stopped in her tracks when she heard Gabi shout.
He stretched out his large hand and scratched his bald scalp with great force.
I quickly went through the familiar jersey numbers in the locker room in my mind.
"Number 23?"
Miranda's bald head gleamed under the stadium lights.
He raised his voice and retorted directly.
"I guess it's that kid who was promoted from the reserve team this week during training?"
Miranda spread her hands, her face full of absurdity.
"But Gabby..."
"Was that kid playing soccer with us on the field just now? Did he come on the field?"
"How come I have absolutely no recollection of this person on the field? What position did he play?"
This involved extremely absurd and ridiculous conversations between the players on the field.
In an instant, a strong sense of farcical comedy was created in the tense and fierce competition.
Even Griezmann, the Real Sociedad striker standing near the center circle.
They couldn't help but stop and look left and right, seemingly searching for the mysterious number 23 in Atletico Madrid's half.
Courtois, standing in front of the goal, was also getting anxious.
The big guy, wearing heavy gloves, shouted directly at the midfield.
"Gabbie! You fucking count the heads on our field!"
"We've been playing with one less player for almost seventy minutes, damn it!"
……
And on the sidelines.
The fourth official was taken aback by the referee's whistle and Gabi's shouts.
Followed by.
He heard extremely harsh protests coming from both coaching benches.
Philippe on the Royal Sociedad side was still jumping up and down cursing.
Simeone from Atletico Madrid also rushed over, pointing at the substitution board and yelling, "What kind of crap numbers are you holding up! None of us are wearing number 23!"
The fourth official's heart sank, and he hurriedly lowered his head.
He glanced at the substitution list that Kirk had just filled out, which he was clutching tightly in his other hand.
The exit number column above clearly shows a somewhat illegible Arabic numeral.
"13!"
However, the "1" was written too curved, with too much of an arc.
It connects with the "3" that follows.
At first glance, it looked ridiculously like a "2"!
……
The fourth official's face instantly turned bright red, as red as a ripe tomato.
He quickly freed one hand and slapped his forehead hard.
"Sorry! Sorry!"
The fourth official, sweating profusely, frantically pressed the backspace and number keys several times on the heavy electronic keypad.
"drop--!"
The electronic sign emitted a crisp notification sound.
The originally extremely eye-catching red number "2" was under the gaze of tens of thousands of people in the audience.
It instantly jumped into a straight "1".
Number 13 is off the field!
This was an utterly basic and ridiculous blunder!
……
The moment the number on the substitution board finally turned into the "13" that Philip had been longing for.
In the command area.
Philip's shoulders were so tense they were almost cramping.
Suddenly, it collapsed completely.
He felt his legs go weak, and all his strength seemed to be drained away in an instant.
He completely disregarded his noble image as a La Liga head coach.
He plopped down on the plastic chair in the coach's bench behind him.
His body slid down the back of the chair, his tie askew in front of his chest.
Philip was breathing heavily, his chest heaving violently.
"Grass……"
Philip reached out and vigorously wiped away the large beads of cold sweat rolling down his forehead.
She was as weak as if she had just given birth.
"Turns out it was a huge blunder caused by the fourth official holding up the wrong sign..."
"That scared the hell out of me...that scared the hell out of me..."
Philip leaned back in his chair, staring unfocusedly at the sign that displayed the number "13".
Only one extremely strong thought remained in my mind.
"Anyway, that villain who can keep the radar running all over the place."
"Finally, they're fucking gone!"
……
On the field.
Li Jing stood near the center circle arc and saw the number on the substitution board that had finally been corrected.
He didn't stop at all.
They even skipped the usual time-wasting, leisurely strolling behavior that players often exhibit when being substituted.
Li Jing turned around immediately.
His massive frame, standing at a towering 1.8 meters, strode confidently toward the substitution zone on the sidelines.
In the ten or so seconds it took him to walk to the sidelines.
Surprisingly, the tens of thousands of Basque fans at the Anoeta Stadium did not erupt in a deafening chorus of boos.
Instead, it emitted a low, suppressed buzzing sound, carrying a hint of relief.
They were terrified of this one Chinese man.
Watch him leave the field.
The home fans even felt a sense of relief that "this ordeal is finally coming to an end."
……
Li Jing had just reached the edge of the white line, not yet fully outside the court.
Kirk, who was on the bench, rushed up impatiently.
This kid couldn't wait for Li Jing to slowly walk over.
It rushed directly into the field, about half a meter away.
Li Jing looked at Kirk, whose face was flushed, and raised his right hand, which was covered with grass clippings and sweat.
"Snapped!"
A very crisp sound of flesh striking flesh.
Li Jing and Koke gave each other a loud high five on the sidelines.
"Don't you dare go up there and embarrass yourself," Li Jing casually remarked sarcastically.
After the auction with Li Jing finished, he used his right hand.
This kid is like a hunting dog that has just been released from an iron cage.
Completely disregarding everything, it roared and charged wildly into the depths of the slippery grass!
……
The moment Li Jing stepped out of bounds with one foot, the more than 3,000 away fans, who had been singing the Atlético Madrid anthem with all their might, seemed to have a switch flipped, and instantly erupted into a thunderous applause.
A few months ago, these notoriously hot-tempered die-hard fans would have been holding the middle finger and a half-empty water bottle in their hands when a player was substituted in the second half.
Now, these burly men have all taken off their shirts and are standing naked in the stands, their faces trembling violently from excessive fervor.
The overwhelming sense of conquest brought about by this absolute strength made these football hooligans look at Li Jing as if they were worshipping a god descended to earth.
"Li Jing!"
The burly man with a full beard who had just thrown a water bottle was now standing on the front row of iron railings, half of his body leaning out, shouting wildly in a voice that sounded like it was about to burst into flames.
The deafening shouts of "Lijing" carried by the humid sea breeze made the ears of the home team, Real Sociedad, hurt.
Li Jing didn't resort to the hypocritical tactics of being modest and evasive.
He stopped, stood on the sidelines, raised his hands high, and clapped three times wildly and forcefully, facing the more than three thousand pairs of bloodshot eyes in the away team's stands.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The sound of the palms striking each other was crisp and powerful, a response to the crazed expeditionary force.
The Atlético Madrid fans in the stands went completely crazy, their screams and howls nearly lifting the roof off the Anoeta Stadium.
……