Narrator: Enzo
It was almost time for our next game, and I was incredibly excited. With more goals today, I could remain number one—the absolute top of the rankings.
An hour before the game, a new rule was introduced: if the Man of the Match was from the winning team, he could select two players from the opposing team to replace with two of his own teammates, regardless of their willingness.
We trained for a bit, with FOLA directing and controlling the team. He informed us that his brother was on the opposing team. He noted that they relied on individual brilliance, so we would need to adopt a Spanish style of football.
He referred to it as Tiki-Taka, a strategy emphasized in La Masih. According to him, it involved short, controlled passes. We needed to maintain possession with quick, precise passes while constantly interchanging positions.
Initially, it was challenging to grasp, but soon enough, I adapted—no, "WE" adapted. This Gringo really knew his stuff. Regardless, as long as he continued to create opportunities for me, I was content and happy.
It was time for the match, and just before we took the field, FOLA revealed that his brother was on the other team. He had scored that spectacular goal and was the SANTI whose goal everyone was talking about.
FOLA instructed the defenders and midfielders to mark him tightly, advising them not to expect him to pass but to dribble instead. He believed this would make it relatively easy.
We entered the pitch, and right from kickoff, FOLA commanded me to shoot. I followed his instructions, but we only earned a corner.
Their Asian goalkeeper was exceptionally skilled. Let's see how good he was, though. FOLA aimed a shot directly from the corner, but their Asian goalkeeper cleared it with his fists.
The ball fell to their No.8, who passed to their No.10. He was conveniently unmarked and moved so quickly with the ball that he didn't need to dribble.
Positioned on the right wing, he pushed the ball forward with the outside of his left foot. As one of my team's defenders extended a leg, he swiftly dragged the ball back with the inside of his left foot, just outside the penalty box.
He then played a straight pass, which was intercepted by JAMES. All our defenders were focused on SANTI, and no one had bothered to mark JAMES.
JAMES collected the ball and faced the onrushing goalkeeper. With his left foot, he calmly placed it in the bottom left corner with a low shot that nestled perfectly in the corner. Oh shit, one-nil.
"Brother!!! Is that you?" little SANTI cried out to FOLA. "Get away from me, you peasant," was FOLA's reply to his younger brother. He continued, "You have opposed me, and I show no mercy to those who oppose me."
Turning to JAMES, FOLA said, "The only person who can beat me is me. How dare you score a goal without my permission? Very well, I assure you, you shall no longer be able to touch the ball again."
It seemed laughable when he said it, but it turned out to be entirely true. We restarted the game, and their No.11, Steward, grabbed the ball with a sliding tackle and made an incredibly precise pass to JAMES.
At least, it would have been precise if FOLA hadn't intercepted it and arrogantly say, "I am absolute. I decide who does what on the pitch." Their No.7 came for the ball and was dismissed with a rainbow flick.
Their No.6 also came for the ball and was feinted so hard he sat down. FOLA told him that merely sitting from a dribble was not enough to appease him. Their No.6 had to kneel, and as he looked on, confused, he got up.
FOLA looked at him condescendingly and told him it was pointless to even try. The No.6 tried to regain the ball but was viciously sat down again. It was cruel at this point.
FOLA carried the ball forward and took a touch so heavy that it passed right to the leg of one of their defenders. The defender gently controlled it before turning to pass to their goalkeeper.
As the goalkeeper attempted to kick the ball, FOLA was right behind him and barked, "When exactly did I say you could let your guard down?" With that, he forcefully grabbed the ball and pushed forward on the left wing.
All their defenders surrounded him as he approached the edge of the box. As they closed in, they arrogantly asked what he would do now, being surrounded and all.
In a similarly arrogant fashion, FOLA replied, "Precisely, exactly as I planned." He said this just before lobbing the ball to me. As their goalkeeper rushed toward me, I headed the ball into the net with a powerful strike.
The game restarted, and their No.8 and SANTI were performing exceptionally well. They were dribbling and exchanging passes. FOLA showed little interest in marking them, but it wasn't as if they were a significant threat anyway.
Their No.8 passed to SANTI, who dribbled past our No.8 and No.6. From the middle of our half, seemingly from nowhere, he unleashed a stunning shot with his right foot.
It nestled perfectly in the top left corner, and we all looked at each other in disbelief. Where did that come from? He just shoots and scores from nowhere? This son of a gun didn't even celebrate like JAMES and I did; he acted as though it was routine practice.
The only notable thing he did was turn to his brother and say, "Egbon Mi, I'm so happy to see you alive and well, but know this: you will lose today, and nothing can stop that."
As we walked towards the halfway line, FOLA snickered and said, "Me? I will lose? Lose, huh? What a joke. Our match has only just begun, and victory is all mine and mine alone. You have nothing special in your repertoire—passing, shooting, speed? All things I can handle."
We restarted, and FOLA hit the ball straight from kickoff but only earned a corner. It was played short, and he dragged the ball to the edge of the box before shooting a spinning curler into the top right corner with the inside of his right foot. The score was now two goals each.
Like his brother, he did not celebrate but instead arrogantly said, "I'm getting my edge back now." We restarted, and it seemed SANTI was prepared to recreate his earlier goal.
He dribbled past everyone, and although we expected him not to pass, he went down the right flank and crossed to JAMES. It was a pinpoint cross—or at least it would have been, if not for FOLA.
In the box, they both jumped, but FOLA jumped higher and quicker. He reached the ball first and said, "Ah yes, you can jump high. Good for you, but I'm higher than you'll ever be in every way. This includes jumping. It's pointless even participating in this game."
The ball dropped to their No.8, who passed to SANTI. SANTI delivered a backheel pass to their No.7, who, of course, returned it to SANTI. SANTInow had the misfortune of being marked by FOLA.
He asked SANTI if he was trying to prove he was equal to him. FOLA told SANTI he found him amusing but still average compared to himself.
SANTI responded by telling FOLA that he was below him and would never catch up before nutmegging him. As SANTI ran to retrieve the ball, FOLA executed the most vicious sliding tackle I had ever witnessed. It made the tackles from the white side of Madrid seem like mere taps on the shoulder.
He received a yellow card, and a free-kick was awarded. We set up a wall, and the goalkeeper was positioned perfectly. We watched in horror as SANTI curled the ball perfectly into the top left corner of the goalpost. It was a goal I would have been proud to score, but he didn't celebrate.
He simply turned toward his brother and told him a loss was coming for his average bum ass. FOLA retorted that there was no way in hell he would lose, claiming that football was no fun if he, "THE KING"—I kid you not, he literally called himself the King—lost. What a clown.
We restarted, and FOLA commanded us to follow his original Tiki-Taka plan. We had twelve minutes to equalize, but our attempts made no progress as SANTI's team defended with all their might. We misplaced a pass in our own half, and their No.11 seized it before lobbing it to SANTI.
He controlled it perfectly and ran toward the goal as our defenders tried to stop him. A player came running from the left, and SANTI passed the ball through his legs with the outside of his left foot.
SANTI didn't wait for him to recover, nor did our players. Another defender came, and SANTI dispatched him with an elastico.
He cut another defender to the right and used the outside of his right foot to get past yet another player. He made the mistake of thinking SANTI would go left.
Our goalkeeper rushed towards SANTI and made himself big, but we watched in horror as SANTI passed the ball between his legs to complete his hat-trick. SANTI did not celebrate, and with just over a minute left, we were two goals down. The game was over; we had lost.
In despair, FOLA muttered to himself, "I can't lose. I must not lose. If I'm on the losing team, I'll break my legs and never play again." We barely managed a pass before the final whistle blew. FOLA collapsed, and SANTI's team surrounded him.
He was golden; his brother was not. His brother was no king. SANTI, however, was the one true King, worthy of being served, and worthy of being MY KING...........