I Used to Like Ronaldo More Than Messi
I used to like Ronaldo more than Messi.
Beeeep—!! As Giggs broke to my right, Tomas Repka, who was waiting, covered and cleared the ball away. I'd deliberately given him space to dribble right.
"You... you bastard, on purpose..." Giggs glared at me.
I shot back without backing down. "The second half will be different. Stay sharp."
Facing him on the pitch, Giggs's dribbling was truly miraculous. Fortunately, after the first half, I'd gotten used to it. As long as I didn't lunge recklessly, I could control him.
This matchup was why I'd trained side steps and back steps every day. The goal of countless dribbling moves was singular.
Ronaldo's flip-flap or Ronaldo's step-over—they were all executed to unbalance the defender. Conversely, a defender whose balance doesn't crumble is strong.
I kept an ambiguous distance from Giggs, refusing to commit rashly. He hesitated. To break left or right, I'd need to close in—but I never invaded his space. My long legs were too intimidating to ignore.
Thud—
Pushed to the edge once more. Giggs abandoned the dribble breakthrough and back-passed to Scholes in the center. Our organized defensive system had neutralized him.
Zugzwang forces the opponent into a bad move.
Beeeep—!
"Damn!"
But Giggs was just one route in Man United's arsenal. Scholes stabbed the pass to the opposite flank—our weakest spot.
Now Mark Noble faced Gary Neville.
Beeeep—!!
"Ack!"
Neville pierced Mark's net and slotted inside. The low, quick pass flew to Van Nistelrooy, who flicked it up with his toe, dove, and unleashed a jumping volley.
Swoosh—!
Tasting goals, Van Nistelrooy grinned greedily. West Ham players hung their heads. We'd thought the new system worked—then conceded again.
Clap-clap-clap-clap—
"Fans are watching. Didn't hear the gaffer? Snap out of it, lads. Still 35 minutes left."
I clapped to rally the team. Down 4-0, a strange calm settled in—lighthearted, even.
"Fine. Whatever happens."
I reframed the match as next season's blueprint. If it worked against Man Utd, it'd crush any Premier League side.
Tweeeet—!!
"Let's use Marlon first."
Beeeep—!! I surged to halfway, lofting a diagonal long ball. Marlon, receiving his first pass in ages, won the aerial duel. Even Man Utd slacked at 4-0. Ask any pro: aerial battles rank as the most hated in-game chore—exhausting and dirty.
Thud—!
Carrick, back from injury, was hitting form. He led our midfield fearlessly against Man Utd's.
"O'Shea! Shape up! Slack like that and you're off! Focus!" Ferguson's roar echoed. He sensed our lapse like a demon and barked instantly. Man Utd's gap slammed shut.
Five minutes later, stalemate. Ferguson acted.
Ronaldo hopped onto the pitch with his cheeky bounces. That rookie-mocked antenna haircut remained.
"Good. Settle the score first, then duel."
Ferguson subbed O'Shea too—a warning: phone it in, you're gone.
Tweeeet—!
Ronaldo scampered wildly on entry—like a kid on a playground pitch. If Giggs was a swift swallow, Ronaldo was a colt: wild, fearless, loving the gallop before becoming a thoroughbred.
Beeeep—!!
Tweeeet—!
"Aaaah!"
In this life, my first clash with Ronaldo began like this.
"Hey! Watch it!"
"Sorry. That Portuguese kid's too fast—foot slipped."
I'd low-kicked his knee joint clean. Card dodged, I offered a hand to the fallen Ronaldo. Wary, he grabbed it. Up close, his acne-riddled face screamed kid.
Clap-clap-clap-clap—
"Hey, antenna-head country bumpkin. Why'd you pull that shit in Korea? On drugs? Know how many Korean kids cried waiting for you? This life, don't be a punk. Or I'll snap your leg like kindling."
"...What're you saying?"
My Korean rant flustered him—he tattled to the ref. Sneaky punk.
In my past life, I'd liked Ronaldo more than Messi. Until that incident.
[Nalgan-do No-Show Scandal]
Yes. July 2019, Sangam World Cup Stadium—I was there. Muggy air, Ronaldo's inexplicable no-play, the nightmare summer night of suffocating frustration. I'd splurged on pricey tickets, brought my elementary students—only to get burned. Post-scandal, kids quit soccer en masse. To me, Ronaldo was a walking disaster.
Tweeeet—!
Restart: Ronaldo rampaged anew. Dribbling utterly unlike Giggs—video on double-speed, flashy footwork dazzling.
But.
Thwack—!!
Simple patterns, outmuscled by me. Ronaldo lacked Giggs's cunning. I baited space, then shouldered him off as he lunged.
"That country bumpkin! At it again!"
Ball lost, Van Nistelrooy fumed. Greed king vs. greed king—no love lost. Ferguson would eventually ditch the old for the young, ushering Man Utd's new golden era. Oblivious, Van Nistelrooy gestured for box passes, needling Ronaldo relentlessly.
I pinned Ronaldo wide. Giggs would've back-passed; Ronaldo forced breakthroughs—blocked every time. We fed turnovers to Carrick instantly. He shuttled everywhere, owning our circulation solo.
"Next season. Must keep Carrick."
Lose him to Man Utd, West Ham's future dies. Carrick mentors Mark Noble; add two-three solid mids—we're golden in midfield.
Beeeep—!
Scholes smartly flipped the attack. Gary Neville cut central from the flank again.
Boom—!
I overlapped like a right-back. Mark's forward pass to me overshot.
Accelerating for the ball, Roy Keane barreled in—no braking. We smashed like derailed trains at full tilt.
Tap—whoosh—
I stretched my right foot, toed the dropping ball skyward, spun, and shed Keane.
"Here!"
Killer pass into Jermain Defoe's path on the run. Defoe doesn't miss these. Full speed, ice-cool strike.
Beeeep—!
56th minute. Our first goal at last.