You're Fired! -1
Lionel Messi burst into laughter, flashing a relaxed smile amid Jesus's utterly untimely downpour of emotion.
'Is that the majesty of the G.O.A.T. putting the final nail in the coffin of the Messi-Jesus rivalry?'
Impressed by Messi's demeanor, Jesus let out a quiet sigh of admiration before slowly opening his mouth to deliver his acceptance speech.
"Uh... first off, I'm thrilled to be receiving this award from Lionel Messi, the greatest soccer player of all time."
As soon as Jesus began speaking, every eye in the Ballon d'Or ceremony turned to him. He cradled the golden ball, lost in reminiscence. Memories flooded back of his desperate struggles to break free from regression—some a bit unsightly. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"...Everyone knows about my family life by now. Even those who didn't are probably seeing the articles pop up as we speak."
His low, pleasant voice silenced even the slightest murmurs. Jesus, the first Asian to claim the Ballon d'Or, spoke with calm detachment.
"There's one thing I want to say to all of you: Never give up."
That steady message shook the hearts of everyone in attendance more than any grand declaration could.
"There's no such thing as failure in life. It's just one step on the path to success. I was abandoned at an orphanage right after birth. From childhood, I fought against prejudice and discrimination just for being an orphan."
He thought of the woman who had given him the chance to escape the curse of regression, and his beloved children.
"After the Brazil match in the World Cup, my life changed. I made a ton of money, and people called me a success. But the moment I felt truly successful was when my kids—looking just like my wonderful wife—came into my life. Even in the exhausting, grueling times, seeing them gave me strength. That's how I became who I am today."
With those final words from Jesus,
"Money isn't everything in life. Look around you. If your wife, your kids, the people you cherish, or even your pet gives you a smile, you've already succeeded. Thank you."
His speech ended, and the audience erupted in thunderous applause, celebrating Jesus's Ballon d'Or triumph.
Jesus's Ballon d'Or speech left a deep impression on countless people—and plenty of headlines for the reporters.
Right after returning to Madrid from the ceremony, I headed straight home.
Partasu came bounding over first at the sound of the door. Yohan and Yuna followed close behind. A smile crept across my face unbidden.
"Woof-!" "Dada-!"
I scooped up the rushing Yohan and patted Partasu's head. Yuna came over and hugged me. Feeling her warm body heat, she asked softly,
"You eat yet?"
For some reason, that simple question from Yuna tugged at my heart. I shook my head, and she headed off to prepare food. "Hang on, I'll whip something up quick?" "Yeah, thanks."
While Yuna was cooking, I peeked into the room to check on Hayun and Seoyun. The two sleeping angels greeted me.
"Dada.... Yohanni...."
I stroked Yohan's head as he whined and tried to wriggle free, then watched the twins sleeping hand-in-hand. My heart warmed.
"Dada... Yohanni huggy...."
Literally.
Before the La Liga Round 5 match against Real Valladolid at Real Madrid's home ground, Santiago Bernabeu, a ceremony celebrated Jesus's Ballon d'Or win.
As Jesus appeared holding a golden soccer ball,
"¡Historia que tú hiciste, Historia por hacer!"
Applause filled the Santiago Bernabeu, followed by Real Madrid's anthem echoing through the stadium.
Jesus returned the cheers with applause of thanks, scanning the packed Santiago Bernabeu full of Real Madrid fans.
"Madrid, Madrid, Madrid ¡Hala Madrid!"
The heat pouring from the stands could reignite even the ashes of soccer's old monsters.
The Ballon d'Or celebration wrapped up, and with the ref's whistle, the match kicked off.
Soccer Emperor Ronaldo, now club president, had invested steadily to settle Real Valladolid in La Liga's mid-table. Acknowledging the gap with Real Madrid, they opted for a deep defensive shell.
Real Madrid, seasoned against parked buses, circulated the ball patiently hunting openings. But Jesus, pumped full of Ballon d'Or pride, went feral—sprinting wildly unlike his usual self. Valladolid looked flustered, dragged along.
The Valladolid match was honestly a breeze. No clue how other pros play, but I do it all by feel.
How to shoot. How to pass. What skill to nutmeg 'em with. Pure instinct.
That means my condition swings with my mood, big time.
Sure, even on a bad day, I outplay any rookie who's barely kicked a ball for 50 years, but...
No doubt about it: Bad-day me vs. good-day me? Night and day performance.
So how'd I get props for consistency?
Simple.
"Puta! Block him! You bastards!"
On my good-condition days...
"Whiiiii—! Hala Jesus!!"
...that's how damn good my mood is.
Thud— smack!
Good mood means...
Wham—!
...high chance of chaos.
Swish—
I nutmegged the holding mid with la croqueta, curled a left-footer that bulged the net.
After scoring, I bolted to Valladolid's bench and pointed at their coach with Ronaldo's signature finger-wag celebration.
"You're Fired!"