Chapter 145: Ibrahimovic Who Doesn't Know How to Dribble

Long Bisheng truly never expected that Chu Ran, a senior alumnus from Yunjia Tianyu and a former member of the Chinese National Team, would propose something so absurd and completely contrary to sportsmanship! He had originally held great admiration for Chu Ran. During his month or so in Italy, Chu Ran had helped him immensely, such as finding him a good Italian tutor and actively helping him integrate into Italian life. However, Chu Ran's proposal just now had completely crossed his baseline.

"It's just a match... Don't you want to leave your name in history? This is also bringing glory to Chinese football..." Chu Ran still seemed to be trying to persuade Long Bisheng, but a slight smile played at the corner of his mouth, as if he were expressing admiration for him.

"I'd rather not win this kind of glory, and I'd rather not leave this kind of name! Brother Chu Ran, don't forget, you are talking to a player from a military family!" Long Bisheng shouted in Chinese, not caring if anyone else heard. "Let's end this here, shall we? I'll just pretend I never heard this, and I don't think Coach Ding Yu would agree with what you just said."

"Well said, A-Long." The smile on Chu Ran's face rapidly widened, and then he gave Long Bisheng a thumbs-up. "Coach Ding Yu was right. You really are good, truly good."

Long Bisheng's mouth fell open, and Chu Ran smiled even more happily. "Sorry, I was just testing you a moment ago... You are great. You not only have a clear understanding of your own ability and your position in the team, but you can also resist huge temptations. Now I believe it. Even if you don't achieve Vieri's level of success, you can at least become a down-to-earth Julio Cruz... I'm sorry, A-Long. I apologize for testing you just now."

"You... you were testing me?" Long Bisheng looked at Chu Ran suspiciously. "Really? Don't think I'm a fool."

Chu Ran was torn between laughter and tears. "It's true. I called Coach Ding Yu yesterday to tell him about this, and he said right then that I would be wasting my effort... If you don't believe me, you can call Coach Ding Yu. Please don't doubt my character; your Brother Chu is a universally loved, model youth of the highest order."

"Brother Chu Ran! Never trick me again in the future. I hate being deceived by others!" Long Bisheng said somewhat irritably.

"A-Long, I sincerely apologize to you... I hope you can forgive me. I shouldn't have abused your trust, I'm sorry." Chu Ran wiped the smile from his face and said to Long Bisheng with a solemn expression.

Seeing Chu Ran apologize to him so seriously, Long Bisheng actually felt a bit embarrassed. Just as he was about to say something, Chu Ran switched back to his cheeky grin. "But A-Long, you can still seriously consider the proposal from earlier!"

"Brother Chu Ran!" Long Bisheng shouted helplessly once again.

With Chu Ran messing around like this, much of Long Bisheng's nervousness about making his first league start had imperceptibly vanished. When February 19th arrived, as Napoli played at home against Acireale, Long Bisheng, wearing the number ten jersey and standing at the mouth of the player tunnel, felt completely devoid of nervousness. He kept telling himself, "Long Bisheng, the opportunity is right in front of you. Whether you can seize it depends on your performance!"

Today, the San Paolo Stadium was packed with over thirty thousand fans. A crowd of this size made the San Paolo Stadium a veritable hellish home ground in Serie C. Most Serie C players rarely experienced such a spectacle, and under this tremendous home-field advantage, Napoli's home record this season was a terrifying hundred percent win rate!

Yet this seemed entirely incapable of daunting Acireale, who were fighting for a playoff spot. The team was currently ranked fifth in Serie C. To secure their qualification for the playoffs, they had to fight tooth and nail despite playing away from home. Achieving promotion meant greater glory and... income.

Clearly, Acireale had already conducted a relatively detailed study of Long Bisheng, who had delivered an outstanding performance coming off the bench in the previous match. Italy was never short of good defenders. Although in recent years they might have felt somewhat lacking in successors, in the lower leagues, there were still plenty of solid, practical domestic defenders. The hallmark of Italian defenders was their accurate positional awareness and excellent defensive technique. Even when dealing with a forward taller than themselves, they had a set of effective methods.

If they could win the ball cleanly on the first opportunity, they would do so. If they couldn't win it cleanly, they would stick to you like glue while constantly using petty tricks to deal with you, driving you to distraction. The moment you prepared to dribble past them, they would use subtle, low-intensity fouls to halt your advance. Clingy, troublesome, and incredibly annoying—this was usually the initial impression foreign players had when facing Italian defenders for the first time.

However, Long Bisheng naturally had his own set of methods. He possessed a robust physique, and ordinary fouls could hardly knock him down. If he did hit the turf, it would make a thunderous impact—when that defender knocked Long Bisheng down for the first time, he earned himself a yellow card, which also caused the opponent to grow much more cautious in defending Long Bisheng for the remainder of the match.

Furthermore, Long Bisheng knew that the opponent's ball-winning technique was quite exceptional, so he rarely used the tactic of turning with the ball to dribble past opponents, and he rarely let the ball linger at his feet. You excel at ground play? Then I'll shift the battlefield into the air!

Although Italian defenders were outstanding, their stature generally wasn't exceptionally tall—their tradition relied on technique rather than sheer physicality to defend. Center-backs like Materazzi were a minority in Italy, and the tallest defender on Acireale stood no higher than one meter and eighty-five centimeters. Pitted against Long Bisheng, their disadvantage was glaringly obvious.

Seeing the opposing defenders reduced to a miserable state under Long Bisheng's relentless onslaught, Napoli's teammates began utilizing aerial passes more frequently. Once the opposing defenders concentrated their attention more heavily on Long Bisheng, Calaiò, lurking inside the penalty area, only needed to wait for his opportunity...

In the twenty-seventh minute, Napoli won a corner kick. Fontana floated the ball to the near post, and Long Bisheng leaped high despite the opponent desperately tugging at his jersey, flicking a header toward the far post. Calaiò, lurking inside the box, suddenly burst into motion, stretching out a boot to poke the ball past the defender and into the net!

"Emanuele..." The pitchside commentator at the San Paolo Stadium dragged out his voice in a roar, and over thirty thousand fans picked up where he left off: "Calaiò!"

After scoring, Calaiò embraced Long Bisheng. This short player standing at one meter seventy-two was Napoli's second-highest scorer and had found the net in each of his last three games, but he felt that playing alongside Long Bisheng was considerably more comfortable. Because partnering with Long Bisheng afforded him more scoring opportunities, and Long Bisheng was always generous in creating chances for him through headed knock-downs.

At the very least, Long Bisheng had won the favor of this temporary strike partner. However, both he and Calaiò knew that once Sosa recovered from his injury, the starting position would still belong to him, because Sosa's scoring ability could more effectively translate into victories for Napoli. Although Long Bisheng was full of explosive drive and vitality, he fell far short of Sosa in terms of experience.

"Hey, mate, you need to score too," Calaiò murmured softly in Long Bisheng's ear during their embrace.

Long Bisheng heard his words clearly, but he merely smiled. In his view, a teammate scoring was the same as him scoring. As long as the team secured victory, wasn't that all that mattered?

It wasn't until much later that Long Bisheng realized that in the brutal world of professional football, simply having a spirit of self-sacrifice wasn't always a good thing. Julio Cruz didn't become Julio Cruz through his assists, but rather through those concrete, hard-earned goals...

"Long picks up the ball near the sideline! He's a good lad, though watching him wear Diego's number ten always feels a bit strange to me... He's a foot and two inches taller than Diego... Five years later, the two players wearing Diego's left-behind jersey are both giants—six-foot-two Roberto and six-foot-seven Long... What a gorgeous pass!"

Long Bisheng shielded the ball near the sideline while an opposing defender fussed behind him for ages without managing to bypass his massive frame. Raising his head, Long Bisheng saw Grava sprinting rapidly up the flank. Dribbling diagonally to draw the defender away, Long Bisheng suddenly stretched out a long leg and distributed the ball to Grava!

Grava carried the ball forward for a couple of steps before sending an arched cross toward the center. Calaiò was already sprinting into the space vacated in the opponent's central defense...

What followed was far simpler: Calaiò cushioned the ball in stride, used the momentum to nudge it forward and bypass the goalkeeper, and directly slotted it into the empty net! The commentator's howl pierced the sky above the San Paolo: "Calaiò! A brace! Our Calaiò is in sensational form!"

"Long's distribution was extremely timely." Reja, standing on the touchline, took note of this. "In that situation, he had no way to break through on his own, nor could he pass to an unmarked Calaiò, yet he was able to pass the ball to Grava immediately, leaving Grava with nothing to do but send it into the middle... That kind of vision reminds me of someone."

"Who?" the assistant coach asked curiously.

"The Swedish prodigy Ibrahimović, who transferred to Inter Milan this year..." Reja smiled. "A forward who possesses the vision of an attacking midfielder."

"Goodness, Ibrahimović's footwork is vastly superior to his!" the assistant coach exclaimed exaggeratedly.

"Indeed, an Ibrahimović who can't dribble past players, but whose heading ability is vastly superior... Don't forget, he's not even seventeen yet. Technique can be cultivated over time, but vision on the pitch is innate. Roberto can't play for much longer; perhaps we should give this young lad more opportunities to develop. Have you noticed? His fundamental skills in training are very solid. Mr. Pesaola once told me that the word he got from his Chinese counterparts was that this kid only began receiving formal professional training at the age of ten."