"Dejan!!!"
"Dejan, Dejan, Dejan!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Martin Tyler was going crazy.
For the first time, he felt the charm of football with such fiery passion.
Revenge after humiliation—what a wonderful phrase.
What England's national team had failed to accomplish had become reality at this moment.
The veteran commentator spared no praise. "A wonderful goal! After repeatedly trying to assist his teammates, Dejan finally realized that shooting himself was the better option. Simple, efficient, graceful—an absolutely magnificent goal! Just like Sir Stanley Matthews. Sir Stanley Matthews never received a red card throughout his career and was renowned as a gentleman of football. Dejan's performance is dreamlike. Perhaps he should be called the Green Field Dancer!"
"The Argentinians have only one path before them: watch Dejan take a victory away from San Paolo Stadium. Even if he reaches out with his sinful hands again, there is nothing he can do to change it!!!"
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—
Pezzotti felt that Boskov's punching speed had become even faster.
If he kept coaching Dejan Lu, he might break a Guinness World Record someday.
Diego Maradona braced his hands on his knees, gasping heavily.
That was the side effect of constantly participating in defense today.
"You all right, Diego?"
Careca walked over and asked.
"I'm fine." Maradona slapped his hand away.
"You... haven't touched that stuff again lately, have you?" Careca urged. "They invite you to parties and give you money and women, using those parties to cover up their dealings. Diego, athletes can't keep touching that stuff." "Damn it, I told you I haven't!"
Maradona said irritably.
He had first tried that stuff back in Barcelona.
It was hard to quit.
Careca looked at Maradona with concern.
He understood that the super genius was angry with himself. Perhaps if Diego could choose again, he would