Of course, he could never join the China National Team.
After all, both his father and grandfather had been Italy captains. He couldn't exactly lead the China National Team, could he?
But that was also Third Maldini's true feeling.
They played together all the time. Everyone fucking knew everyone else's level.
Third Maldini wasn't putting himself down. Compared with Huang Kaiwen's sons, he wouldn't rank at the bottom—somewhere above average, probably. But once stamina and such were factored in, his disadvantage became obvious. He had been a technical player since childhood and had never put much effort into that side of things.
If they were really comparing stamina—
Let the China National Team run for 120 minutes in a match, then do another eleven 400-meter sprints. China could beat the whole world senseless. Even those drugged-up Americans wouldn't stand a chance.
But their overall strength really was far too different.
And Paolo was an extremely devious guy.
Huang Mosi had decent technique, but his mentality was average. He got carried away easily, just like Zidane.
But Paolo was different. The emotions he showed might not be an expression of what he truly felt inside.
It was Paolo Borromeo himself who had reminded him of that.
Only Paolo, who had grown up with him, truly understood him. And what was even worse than Uncle Kaiwen was that this bastard especially loved drawing red cards.
If they didn't keep an eye on him, he would drag his own teammates down with him.
They were just playing football, yet he had to study military strategy too. He felt utterly exhausted.
"Kaiwen, are you worried you won't win?"
Second Maldini poked his head out from the back row and asked with a grin.
He wasn't worried about the final at all. It was uncertain