Chapter 74: The Thirty-Nine-Year-Old Legend Leans Forward, Teaching Nineteen-Year-Old Youngster Passing Hands Hands-on

During training breaks.

The players spread out to rest; some sat on the grass drinking water, while others chatted in small groups.

João Neves was crouching alone near the sideline.

He lowered his head and punched the grass with his right fist a few times.

In the recent duel match, he made two consecutive crossing errors.

The first pass went high, flying over everyone and out of the bottom line.

The second time was even more outrageous—he lost control and passed the ball directly to the opposing defender’s feet.

The two turnovers were less than three minutes apart.

He felt utterly foolish.

It was his first time participating in national team training, and he embarrassed himself in front of all the seniors.

And Cristiano Ronaldo was right on the pitch.

He waited to receive the ball right in the crossing area.

Failed to pick up twice.

Because he passed the ball to garbage.

Neves squatted there, clutching the back of his head, wishing he could bury himself in the grass.

Then, suddenly, a pair of sneakers appeared before his eyes.

Nike Superfly.

It’s a bit old, but well maintained.

His gaze drifted upward along the sneaker.

Training shorts, green vest.

That most famous face in the world.

Cristiano Ronaldo stood before him.

Holding two bottles of water.

“Get up.”

Neves’ mind went blank.

Cristiano Ronaldo handed him one of the bottles of water.

“Have some water, come with me.”

Neves took the water, mechanically unscrewed the cap, and took a sip.

Cristiano Ronaldo didn’t say a single extra word.

He turned and walked toward the sidelines.

Neves hurried to catch up.

The two stood by the sideline.

Cristiano Ronaldo picked up a ball from the ground and placed it at Neves’ feet.

“You just sent two crosses, the problem wasn’t the power.”

Cristiano Ronaldo’s voice was not loud, but every word was clear.

“Your support leg is positioned off, about ten centimeters outward.”

He squatted down and drew a line on the turf with his finger.

“Look, when you touch the ball, your body’s center of gravity is in this position. But your supporting foot is standing here. "

He traced his fingers from the first line to the second.

“A difference of more than ten centimeters will completely deviate your release angle. The stronger you are, the more off the ball.”

Neves stared at the two lines on the turf.

He suddenly understood.

Damn, so it’s a problem with the support foot.

He always thought it was because he had the wrong contact with the ball, and after a month of practicing crossing, he kept getting crooked.

It turned out the root was just over ten centimeters beneath her feet.

Cristiano Ronaldo stood up.

“Here, stand firm.”

He walked over to Neves and personally adjusted the position of the young man’s support foot.

“Step here. Yes, toes pointing in this direction. "

Then he stepped back two paces.

“Try it now.”

Neves took a deep breath and took a cross from his adjusted position.

The moment the ball flew out, he knew it was different.

The arc is lower, flatter, and more precise.

The ball sliced past half the penalty area and landed just outside the six-yard zone.

If someone is waiting in that spot, they just need to stretch out their foot to touch the ball.

Neves turned to look at Cristiano Ronaldo.

Cristiano Ronaldo’s expression remained unchanged.

She neither praised him nor scolded him.

He just nodded slightly.

“One hundred more.”

During the rest of that afternoon’s break, Cristiano Ronaldo stood right next to the sidelines.

Watching Neves’ crosses over and over.

Occasionally walk over and adjust his positioning or touch angle.

Quiet and patient throughout.

A thirty-nine-year-old man who has won five Ballon d’Or awards.

On the training ground in South America, he taught a nineteen-year-old hand-in-hand how to cross.

The sun slowly slid from overhead toward the west.

The shadow of the training ground was stretched long.

At sunset.

The sky over Santiago burned a flurry of orange-red.

A reporter accompanying Portugal captured a video outside the barbed wire.

About ten seconds.

In the footage, Cristiano Ronaldo is crouching next to Neves, pointing at the turf and talking about something.

The image quality is not very clear, and the screen is somewhat blurry through the barbed wire.

But it was enough.

After this video was uploaded online, it surpassed ten million views within four hours.

The tone of the comment section is completely different from those who had previously criticized Cristiano Ronaldo.

“This isn’t some toxic captain at all—he’s clearly the team dad.”

“At 39, I flew for 13 hours, practiced right after landing, and after practicing I taught my child. You tell me this person is selfish.”

“I would call it an atmospheric-level pattern.”

“Cristiano Ronaldo: You insult me, I’m teaching my child.”

Of course, the haters weren’t idle either.

“It’s just for show. The camera is right there, so why not act?”

“Teaching Transmission? What level does he have in Transmission?”

“Almost forty, still stubbornly refusing to leave. Now he’s starting to help his apprentice clear his name.”

Cristiano Ronaldo simply wouldn’t see any of this.

Even if he saw it, he didn’t care.

But one person saw it.

And they care a lot.

The other side of San Diego.

Chile national team training base, head coach’s office.

Ricardo Gareca sat at his desk.

The laptop screen on the table was lit up.

He had already watched that training video five times over and over.

It wasn’t Cristiano Ronaldo who taught Neves the cross that part.

It was the scene in the previous match, where Cristiano Ronaldo spun around and fired a shot over Díaz, shattering the spider web.

South American media reporters sent high-definition footage to the Chilean Football Federation.

Gareika watches frame by frame at 0.25x speed.

He watched Cristiano Ronaldo’s beginnings.

Watch his shift in focus.

Watch how much his thigh muscles contract when he turns.

Look at the speed of that shot.

He froze the video on a frame after Cristiano Ronaldo’s shot.

That face.

The expression after scoring.

No excitement, no celebration.

Nothing at all.

It’s just cold.

Gareca stared at that expression for a long time.

My back started to feel cold.

His original pre-match plan was a friendly match, to practice formations and gain experience for the younger players, focusing on positioning and defensive system coordination.

Winning or not doesn’t matter.

Cristiano Ronaldo is already 39, and even if he comes, he’ll most likely be substituted off at halftime.

But now.

He closed his laptop.

The screen went off, and the office went dark.

Only the city lights of San Diego outside the window leaked in through the cracks in the blinds.

Gareka sat in the dark for a while.

Then he picked up the phone on the desk and dialed the teaching assistant’s number.

“The tactics will be restarted tomorrow morning.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Coach, didn’t the tactical plan just be finalized yesterday?”

“Overturn and start over.”

Garreka’s voice was not loud but very deep.

“The defensive plan for Cristiano Ronaldo needs to be developed separately. I want to review more than three contingency plans.”

There was two seconds of silence on the other end of the line.

“Coach, this is just a friendly match…”

Gareka interrupted him.

“Friendly match.”

He turned the chair halfway around facing the window.

The silhouette of the Andes mountains in the night was only a blurry silhouette.

“Now that he’s here, it’s not a friendly match.”

The call ended, and Gareka put his phone on the table.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

What lingered in my mind was the last frame of that video.

Cristiano Ronaldo’s eyes after his shot.

There was not a trace of the trace of gloom in those eyes that belonged to a thirty-nine-year-old.

Clean and sharp.

Chile has already missed out on the 2026 World Cup.

Their team is currently in a rebuilding phase, with an aging roster and a gap between generations and successors.

But they are not anyone’s experience pack, nor are they any legendary exhibition matches.

San Diego National Stadium, 55,000 seats.

On match day, not a single gap will be left behind.

The roar of 55,000 South Americans is enough to make any visiting team’s heart beat a few beats.

Gareca rubbed his palms together.

“Come on.”

He said this to the dark window.

I don’t know if he was speaking to herself, or to that thirty-nine-year-old man far away in the city.

Three days later.

San Diego National Stadium.

Portugal vs Chile.