Echoes of Greatness: The Rise of a Global Football Sensation

Zax's cold words struck a chord with Yang Yang, making him suddenly grasp a deeper understanding of what had been happening.

"Everyone wants to control the game and predict the future movements of their opponents, especially defensive players," Zax explained. "Ronaldo doesn't use his maximum speed from the beginning because he wants to confuse his opponents. By starting slower, he lulls them into a false sense of control, leading them to unconsciously predict his next move and prepare their defense accordingly."

"But when he suddenly accelerates and changes direction, he completely shatters the defender's expectations, leaving them stunned. That's exactly what happened to you. When you finally realized his feint, your instinct was to react and correct your mistake, but by then, it was already too late," Zax continued, his analysis sharp and unyielding.

Zax's assessment hit home for Yang Yang. "Sometimes, when you try to make up for past mistakes, you end up making even bigger ones," Zax added.

Yang Yang absorbed this insight, recognizing where he had gone wrong. The real issue was not just the speed or the feint, but the sudden change in direction and the ability to go from zero to full speed in an instant. This ability to use shifts in pace and direction to catch an opponent off guard was what made Ronaldo so difficult to defend against. It forced defenders into making mistakes, as they couldn't keep up with the rapid changes.

Even the most experienced defenders, those with countless hours of match play and defensive drills, could be undone by Ronaldo's brilliance. Against someone like Ronaldo, their only option to stop him might be to commit a foul, because even with their skill and experience, there was no surefire way to contain him when he was at his best.

Yang Yang reflected on his own performance in recent Rondo games with the team, realizing that his improvement in interceptions was largely due to his ability to fake out his teammates, leading them into making mistakes. He had unknowingly been applying a similar principle on a smaller scale.

"It shouldn't be that easy, right?" Yang Yang asked, still trying to wrap his mind around the complexities.

"You're correct, it's not that simple," Zax affirmed. "Changing speed and direction is only one aspect of the technique. The true mastery lies in Ronaldo's ability to control his speed, his stride length, and the timing of each step with precision."

The image before Yang Yang shifted again, highlighting two of his own footprints alongside two of Ronaldo's, magnified for clarity.

"Pay close attention," Zax instructed. "Ronaldo can control every aspect of his movement—his speed, the distance he covers with each step, and where each step lands. These are not random; they are calculated adjustments he makes based on the defender he's facing."

"When he faces you or the defensive dummies in training, he speeds up because he knows you're mentally prepared, and he uses that against you. For Ronaldo, there's no difference between the start of his movement and the moment before the end because, even at the last second, he can change direction based on your reaction. But for the defender, it's entirely different—they have to commit to a direction without knowing for certain where Ronaldo will go."

This explanation made everything clear to Yang Yang. The gap between him and a professional player, especially someone like Ronaldo, was immense. The step-over, a move that seemed simple at first glance, was just one part of Ronaldo's vast skill set. But the layers of complexity behind it—the precision, the timing, the instinct—were what made it so effective.

There was still something nagging at Yang Yang, though. "There's something I don't quite understand," he began, his tone now that of a curious student eager to learn. "You said Ronaldo's movements—his landing points, speed, momentum, and directional changes—are all pre-designed. But does he actually think about all these things during a game?"

"No," Zax replied without hesitation. "The game is constantly changing, and there's no time to consciously think about such details."

Yang Yang was puzzled. "Then how does he do it?"

"Muscle memory," Zax answered succinctly.

Suddenly, everything clicked for Yang Yang. He recalled his coach back in China repeatedly emphasizing the importance of muscle memory. It wasn't just a phrase; it was the foundation of a player's ability to perform under pressure. For Ronaldo, every touch of the ball, every step he took, was the result of years—decades—of practice. His muscle memory had been forged through thousands of hours of training and match play. For him, performing these movements wasn't something he had to think about—it was an instinctive habit, ingrained so deeply that it was as natural as breathing.

Yang Yang couldn't help but be filled with admiration. "Now I understand why he is Ronaldo," he said, full of praise.

To become a superstar, talent was only part of the equation. The real key was relentless practice, honing skills until they became second nature.

"You don't have much time now, only one night," Zax reminded him. "Focus on practicing the step-over and the change of direction. How much you can internalize and use tomorrow is still up to you."

Yang Yang understood. There would be plenty of time to dive deeper into the intricacies of the skill later. For now, he needed to concentrate on mastering the basics well enough to be effective in the match. The Dream Training System had one significant advantage—it accelerated the development of muscle memory faster than real-life practice. But even so, learning to perform Ronaldo's step-over with the same finesse and effectiveness in one night was an immense challenge.

With time running out, Yang Yang couldn't afford to set lofty goals. He had to push himself, practice diligently, and make the most of every moment.

...

...

On Saturday morning, the skate park was unusually quiet, its usual vibrancy dampened by the early hour and the lingering chill in the air. Yang Yang, following his routine, had risen early, exchanged brief greetings with his uncle, and made his way to the park to practice with his ball.

For Yang Yang, football wasn't just a game—it was a discipline. The more he trained, the more he believed in the results. In football, there was no room for complacency; any lapse could lead to regression.

"It's not about isolated training sessions; real improvement in football comes from consistent daily practice and giving everything you've got," he often reminded himself.

With no classes to attend on Saturdays, Yang Yang took full advantage of the morning, doubling down on his drills. He worked himself to exhaustion, his shirt clinging to his back from sweat, his breath coming in heavy pants as he pushed himself harder and harder.

After a particularly grueling set, Yang Yang collapsed onto a bench beside the track, trying to catch his breath. It was then that he noticed a middle-aged Dutch man sitting on the bench nearby, a figure who had been there for some time, though Yang Yang hadn't paid him much attention until now.

The man appeared to be in his fifties, his weathered face partially obscured by the brim of a sports cap emblazoned with a golf ball logo. His hair was completely white, slightly unruly, and his grey sports polo shirt stretched tightly over a substantial belly, giving him a somewhat imposing presence despite the casual attire. His posture, sitting with a bottle of water in hand, exuded an air of authority.

As Yang Yang approached, the man extended the bottle of water toward him without a word.

"No, thank you," Yang Yang replied politely, unsure of the stranger's intentions. He didn't know this man and wasn't inclined to accept a drink from him.

But the middle-aged Dutchman wasn't deterred. He pushed the bottle closer, his expression remaining serious. "I just want to talk to you for a bit," he said, his voice gruff yet strangely compelling.

Yang Yang, sensing the man's stubbornness, realized that refusing would be difficult. He accepted the water but didn't open it, instead setting it down beside him. He pulled a towel from his backpack and began wiping the sweat from his face.

"I've been watching you for several days," the Dutchman began, his eyes narrowing slightly as he gazed at the graffiti-covered wall across from them.

"Huh?" Yang Yang responded, caught off guard and unsure of what the man meant.

The Dutchman didn't repeat himself but instead asked, "Are you from Helen Parkhurst School?"

"Yes," Yang Yang nodded. The school was just north of the park, so it wasn't surprising that someone would make the connection.

"You play for the youth team of Almere City FC?" the man inquired further.

"Yes," Yang Yang confirmed again.

The man gave a slight nod, as if confirming something to himself. "Johnny Rep and Dick Van Poer have good judgment. How did you get in?"

Yang Yang remained silent, scrutinizing the man. There was something in his tone that suggested familiarity with Johnny Rep and Dick Van Poer.

"Do you know Mr. Rep?" Yang Yang asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Of course," the Dutchman replied, his tone casual. "We were teammates in the Ajax youth team."

"Ajax?" Yang Yang's eyes widened in surprise.

Everyone in Almere knew Johnny Rep's connection to Ajax. It was a point of pride for the club, and hearing that this man had played alongside him added a layer of intrigue.

The middle-aged Dutchman nodded slightly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "He was a prodigy of the academy, but I wasn't. I had the honor of playing with him in the youth team for two years before he moved up to the first team. As for me..." He trailed off, the smile fading. The implication was clear—his own career hadn't followed the same trajectory.

Before Yang Yang could respond, the Dutchman abruptly changed the subject. "Your basic skills are terrible," he stated bluntly.

Yang Yang felt a twinge of embarrassment at the harsh assessment. Even though it stung, he couldn't deny the truth in the man's words. He nodded in acknowledgment, accepting the criticism.

"You're what, sixteen or seventeen years old?" the Dutchman continued.

"Sixteen," Yang Yang confirmed.

"Johnny Rep has brought Ajax's youth training methods to Almere," the man said, his tone growing more serious. "But at your current level, I'm afraid you'll struggle to pass their assessments."

Yang Yang could tell from the man's confident manner that he was deeply familiar with Ajax's youth training system.

"Didn't Johnny Rep or Dick Van Poer tell you that?" the man asked.

Yang Yang hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, they made that clear to me."

"And yet, you come here every day to train harder," the man observed, his voice tinged with skepticism. "Don't you realize that what you're doing might be futile?"

"Why do you think it's futile?" Yang Yang asked, genuinely curious about the man's perspective.

"Isn't it?" the Dutchman countered. "No matter how hard you work, if you can't pass the test, isn't it all for nothing?"

Yang Yang shook his head. "Without taking the test, how would you know what the result will be?"

He paused, then looked directly at the Dutchman, his expression resolute. "Sir, if you were a football player in the past, you should know that football is like a match with ninety minutes. If you play hard for eighty-five minutes but give up because your team is one goal short, how would you know if you could have scored in those final five minutes? How many times did Ferguson's Manchester United make comebacks? Didn't they beat Bayern Munich in the last two minutes of stoppage time to win the UEFA Champions League in 1999 and complete the treble? That's the magic of football. If Ferguson and his players had given up, that historic comeback would never have happened."

The middle-aged Dutchman fell silent, his gaze lingering on Yang Yang as if seeing him in a new light. Yang Yang's words struck a chord, bringing a glimmer of life to the dull depression that had weighed on the man for the past six months.

The man had always been stubborn, a trait that had only been reinforced by the setbacks he'd faced in recent years. Those setbacks had left him bitter, frustrated, and unwilling to heed the advice of others. Yet here was a young player, full of determination and hope, whose words resonated with him in a way that no one else's had.

As Yang Yang handed back the unopened bottle of water and thanked the man, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and began to walk away.

The middle-aged Dutchman remained seated, watching the young player's retreating figure. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Such a funny kid," he murmured to himself, the weight of his past frustrations lightened, if only for a moment.