Chapter 220: Almost Killed the Match
The referee made a gesture favoring the attack the instant Xia Qi sent Virtùti flying.
Xia Qi sprinted forward two or three steps, his body leaning to the right, arms out for balance, leg cocked to strike…
In the sunlight,
the dark-haired youngster looked as if wrapped in a halo, yet he was about to commit an act of slaughter.
His movements clearly indicated a long-range shot!
Andrea Barzagli cursed in anger: "Shit!"
Then, like a thunderbolt, he lunged at Xia Qi…
He kept his hands behind his back, knowing he could no longer block every shooting angle. Rather than try to cover both sides, he decided to shut down the far corner solidly.
At the same time, goalkeeper Salvatore Sirigu adjusted his position, angling to cover the near post in concert with Barzagli, waiting for Xia Qi to aim for the near corner.
Suddenly!
Barzagli shouted: "Behind you!"
He gestured with his hands behind his back to signal covering his rear.
Giorgio Chiellini immediately stopped his forward rush to close down Xia Qi and shifted sideways to cover Barzagli's rear.
All of that happened because when Xia Qi raised his thigh to strike, his foot came down lightly.
Barzagli made a split-second read of "fake shot, real pass."
Rushing forward at full speed, he could no longer look after everything himself and had to call for help.
Xia Qi's right foot didn't swing through at the ball for a shot; instead, he changed the motion into a push-pass.
Under Sirigu's gaze, Xia Qi's pushed ball slipped through the small gap left by Barzagli and rolled toward Chiellini.
A crisis seemed about to be averted.
Suddenly,
Sirigu's pupils contracted. In his sight, the ball skimming the turf shivered as if struck by a chill—trembled a little!
Sirigu knew this all too well; this was the prelude to the goalkeeper's worst nightmare: the "falling-leaf" dipper.
Shit!
The falling-leaf shot, normally used by a striker to score, was being used by Xia Qi as a pass!
"Watch Rooney!"
No sooner had he shouted than Chiellini swung a leg to intercept and completely missed.
The ball didn't skid straight along the grass; it drew an "S" curve on the turf and skipped just past his toes.
At the same time,
Wayne Rooney sprang from behind Chiellini, met the ball, and with the inside of his foot slotted it toward the far corner!
Sirigu made the correct read and tore off his line, but he was still a fraction late…
He could only watch as the ball burst into the net.
In an instant a wave of hatred rose in Sirigu—he didn't hate Rooney for scoring so much as he hated Xia Qi for misleading him into guarding the near post.
…
"Goal!"
"One–nil!"
"Xia Qi's pass threaded between two defenders to deliver a nanny-like perfect layoff for Rooney, and Rooney repaid him by putting England ahead."
In the CCTV live chat the barrage of messages scrolled crazily:
[Xia Qi's pass is so provocative—he's toying with the old man of the defense.]
[Chiellini might as well not have tracked back; that cover was useless.]
[This isn't a pass, it's a knife being plunged.]
At the Arena Amazonia, England fans sang shoulder to shoulder, bouncing and jubilant.
Italian supporters first cursed Chiellini for being stupid, then, after watching the replay, switched to cursing Xia Qi for being inhuman.
Rooney ran over to high-five Xia Qi in celebration, but Xia Qi "waved his sleeve and took not a cloud with him." He turned and walked toward the center circle as if nothing had happened—on his face you couldn't tell if he was happy or even happier.
"Christ! Theo, does this guy always act so cool? How can you stand him?"
Theo Walcott put an arm around Rooney's shoulder: "Cold-faced pride—best celebration. Look at those Italians' faces…"
"Pride? More like diva—explain how he's a diva; is it this diva or that diva…"
Rooney mimicked a woman's hip wiggle while clinging back onto Walcott, demanding an explanation.
Walcott looked up helplessly—why must geniuses be so different? Am I not excellent enough because I'm not twisted enough?
Steven Gerrard and others ran over to hug Rooney in celebration, and then they also embraced Xia Qi.
"Keep cool, captain. Focus on the match—let's clock out early. We wage-earners don't do overtime!"
Damn, that made sense!
Gerrard, who'd wanted to help Xia Qi fit in, realized how small his mindset was—he was thinking about beating rivals while Xia Qi was thinking about clocking out at halftime.
The match continued.
The Italians didn't collapse.
Though Italian football had declined, they still had a psychological edge against England.
But Xia Qi's nonchalant manner was deeply annoying.
After the whistle, England continued their high press up front; Italy accelerated in response.
The midfield turned into a knife fight and the match surged to its peak in the blink of an eye.
Italy: "Show those Brits some color!"
England: "Clock out early!"
…
Jordan Henderson and Antonio Candreva tangled together—neither giving an inch.
Henderson bowed his head and pushed forward with his skull while his feet chopped at the ball.
Candreva used his arm to hold Henderson off and create space, alternating footwork to shield possession.
They wrestled forward for three or four meters; Candreva then relented and passed to Andrea Pirlo at the far post.
As soon as Pirlo received the ball, Rooney surged up.
Thin Pirlo naturally didn't want to meet the little tank head-on; that would be foolish.
Pirlo pulled the ball back, twisted, and prepared to feed Claudio Marchisio.
But Xia Qi appeared beside Marchisio as if summoned by name.
That faint upward curl at his mouth seemed to say: "Pass it! Pass it now!"
Pirlo saw Xia Qi had timed his movement perfectly again and had no choice but to switch his plan.
This time Rooney didn't give him a chance. As Pirlo shifted to shield and look for a second outlet,
Rooney had already slammed into him.
Pirlo felt a huge shove on his shoulder and spun around.
The ball at his feet was unsurprisingly "stolen."
Rooney didn't try to dribble through—he could, but his technique is more suited to bullying tough Brits than dismantling Latin defenses.
The ball fell to Xia Qi. Marchisio immediately counter-pressed, trying to dispossess him; he turned and gave a shove with his backside.
Marchisio went down on the spot.
Xia Qi shrugged off Marchisio and didn't drive forward alone; he recycled the ball to left winger Raheem Sterling.
Sterling set off with his trademark ducking run along the left flank.
Italy's right-back Matteo Darmian kept a sensible distance and retreated,
over the course of the run he couldn't stop Sterling's progression but also didn't allow Sterling to beat him—both advanced to the byline.
Once at the byline,
Sterling went wild with stepovers, hoping the move would wrong-foot Darmian, but Darmian wasn't fooled.
Not only did he resist the dizzying moves, he burst forward and executed a precise tackle,
his toe meeting the ball exactly at Sterling's feet.
The ball flew behind Sterling.
At the same time Darmian sprinted past Sterling like a shadow and chased the ball, booting it long upfield.
Darmian's clearance wasn't aimless; it found the frontmost runner, Mario Balotelli, with laser precision.
Idle and nearly stiffening in the front line, Balotelli lit up with hope—he sprinted forward while tracking the ball's landing spot in his head.
He planned to trap and take it in one touch.
Jagielka?
Heh, a fish on a chopping block!
The ball began to drop and Balotelli readied his touch. The only disappointment was that the fish didn't struggle—Balotelli felt a lack of accomplishment.
Aw, crap!
Balotelli cursed: "Shit!"
He saw a trace of mockery on Jagielka's face—
an expression that shouldn't exist on the face of his dinner, but it was there.
So the truth was clear!
Mario Balotelli leaped—no "trap and go" now, screw that, first secure the ball!
Sure enough!
A black cloud erupted over him and placed itself directly above his head!
"Xia…" (voice cracks)
Balotelli screamed in fury.
You don't need to read the shirt number—if anyone could out-jump him it was that Xia Qi bastard and no one else.
Xia Qi reached the ball first and headed it on to Jagielka.
After it landed, Xia Qi helped Balotelli up from the ground and teased: "Welcome to Earth."
"Welcome your mom..." a string of curses—
"How did I not realize you're so annoying before?"
"Because you were my teammate."
Balotelli was silenced by Xia Qi's retort.
He didn't bother arguing further; he realized his IQ wasn't enough to deal with Xia Qi.
While chatting, Xia Qi flicked Jagielka's pass out to the flank.
Walcott was there, retreating to receive.
After using the opportunity, Xia Qi ignored Balotelli and sprinted forward.
"Scumbag!"
Balotelli spat in anger but didn't follow.
Tonight he wasn't marking Xia Qi one-on-one, and he didn't want to try to defend against him—that would be hell. Balotelli had no desire to challenge.
England's front line,
Walcott quickly returned the ball.
When it rolled to Xia Qi, he didn't control or adjust but struck the moving ball directly,
his left instep striking the left third of the ball precisely.
The ball rose in a brilliant arc from left to right toward the surging Glen Johnson.
The full-back's forward run wasn't a deep tactical masterstroke,
yet one second earlier Italy had been counterattacking,
and Xia Qi's pass was exceptionally decisive and sudden, leaving the Italian defense no time to react.
So when Glen Johnson made his forward run, he was left unmarked.
Italy's concrete backline was no longer what it used to be and had a fatal gap.
Seeing the ball arrive, Johnson's pulse jumped.
He charged into the space—he hadn't expected Xia Qi to find him,
but the pass was perfect. If he could trap it he'd be through on goal one-on-one!
Not being excited would be a lie.
"A surgeon's pass!"
"Another surgeon's pass! Xia Qi seems to have a godlike overview."
"Great ball, a killer long pass—this is England's chance."
In the stands at the Arena Amazonia,
England fans were ecstatic; Italian fans went pale as they all stared at Glen Johnson, the air freezing.
As Johnson sprinted he kept glancing back at the flight of the ball and adjusted his run.
Thankfully Xia Qi's pass was pinpoint; he didn't need to over-adjust.
Johnson gauged the landing, set his stride, and stopped the ball with his left instep.
When the incoming ball struck the inside of his left foot, his foot naturally opened outward,
creating a cushion while pushing the ball forward,
so the ball settled in front of his running path without slowing his sprint,
giving the pursuing Italian defenders no chance.
The ball obediently bounced onto the turf in front of him with manageable hop,
not enough to disrupt Johnson's next move.
In Italy's back line, Chiellini was still racing back.
Experienced, he didn't chase Johnson in a wide arc but ran straight to the box—in this case the sound defensive option.
Just as Johnson had settled the ball in front of him, Sirigu had already abandoned his line.
Sirigu accelerated toward Johnson, caring nothing for the open net behind him.
At that moment Johnson had a chip chance to the empty goal,
but he didn't take it—that's the difference between a defender and a forward.
At that instant he had his eyes on the ball and didn't look up.
By the time he was ready, Sirigu was already on him.
As soon as Johnson burst into the box, Sirigu lunged like a beast, leaving no room for a feint.
He slid across, swiping the ball away from Johnson's feet.
Johnson lacked experience; he didn't expect Sirigu to be so quick.
For a split second his mind blanked,
the ball was gone, yet his forward motion continued,
and in the next beat he naturally struck Sirigu's arm; off balance, Johnson fell and Sirigu exploded: "Foul!" while pointing dramatically to the referee for a penalty.
The referee ignored him.
Boos and cheers split the Arena Amazonia.
Chiellini, back defending, forced Rooney into the ball and the ball went out for a throw.
Only then did people have time to look at the replay.
"That was the correct call!"
"Shame—England almost killed the match."
"Glen Johnson lacked a little experience; if he had struck earlier it might have been better—wasted a wonderful pass from Xia Qi."
. (END CHAPTER)
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