Chapter 2333 - 592: The Italian Tradition of Picking Sides
"I didn’t expect it to turn out like this either."
Raul said, half crying, half laughing.
Back then they called him a dressing-room bully, but Spain never had infighting.
Now the bully’s gone, and the National Team has blown up inside.
"Igor is a traitor."
Guti cursed irritably: "Otherwise he should’ve stayed the hell away from the Barca players."
This time Raul didn’t respond.
He also had his own complaints about Casillas’s choice.
But what shocked him even more was Huang Kaiwen.
Back then he already felt Huang Kaiwen was absurdly good.
He never imagined that after moving to the dugout, Huang Kaiwen would still be the outstanding one.
This time Huang Kaiwen has slapped all the doubters in the face till they’re swollen.
A young, totally inexperienced rookie coach has dragged the Netherlands team all the way here.
Some overexcited Netherlands fans were already holding up championship trophies made of foam boards and tin foil, and "Go West" rang out once more from the stands.
Inzaghi was still wildly windmilling his arms, urging the fans to be louder.
He felt he’d already picked up about eighty percent of Huang Kaiwen’s skill; even if he couldn’t win titles, fighting for top four and becoming a new Wenger shouldn’t be a problem.
Eh, pity Milan refuses to let him retire.
They keep proactively coming to extend his contract.
He, Filippo Inzaghi, is sentimental and can’t bring himself to turn down his old club.
Otherwise he’d have stepped into coaching long ago.
Who knows, maybe he’d already be leading a team to beat Huang Kaiwen and Milan.
Pedro came on for David Silva.
But Huang Kaiwen also played his second substitution card.
Huntelaar came on, and the one coming off was Sneijder.
Today Sneijder had run like crazy, his stamina was almost gone by this stage.
Huntelaar has played wide before, and back at Chelsea he was a forward who knew how to defend.
Most importantly, he can serve as a target man to help Robben and van Persie.
Spain’s vaunted attack was starting to fall apart under the Netherlands players’ tireless running.
Now Spain’s players could only use more running to trade for space.
But Xavi realized that wherever he went, that Strootman stuck to him like a shadow, like he’d grown onto him.
That made Spain’s attacking circulation clunky.
The fans in the stands had never imagined their tiki-taka would be forced into this kind of mess.
Alonso kept hitting long passes, but they didn’t cause the Netherlands much danger; there were just too many players camped in front of the Dutch box.
The camera cut to Bosque.
The muscles in the old coach’s face were twitching uncontrollably, the twitching getting more frequent as time ticked away.
Because he knew time was running out for Spain.
Crudeli said excitedly: "We’re about ten minutes away from coach Kevin’s first trophy of his career, we’re about to witness another historic moment."
"I’ve never doubted Kevin’s ability, especially in this sport. If one day Kevin says he’s becoming a team doctor and then cures Ronaldo, I wouldn’t even find it all that surprising."
"Ever since Kevin stepped into football, he’s been a winner. No player can compare with Kevin. Soon we may have to add: no coach either."
"Everyone says Spain is the strongest, most dominant National Team in history. But no matter how powerful a team is, in front of Kevin they still have to bow their proud heads, don’t they? Even if Rizzoli gave a non-existent penalty today, Spain still isn’t a match for Kevin."
As an Italian.
Right now his tone was as proud as if Italy were about to lift the trophy.
But the fans watching on TV didn’t feel anything strange about it.
Because the whole Apennines were waiting for the Netherlands—no, for the Netherlands’ coach—to be crowned king of Europe.
The eliminated Italy players, seeing how rattled the Spain Team looked, couldn’t help but smile as well.
So you finally get your day too?
The Spain Team had gone mad.
They were pressing like lunatics.
But this kind of brainless, frantic style actually gave the Netherlands team even better chances.
Alonso sent the corner straight in, and Stekelenburg rose above Ramos, punching the ball out to the flank.
Kuyt’s first touch was a pass into Strootman.
As Strootman was about to push off, Mata flew in with a slide tackle.
Luckily Strootman dodged it.
Xavi, charging in from the middle, barely hesitated and slammed right into Strootman’s waist.
The Netherlands youngster went straight down.
Players from both sides instantly swarmed the foul spot.
But Spain’s side clearly looked a lot more subdued.
Their strongest player Ramos and one of the starters, Torres, both hovered on the edge of the scrum, shouting something but with no intention of throwing a punch.
The fact those two weren’t hitting Xavi was already good enough.
No way they’d stick their necks out for Xavi.
"Kevin’s hurt, look at him!"
Van Bommel pointed at the ground and shouted.
Rizzoli rolled his eyes.
At the sound of the name "Kevin," his heart gave a jolt and started pounding uncontrollably.
The Barca players were still working hard, explaining on Xavi’s behalf.
De Jong planted himself in front of Pedro, not letting him get to the referee to apply pressure.
Just then, Rizzoli suddenly reached into his shirt pocket.
Players on both sides widened their eyes.
Including Strootman, still lying on the ground.
Seeing that flash of scarlet.
The Spain players exploded in an instant.
The Netherlands players hadn’t expected a foul like that to draw a straight red.
"Referee, isn’t there something wrong with this decision?"
"Even if it was deliberate, it’s not a red, is it?"
The Barcelona Gang besieged the referee like mad.
The Netherlands players came up and started shoving with them.
Rizzoli held the red card aloft, firm and unyielding.
He roughly knew that the earlier penalty had been a mistake.
With the match almost over, he had to do something.
Sorry, football itself has no nationality—but football referees do!