I Am Jose-Chapter 105 - : The Beloved José

"Brilliant!"

That was the only word that flashed through José's mind as he watched Ronaldinho, with the poise of a seasoned maestro, loft a perfectly weighted chip pass from just outside the penalty area into the box. The pass was nothing short of textbook perfection—an artistry that belonged in the annals of football history. Ronaldinho's vision to lift his head and pick out the less-marked space on the right had deceived the opposition completely. The pace and precision of that chip were impeccable. And the decision to thread the ball to Luke instead of the faster Eto'o was no accident either; Barcelona's players well remembered the blistering pace of Eto'o from last season at Camp Nou and had marked him accordingly.

Luke, a relatively new face in Barcelona's defensive setup this season, was virtually unknown to their backline. Yet Ronaldinho's awareness on the pitch—gauging the degree of pressure on the two forwards ahead—underscored his exceptional instincts.

As the ball landed inside the box, Luke burst from the crowd and reached the first rebound. With Avelado and de Boer in hot pursuit, nothing could stop Luke from firing a shot as soon as he got hold of the ball. When Ditrul leaped to his full extent in a desperate attempt to parry the ball, his effort was just a fraction short. The ball ricocheted off his outstretched hand and tumbled back into the penalty area.

Xavi, rushing to collect the loose ball, found himself a split second too late. In an instant, a shadowy figure—almost ghostlike in his movement—intercepted Xavi's intended pass.

"Ronaldinho with the chip, Luke with the shot—oh! The ball's been deflected back into the area! Xavi... that was lightning-fast! And Eto'o! He's swooping in to win back possession from Xavi's feet!"

Xavi, realizing his error only after being dispossessed, instinctively tried to counter-press. But Eto'o, though not the most physically imposing, possessed a sturdy frame and muscular build that clearly gave him an edge over Xavi, who, at just 1.70 meters, couldn't hope to outmuscle the 1.80-meter Eto'o. Before Xavi could recover, Eto'o had already lofted the ball again.

Ditrul, still reeling on the ground from his earlier dive, had no time to recover. He could only flail a desperate arm as the ball sailed over his head and sped into the net.

"GOOOOAAALL! Samuel Eto'o! That's his third league goal this season! Ever since Eto'o transferred to Mallorca—after barely featuring for Real Madrid—he's been firing on all cylinders. Even when he was on loan last season, he never looked this lethal... Five league games, three goals, plus two in the Copa del Rey! Eto'o is beginning to display the killer instinct of a top striker. Compared to last season, his performance and his link-up play with his teammates have improved drastically. It's almost unbelievable that a striker who played only twice for Real Madrid last season could now be the spearhead of a three-pronged attack. Sure, Raúl has also been outstanding this season, and Morientes has slowly shaken off last season's shadows, but if Real Madrid could line up three forwards for Ángel Di María, why can't they do the same for Eto'o? His talent is every bit as formidable as Di María's..."

While the commentators were still marveling at the play, Eto'o sprinted toward the stands, arms outstretched in celebration. The Mallorca supporters responded in kind, their synchronized chants filling the stadium. Last season, Eto'o's performances had already endeared him to the Mallorca faithful; now, with a series of quick-fire goals since his return, the fans were convinced that Eto'o would be their club's deadliest weapon.

After the celebrations subsided, Eto'o strode back onto the field, pausing only to salute José from afar. José, standing high on the sidelines, raised his thumb in approval and bellowed, "Fantastic work!"

José's joy wasn't just about the goal itself—it was about what the goal symbolized. It was proof that Mallorca could launch lightning-quick counterattacks. With players like Ronaldinho, Eto'o, and Ibáñez possessing impressive speed, and with the growing chemistry between Ronaldinho, Eto'o, and Luke, the counterattacking threat had become a cornerstone of their game.

In terms of set-piece play, Ronaldinho had already showcased his ability to carve open tight defenses with incisive, precise passes. That ability would go a long way in addressing one of Mallorca's chronic issues—its relatively tepid build-up play. Moreover, Ronaldinho's penchant for aggressive dribbling, coupled with his knack for drawing defenders out of position, reminded José of the iconic style later epitomized by Barcelona's own maestro. When a team is stifled by a rock-solid defensive wall, sometimes all it takes is one brilliant run to tip the scales—and that's exactly what Ronaldinho was capable of doing.

José was convinced that if Ronaldinho didn't fall into bad habits, he'd eventually eclipse even Messi's impact. While Messi's best qualities lay in his clinical finishing and breakthrough runs, Ronaldinho possessed an added gift for playmaking—he could orchestrate an attack as well as he could score.

José was well aware, though, that even the most dazzling offense had to be underpinned by a sound defense. Until Mallorca's offensive interplay reached a critical mass, counterattacks would remain their primary strategy. But there was a clear distinction: quick, low-driven counterattacks were far more aesthetically pleasing and effective than the long balls over the top.

Next up, the real test would be whether Mallorca, now bolstered by two dynamic full-backs with a keen offensive sense, could absorb Barcelona's attacks. With Barcelona's form languishing compared to previous seasons, they now presented a formidable yet vulnerable opponent.

After conceding, Barcelona had mounted their own attacks, but their play remained predictable—centered around Rivaldo, with Ovimas persistently crafting chances from the wings. However, this time Ovimas wasn't facing the same sluggish, aging full-backs; instead, he was up against two younger, quicker defenders. In last season's UEFA Cup final, Ovimas had been one of Arsenal's standout performers, wreaking havoc down the flank against Mallorca's defense. Today, however, his influence had waned.

On the left flank, Ovimas encountered a familiar adversary—Philippe George, once renowned as one of Europe's fastest wingers alongside Ovimas during their days at Ajax. Although it had been four years since their paths last crossed (George left Ajax a year before Ovimas did), their three-year shared history meant that George knew Ovimas' every trick. Despite George's only average defensive abilities, his familiarity with Ovimas allowed him to neutralize most of the Brazilian's moves. George's game plan was simple: stick close to Ovimas, prevent him from cutting inside, and nullify his dribbling—an approach that worked to great effect.

Realizing that he wasn't making headway against his old teammate, Ovimas shifted his focus to the right wing. A versatile player by nature, Luis Enrique was equally at home operating in multiple attacking roles, so the change of side didn't diminish their threat. Still, on that flank, Ovimas found himself under greater pressure. Karaze, though not as fast as Ovimas, boasted superior athleticism and youth. Every time Ovimas attempted to break free, Karaze would engage in fierce, close-range challenges, disrupting his rhythm and leaving him with little room to maneuver.

Unable to exploit any gaps on the flanks, Barcelona then attempted to penetrate centrally. But that area was the bulwark of Mallorca's defense: stalwart center-backs Nadal and Camara maintained their positions immovably, with Ngonga and Mota offering timely support. Barcelona, lacking a creative midfielder capable of unlocking defenses with a killer pass—the role once filled by Figo—found themselves stymied.

The match gradually reached a stalemate. Barcelona's attacks struggled to breach Mallorca's resolute defense, while Mallorca continued to carve out chances through patient, short-range interplay in the final third. With Ngonga and Mota supplying the ammunition, Ronaldinho's flair came to the fore once again. Both Cocu and Xavi found it nearly impossible to contain his influence, and, after taking the lead, Mallorca began to assert further dominance.

As the first half drew to a close, the referee's whistle signaled the break. The scoreline read 1–0 in favor of Mallorca, with nine shots for Mallorca versus eleven for Barcelona and a possession split of 46–54. Remarkably, Mallorca had held their own throughout.

When the second half commenced, the Mallorca supporters erupted into rapturous applause as the players re-entered the field. Despite only a one-goal margin, the fans recognized the significant strides their team had made—defensively, they were far more organized than in previous matches, and offensively, their cutting edge had sharpened considerably.

"José! José! José!"

Soon, a rhythmic chant erupted from the stands near the tunnel, and before long, the entire Son Moix Stadium reverberated with fans chanting José's name. Even outside the stadium, the voices of supporters who couldn't attend could be heard chanting in unison.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

José stared in astonishment at the sea of cheering fans. Although Mallorca's first-half performance had been impressive, none of the players—neither Ronaldinho with his dazzling passes, nor Eto'o with his clinical finishing, nor Luke, Mota, or the homegrown talents—had received such overwhelming adoration. The entire stadium was united in acclaim for their coach alone.

What did this mean?

It meant that, in the eyes of Mallorca's faithful, José was the linchpin—the most important figure on the team. In that instant, José felt a lump in his throat.

Deep down, he knew he had done a lot for Mallorca—from nurturing talent in the youth ranks to pulling the senior team out of a relegation scrap, from securing the club's first European trophy to acquiring a controlling stake in the club and splashing cash during the winter transfer window. But what was his true motivation? Ultimately, it was about making his second chance at life more vibrant and meaningful. Frankly, he had been forced into it—the two hundred million dollars in club funds were earmarked strictly for the club's operations, and his own salary allowed him to live without worry. When one is free from the pressure of mere survival, one seeks something more to prove the value of life. For José, transforming Mallorca into a truly competitive side was his way of demonstrating that value.

He had never envisioned himself as a demigod or savior in the eyes of the fans. He simply believed he was doing what he loved and what he felt was right. The cheers he received were more than enough reward. After all, on the pitch, it was the players who usually garnered all the accolades.

Yet, in less than one season of coaching, the Mallorca faithful had elevated him to a status that transcended even the superstars.

In that moment, José felt utterly fulfilled.

In the private box overlooking the pitch, old Alemany—beaming with pride—watched his son, who still seemed a bit unsure as he emerged from the tunnel. Without a doubt, his son was Alemany's greatest pride.

"Your son is truly beloved, Mr. Alemany!" Even though Barcelona's chairman, Gaspart, was in a sour mood due to his side trailing at halftime, he still managed to offer his congratulations.

Alemany accepted the compliment with a reserved smile. It was well-deserved.