Chapter 49: New Skills Get√
Did you really think I could only finish one-on-one?
Vardy smirked.
Then allow me to demonstrate how I assist.
Surrounded by Middlesbrough defenders closing in from both flanks, Vardy didn't panic. Instead, he slowed the tempo and began pedaling the ball with sharp bicycle feints, spinning his feet over the top with rapid fluidity. The defenders hesitated drawn in by the rhythm of his feet.
Then, without warning, Vardy pulled off a sensational move.
His right foot looped behind his standing left leg and clipped the ball cleanly a "rabona" pass, delivered flawlessly through the gap.
Flower-insert foot.
Gasps erupted through Goodison Park. Even seasoned fans were stunned. They had seen Vardy score, sprint, and press, but this this was artistry.
Two Middlesbrough defenders looked shell-shocked. They had braced themselves for a dribble or a direct shot. No one imagined he'd string a rabona pass after the feint. It was a devastating combination first flair, then precision.
But a clever pass is worthless without a target.
Luckily, while Vardy was dazzling on the right flank, Duncan Ferguson despite his slowing pace had charged into the box, dragging Gareth Southgate with him. The defense was stretched, out of shape.
But Ferguson wasn't the target either.
Instead, Vardy's rabona curved sharply into the space just outside the penalty area a classic cutback in the shape of an inverted triangle.
And waiting right there was Tim Cahill, timing his run perfectly from deep midfield. Without pausing, without even taking a touch, Cahill lashed the ball with his laces.
It zipped low past Mark Schwarzer, smashing into the net.
1-0, Everton!
Goodison Park erupted. Fans roared. The stands trembled. The Toffees had struck first.
Cahill sprinted toward the corner flag like a man possessed, leaping into the air and unloading a flurry of signature punches at the pole. The grin stretching across his face said it all.
From the top of the box, Vardy rubbed his forehead and sighed theatrically.
There he goes again, beating up another corner flag...
Cahill's boxing celebration was legendary among Everton fans. This time, the punches came faster, harder. The Australian was fired up.
Once he finished "punishing" the flag, Cahill turned and, still breathless, embraced Vardy, grateful for the assist.
"I didn't think a lad with a head full of bird feathers could see a pass like that. That was insane!" he said, beaming and teasing Vardy's flamboyant 'Shamatte' hairstyle, which was still the talk of the terraces.
Vardy playfully jabbed Cahill in the ribs with a punch that made him wince. "That's for mocking the Birdman," he quipped.
Middlesbrough's defenders were still in a daze, reeling from the goal. Everything they had drilled in training cut off Vardy's runs, double-mark him in transition, force him wide was suddenly ineffective.
Because Vardy wasn't just running anymore.
He was creating.
Middlesbrough had built their game plan around neutralizing his finishing. Now, they realized too late that they had left themselves exposed to something even worse his vision.
On the touchline, David Moyes couldn't stop grinning. His clenched fists were raised in triumph. He knew Vardy's strengths acceleration, aggression, tenacity. But now, there was something new: flair and composure in the final third.
Watching the cohesion of his front four Vardy, Ferguson, Cahill, and Carsley ignite during a counterattack gave Moyes a glimmer of a bold new idea.
Everton weren't just surviving.
They were building something.
And for Vardy, it was a moment of evolution.
New skill: Unlocked.
Mission: Assist—√
Anyway, according to the system's settlement mechanics, whether it's scoring a goal or delivering an assist, both contributions are equally rewarded each earning one system gold coin.
Being tightly marked yet still able to create goal-scoring chances for teammates is a critical weapon in any forward's arsenal. It's not always about being the final touch it's about being decisive.
After the wild celebration for Cahill's opener, the match resumed. But it was obvious that Middlesbrough's players were still dazed by the shock of conceding.
Everton, holding a one-goal advantage, had no reason to take risks. With the lead in hand, they naturally shifted into their favored strategy defensive solidity followed by counterattacks. If Middlesbrough dared to commit numbers forward, they would be walking straight into Everton's trap.
And the fans knew it. Goodison Park thundered with even more enthusiasm, feeding the energy of Everton's players. The team responded with fierce pressing and clean tackles, breaking down Middlesbrough's stuttering build-up long before it threatened Nigel Martyn's goal.
To Middlesbrough's credit, they weren't naive. Having already been burned once, they left more numbers behind, forming a disciplined back four and two holding midfielders to shield against any quick break.
The match began to slow. The final ten minutes of the half became a tug-of-war in midfield, with neither side able to create many clear chances.
Vardy scratched his head in frustration. The game was dragging.
In a game like this, you want me to get a red card? No thanks.
There was no way he'd do something that reckless.
Everton were leading 1–0. Getting himself sent off now would hand the initiative to Middlesbrough. And if they equalized or worse, turned it around he'd be public enemy number one in the dressing room. The cost was too high.
The idea of forcing a red card, a tactic he once entertained to "exit early," had long since vanished.
The fourth official raised the board for stoppage time three minutes added before halftime.
Middlesbrough seemed to believe they had one last push in them. With the clock ticking down and the risk of a counterattack reduced by time, they surged forward in a final attempt to draw level. Their tempo suddenly increased, overlapping runs appeared on the flanks, and midfielders drove forward aggressively.
Everton was caught slightly off balance by the sudden tempo shift. But captain David Weir marshaled the backline with calm authority.
Reading the danger, he intercepted a pass on the edge of the box and immediately looked up.
Vardy was already on the move.
Weir didn't hesitate. He launched a driven, lofted ball toward the halfway line a textbook long-range counter-launch, aimed at Everton's No. 9.
Middlesbrough's defensive line had pushed high, and now, with just one center-back lagging behind, there was open grass behind them.
Vardy exploded forward.
He surged with that same unmistakable burst that had haunted defenders all season the raw pace that made him lethal on the break.
The lone Middlesbrough defender panicked. He was closer to the ball's landing point but knew Vardy was gaining ground fast. He sprinted desperately, hoping his head start would allow him to shield and clear it.
Goodison Park roared. The crowd stood as one, sensing the moment. Vardy sprinting into space with only the keeper to beat it had become a familiar, almost expected, scene.
But this time, the defender reached the ball first barely.
Vardy was right on his heels, though, and the pressure was relentless. He couldn't risk fouling. He had no size advantage here he wasn't a tank-style forward like Lukaku or Drogba. The system hadn't turned him into a powerhouse just a missile with control.
So instead of colliding, Vardy closed the angle. The defender reached the ball but couldn't trap it cleanly under pressure. His touch was too heavy. The ball skipped off his foot and rolled forward.
That split-second mistake was all Vardy needed.
He unleashed every ounce of acceleration, cutting around the defender to get goal-side.
The defender panicked and grabbed subtly at his shirt trying to unbalance him without drawing a whistle.
But it was no use. Vardy shrugged it off, nearly drawing level.
Out of desperation, the defender tried to play it safe a back pass to the goalkeeper. But his execution was sloppy under pressure.
He didn't get enough loft or direction.
And then came the moment no one saw coming.
The Middlesbrough goalkeeper charged out trying to clear it before Vardy could get a toe on it. But miscommunication struck.
As the ball looped backward awkwardly placed from the defender's boot it floated over the keeper's outstretched arms.
He was off his line, caught in no-man's land.
The ball dipped and bounced into the net.
Own goal.
For a heartbeat, Goodison Park fell silent. It took a moment for everyone to register what had just happened.
Then came the eruption.
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