Reincarnated As A Wonderkid-Chapter 531: Control the force

"Angular Momentum," Professor Gears said. "It is the property of any rotating object. Once it starts spinning, it wants to keep spinning. It resists change. It is stable."

Alex sat in the middle row. He was watching the gyroscope.

Momentum.

In football, momentum was everything. Winning becomes a habit. Losing becomes a habit.

Arsenal had momentum. They were the Kings of Europe. They were top of the League.

"Mr. Finch," the Professor asked. "How do you stop a gyroscope without chaos?"

Alex looked up from his notes.

"You apply an external torque, Sir," Alex said. "Gradually. If you touch it too fast, it wobbles and falls."

"Correct," Professor Gears nodded. "Control the force."

Mark sat next to Alex. He was wearing a hard hat and a high-visibility vest. He was building a tower out of pens.

"I AM A CIVIL ENGINEER!" Mark whispered. "I AM BUILDING THE TOWER OF PIZZA!"

"It is made of pens, Mark," Alex whispered.

"Imagination is the cement!" Mark argued. "Also, do you think I can eat this eraser? It smells like strawberries."

"Do not eat the stationary, Mark."

The lecture ended.

Alex packed his bag.

Angular momentum. Stability.

They needed it.

Tonight, they were flying. Not to a Premier League game. Not to a Champions League game.

To Jeddah. Saudi Arabia.

The FIFA Club World Cup.

It was the only trophy Alex had not won. The chance to be officially crowned the Best Team on Planet Earth.

Alex walked out to the car park.

Milo was waiting.

Milo was dressed as... an Oil Tycoon.

He was wearing a white suit, a cowboy hat (for some reason), and oversized sunglasses. He was holding a plastic drill.

"I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE!" Milo shouted. "ALEX! I AM THE BARON OF BUSINESS! WE ARE GOING TO THE DESERT! I AM SELLING PORTABLE OASES! IT IS JUST A BUCKET OF WATER AND A PALM TREE MADE OF BALLOONS! ONLY ONE HUNDRED POUNDS!"

"Milo, you look like you are going to a costume party in Texas," Alex said.

"I AM GLOBAL!" Milo yelled. "I AM ALSO SELLING SANDPAPER! TO POLISH THE TROPHY! VERY SMOOTH!"

They drove to the airport.

The team was buzzing. This was a holiday and a final wrapped into one.

Rico sat next to Alex on the plane. He looked nervous. He was tapping his foot.

"Rico," Alex said. "You are vibrating. You are disturbing my angular momentum."

"It is the final," Rico said. He looked out the window. "Against Flamengo."

" The Brazilian champions," Alex said.

"My childhood rivals," Rico whispered. "When I was twelve, I went for a trial at Flamengo. They said I was too small. They said I played like a circus clown. They sent me away."

Alex looked at his friend. Rico was usually the joker. The dancer. Today, he was the fighter.

"They were wrong," Alex said.

"I want to show them," Rico said, clenching his fist. "I want to destroy them."

"Don’t destroy," Alex said. "Create. Clowns make people laugh. Artists make people cry."

Rico smiled. A small, dangerous smile. "I will make them cry."

Jeddah. King Abdullah Sports City.

The heat was intense. Even at night, it felt like standing inside a hairdryer.

The stadium was a jewel. Shining lights. Perfect grass.

Alex stood in the tunnel.

The Flamengo players stood next to them. They wore red and black hoops. They looked tough. They looked technical.

Gabigol, their striker, was staring at Rico. He said something in Portuguese. He laughed.

Rico stiffened. He wanted to say something back.

Alex put a hand on Rico’s chest.

"Save it," Alex whispered. "Speak with the ball."

The whistle blew.

The Club World Cup Final started.

Flamengo were not like European teams. They didn’t play in straight lines. They played in curves. They swapped positions. Left backs became midfielders. Strikers became wingers.

It was "Relationalism". Chaos football.

In the tenth minute, Flamengo danced through the Arsenal defense.

Gerson passed to Arrascaeta. Arrascaeta did a backheel. Gabigol shot.

Raya saved.

The Brazilian fans went wild. They were drumming. They were singing.

"They are dizzying!" Rice yelled. "They are everywhere!"

Rico got the ball.

He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to be the hero.

He tried to dribble past three players.

He lost the ball.

Flamengo countered.

"Rico!" Steve shouted from the sideline. "Simple!"

But Rico wasn’t listening. The Ego was fighting the Super-Ego.

In the thirtieth minute, Rico got the ball again. He had Alex open on the left. He had Saka open on the right.

Rico shot from forty yards.

It went into the stands.

Mark ran over to Rico. "Hey! That ball had a family! Why did you kick it to the moon?"

"I almost had it!" Rico snapped.

"You almost hit a satellite," Mark said.

Halftime. Zero zero.

The dressing room was hot.

Rico sat in the corner. He had a towel over his head.

Steve walked in. He didn’t shout.

He walked over to Rico. He pulled the towel off.

"You are playing for them," Steve said. "You are trying to impress the people who rejected you. Stop it."

Rico looked down.

"Play for the people in this room," Steve said. "Play for Alex. Play for Mark. They didn’t reject you. They made you a champion."

Rico looked at Alex.

Alex nodded. "We need the Samba King. Not the angry clown."

Rico took a deep breath. "Okay. Samba."

Second half.

Flamengo came out dancing.

In the fifty-fifth minute, they scored.

Bruno Henrique ran down the wing. He crossed. Gabigol volleyed.

Goal.

Zero one. Flamengo.

The Brazilians celebrated. They did a synchronized dance. It was annoying.

"They dance well," Mark admitted. "But I dance faster."

Alex stood in the center circle.

"Control the spin," Alex thought. "Apply the torque."

He looked at Rico. Rico looked calm. The anger was gone. The rhythm was back.

Arsenal restarted.

Alex gave the ball to Rico. "Conduct."

Rico didn’t run. He slowed down. He put his foot on the ball.

He waited for the Flamengo press.

When they came, he passed. Simple. Quick.

He moved. He got it back.

He was weaving a web.

Sixty fifth minute.

Rico got the ball in the hole.

He saw Gabigol coming to tackle him.

Rico didn’t try to humiliate him. He just dropped his shoulder and glided past.

Efficient.

He saw Mark making a run.

Rico hit a "Trivela" pass. Outside of the foot.

It curled around the defense.

Mark ran onto it.

He was one on one.

"EMPEROR SPEED!" Mark shouted.

He smashed it.

Goal.

One one.

Mark ran to Rico. He bowed. "The pass! It was spicy!"

Rico smiled. "Just a little seasoning."

The game was tied.

But Flamengo were tired. They had chased the ball in the heat.

Eighty fifth minute.

Alex had the ball.

He felt the momentum shifting. The gyroscope was stabilizing.

He saw the pattern. Flamengo were disorganized.

Alex drove forward.

He passed to Saka. Saka cut inside.

Saka passed to Rico.

Rico was on the edge of the box.

This was the moment. The same position as the first half.

The old Rico would have shot.

The new Rico looked up.

He saw Alex continuing his run into the box.

Rico faked the shot. The defender dived.

Rico rolled the ball gently into Alex’s path.

A velvet pass.

Alex ran onto it.

He didn’t need to take a touch.

He hit it first time. Low. Accurate.

The ball slid past the goalkeeper.

GOAL.

Two one. Arsenal.

Alex ran to the corner. But he didn’t celebrate alone. He pointed at Rico.

Rico ran over. He jumped into Alex’s arms.

"You did it!" Alex shouted. "You trusted the team!"

"The team is better than the solo," Rico laughed.

The final few minutes were a blur. Flamengo tried to attack, but they had no energy left. The heat had drained them.

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Flamengo 1.

Champions of the World.

Alex fell to the grass.

He looked at the sky.

He had won everything. Literally everything.

Rico was crying. Happy tears.

Gabigol walked over. He shook Rico’s hand.

"You grew up," Gabigol said. "You play like a European now."

"No," Rico smiled, tapping his chest. "I play like Arsenal."

Milo ran onto the pitch. He was wearing a crown made of plastic palm leaves.

"THE SHEIKH OF SOCCER!" Milo screamed. "WE OWN THE PLANET! ALEX! THE WORLD IS OURS! I AM SELLING GLOBES! I SCRATCHED ’ALEX WAS HERE’ ON ALL OF THEM! VERY VALUABLE!"

"Milo, that is vandalism," Alex laughed.

"IT IS ART!" Milo yelled.

They walked to the podium.

The trophy was huge. Golden.

Odegaard lifted it. Then Alex. Then Rico.

They were the best team on Earth.

Mark was wearing the winner’s medal as an earring (don’t ask how).

"Hey Professor," Mark said.

"Yeah?"

"We conquered the world."

"We did."

"Are there aliens?" Mark asked, looking at the stars. "Can we play the Mars champions next?"

"Maybe one day, Mark."

"I hope so," Mark said. "I bet Martians are fast. But I am faster."