Manchester International Airport.
A flight from Turin, trailing a long white contrail, like a giant silver bird, slowly descended onto the runway.
It glided smoothly and finally ca to a steady stop at the designated stand.
The cabin door slowly opened, and the boarding stairs were gradually lowered. The Juventus team, dressed in sharp suits, orderly walked down the corridor bridge.
Among the Juventus team, many Italian local players were particularly eye-catching.
Chiellini, with his tall and burly figure like a towering mountain, his full beard adding to his ruggedness and determination;
Bonucci stood upright, with a deep gaze exuding calmness and composure;
And Buffon, this legendary figure in football, every step he took exuded the aura of a grand general.
They were tall and straight, with sharply chiseled facial features, high nose bridges, and deep-set eyes, each of them a typical image of European male models, radiating unique charm in every gesture, drawing the attention of surrounding travelers.
This expedition from Turin to Manchester, although it couldn't be said they ca with absolute determination to win, the Juventus team was still full of ambition.
"In 2015, we missed an opportunity. This ti, no matter who the opponent is, we cannot miss it again!" Buffon encouraged everyone.
He, along with the team's forwards like Higuain and Dybala, had practiced penalty kicks thousands of tis.
With one leap after another to block shots, analyzing penalty trajectories ti and again, Buffon's penalty save rate was astonishingly high.
Those top forwards who usually exude such prowess on the field gradually lost confidence when facing Buffon.
Higuain, the striker who had won Serie A's top scorer, expressed his helplessness and admiration: "Buffon, if I take a penalty, I really don't want you to be in front of the goal. You're like an insurmountable wall, leaving in despair."
Hearing this, Buffon felt secretly pleased, the corner of his mouth slightly upturned, thinking to himself: Saying so won't help. This ti in Manchester, I will make Tang Long feel the sa, let him know that this ti, I, Buffon, will redeem myself!
Buffon, carrying his luggage, walked ahead with his head held high as the captain leading the team.
He wore sunglasses, styled with slicked-back hair, exuding the flair of a middle-aged man full of spirit, taking long strides.
Among the entire Juventus team, he was the tallest, his strides were also too large, to the extent that his pace was so fast that his teammates couldn't keep up with him.
"I'll show you British folks what a real Italian heartthrob looks like!" A slight smile appeared at the corner of Buffon's mouth.
As the team's leader, under Buffon's leadership, the entire Juventus team marched bravely into the airport hall.
About a hundred ters from the exit, a hubbub of voices could be heard from afar.
Buffon turned his head, slightly lowering the fra of his sunglasses with his index finger, glancing sideways at his teammates behind him, and laughed:
"Haha, unexpected, right? We Juventus have a lot of fans in the UK too!"
The young Dybala behind him, with a look full of astonishnt, eyes wide open, replied incredulously: "Impossible, right? Do we Juventus really have fans in Manchester? This is Manchester City's territory."
Dybala, still young and relatively inexperienced, in his understanding, having many fans in the host team's city seed like an unlikely event.
The veteran Higuain, looking at Dybala's surprised expression, chuckled and patted his shoulder, speaking in a worldly-wise tone: "You don't get it, Dybala. When I was at Real Madrid, not to ntion going to Manchester, in France, Germany, anywhere else in Europe we went, there were always passionate fans greeting us at the airport. That feeling of being surrounded is sothing you'll gradually experience."
Higuain, reminiscing about his glorious days at Real Madrid, a hint of nostalgia flashed in his eyes.
"But that was Real Madrid! Can we Juventus really compare to Real Madrid?" Dybala blurted out.
Buffon imdiately shot him a stern look, admonishing: "Little Dybala, what do you know!"
"Real Madrid is the dominator of Spain, and we Juventus are also the dominator of Italy, both are the top teams in their respective leagues. Like Real Madrid, our Juventus fans are spread all over the world, never doubt that."
Finally, Buffon, a bit upset, told Dybala many stories about how Juventus was welcod by away fans before, as they talked, they reached the exit. Turning around, Buffon suddenly brightened up.
"See what I told you, these Brits are here to greet us!"
Dybala looked up, and the scene before him startled him.
An overwhelming crowd, easily numbering in the thousands.
Most of them bald-headed, blond, with rosy noses, and thick necks, typical British appearances.
Dybala couldn't help but feel a sense of respect for Buffon, thinking: "Buffon indeed has vast experience, much more than I have seen. And to have been so ignorant to doubt just now, it's truly inappropriate."
Thinking this, Dybala gently slapped himself on the face, as a form of self-punishnt.
"Hello, Manchester fans, hello!"
Buffon, in high spirits, pushed his sunglasses onto his head, opened his arms, and smiled broadly, wanting to high-five the fans next to him;
He thought these people were all supporters of their team, about to enjoy a passionate interaction.
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