He will appear on the sidelines tonight striding confidently, turning his head ever so slightly in that World Class manner we've been accustomed to, his shiny mane dancing on the rays of the sun, a slight tilt; unleashing invisible yet potent particles of superior Italien shampoo into the air, delivering them unto the wind which will then lift them, carry them, upwards and onwards until they reach the unsuspecting nostrils of whatever dirty Ukranien plebs that have been let into the stadium.
Having marked not only his, but Our arrival gloriously in the aforementioned way, he shall guide our effeminate soldiers to yet another fine win on Europeen soil, a win that shall raise our hopes and dreams once again and serve as a starting point for yet another seemingly destinial and well-fated quest for that big eared Grail which for such a long time has eluded us.
And when that final whistle blows, when the points claimed officially counteth Three, when right before those froci players of ours begin their buttsniffing in the locker room, the entire world shall know that we went to Kiev and that we went there and WON, so help us God.
And the doubters shall crawl back into their caves
And the haters shall hide again under their rocks
And most important of all,
History, shall for the upteenth time, not have proven Cronios right.