NOVPUB
Chapter 114: Wimbledon, the "Thugs"
Facing Wimbledon’s rough style of play, O’Neill finally erupted—furious that Warren Barton had injured Curle within the first minute of the game.
He shouted at the notorious hardman, "You’re going nowhere with this football career! Go act in movies or fight Mike Tyson instead!"
His outburst quickly made him a target for attention—not because he was wrong about Wimbledon’s physicality, but because his anger wasn’t directed solely at them. Because this time, O’Neill pointed his finger at the referee.
Of course, current Wimbledon manager Joe Kinnear—never one to back down from a verbal scrap—had clearly caught wind of O’Neill’s outburst.
"You’ve got some nerve!" Kinnear bellowed across the narrow gap between the dugouts, loud enough for half the crowd near the sideline to hear. "You’re acting like this is ballet out here! It’s football—football! What did you expect, a hug and a handshake?"
"Bloody mugging! Curle didn’t even get a chance to touch the ball before Barton went in studs-up! It’s reckless, and you know it!" O’Neill turned sharply, his coat flapping as he stepped forward, pointing accusingly toward the pitch.
"Oh, come off it! If your lad can’t handle a challenge, maybe he should be the one looking at acting school! You don’t complain when your lot dish it out, do you?"
"Don’t compare us to this circus you’re running. There’s a difference between hard football and flat-out thuggery!"
"Oh please—" Kinnear fired back, his voice rising.
The fourth official moved quickly between the two, arms stretched wide as both managers shouted over his head. Linesmen were already glancing over nervously, and a few substitutes from both benches had stood up, sensing things were boiling over.
The referee, having had enough, jogged over and gave both managers a stern warning, threatening to send them to the stands if they didn’t calm down.
O’Neill backed away with a frustrated grunt, still muttering under his breath. Kinnear, smirking, turned and sauntered back to his bench like a man who’d just won round one.
The crowd buzzed with energy. Even the players on the field seemed to feed off the tension brewing on the sidelines.
"What the hell! Whitley, why are you still here? Didn’t I tell you to warm up?"
Jeff Whitley was baffled—when had the manager asked him to warm up? But he knew now was clearly not the time to argue with the agitated O’Neill. He hurriedly took off his jacket and jumped off the substitutes’ bench.
The substitution on City’s bench hadn’t gone unnoticed by Joe Kinnear. He squinted toward the touchline, eyeing the unfamiliar figure warming up.
"Mick, who’s that player getting ready to come on?" he asked his assistant.
Mick took a moment, then replied, "Jeff Whitley—just got promoted from the reserves team."
Kinnear chuckled. "Looks like they’ve thrown in the towel." He turned back toward his bench and barked, "Press high! All-out attack! Tear their defense apart from middle!"
Wimbledon United wanted to go all out attack, and this was exactly what O’Neill wanted.
Facing the overall ethos of English football—especially Wimbledon, a club famous for its rough play—such tactical fouls could create immense psychological pressure on opponent teams, seizing momentum in the game.
That’s why they usually play man-to-man marking, focusing on who’s in possession of the ball and taking them out. The people here could hardly criticize such practices. While Wimbledon had some blame, they were actually somewhat innocent, as they weren’t the original practitioners of such tactics.
These had become common in the 1980s, when early fouls were often used strategically to intimidate opponents. Still, it was Wimbledon’s unapologetic execution of this style that boiled his blood.
If Kinnear hadn’t had the boldness to let his team attack, O’Neill might have found his plan difficult. But if they all-out attacked, it meant their defenders would also press high, stretching the distance between the center-backs and the goalkeeper
O’Neill motioned for Whitley, who was ready to come on to replace Curle. "Tell Ole to stay up front. Campbell and Cox should hold their positions—no pushing forward. "
Jeff Whitley nodded.
PHWEEE!
"And here comes a substitution for Manchester City—Keith Curle makes way, and it’s the young Jeff Whitley stepping onto the pitch. Let’s see how the youngster settles into this intense match."
The cheers of Wimbledon fans echoed through Selhurst Park Stadium—ironically, the home of Crystal Palace.
Wimbledon’s original ground, Plough Lane, had been deemed outdated and unfit for modern football standards, especially after new regulations required all-seater stadiums in the wake of the Hillsborough disaster. Unable to afford the costly renovations needed to upgrade Plough Lane, Wimbledon entered into a ground-sharing agreement with Crystal Palace, making Selhurst Park their temporary home.
Wimbledon’s attacks came in waves, with the ball spending most of its time in Manchester City’s half.
On the sidelines, Joe Kinnear was a flurry of movement, waving his arms and barking out attacking instructions, determined to seize the initiative and overwhelm City.
In stark contrast, O’Neill stood calmly with his hands in his pockets, showing no sign of impatience. To him, the match wasn’t as one-sided as it appeared.
Wimbledon played a traditional 4-4-2 formation, initiating their attacks from the midfield and defense, always sending a long ball forward to search for their forwards.
It was a traditional approach—one of the most common in English football—and coincidentally, O’Neill had employed the same formation.
Though many critics considered the English 4-4-2 rigid and outdated, Richard didn’t agree. That’s why he had chosen O’Neill, a manager who had found success with the 4-4-2 setup even during his time at Wycombe.
Because footballers aren’t static—once the whistle blows, they don’t just stand in fixed positions. The beauty of 4-4-2 lies in its flexibility. Offensively and defensively, it can morph into several variations depending on movement and roles.
For instance, with one central midfielder pushing up and the other sitting deep, the midfield takes the shape of a diamond. If the wide midfielders drift inward, it creates a narrow formation that allows full-backs to overlap and support the attack.
The forwards can drop back while wingers push up, transitioning into shapes like 4-2-3-1, 4-1-4-1, or even 4-3-3. In short, 4-4-2 is far from rigid—it’s a fluid system with endless possibilities.
Judging a team’s tactics purely by its starting formation is a shallow view. In Italy, where tactical sophistication is almost an art form, teams often switch formations multiple times during a single match. It’s this constant evolution that makes football tactics so fascinating.
"Oh no! Phelan loses the ball—what a costly mistake! Clark seizes the opportunity... but—what a save from Shay Given!"
But the danger wasn’t over. The rebound fell kindly for Earle—he hit it first time—blocked! The City defense threw their bodies in the way.
The commentator nearly jumped out of his seat.
"Absolute chaos in the box! It’s pinball in there—but somehow, somehow, third-tier Manchester City survive Wimbledon’s onslaught! Incredible determination—this is football at its most frantic!" he shouted, fully caught in the adrenaline of the moment.
Wimbledon’s Kinnear anxiously yelled from the sidelines.
His team seemed to be attacking relentlessly, but every time they attempted to deliver the ball to the forwards from the back or the flanks, their two strikers found themselves physically blocked by Campbell and Ian Cox.
After failing to score despite numerous attempts, Kinnear couldn’t help but grow increasingly anxious.
One of the most common features of high-tempo football matches is that if a team fails to convert numerous chances, they are likely to concede sooner or later.
His coaching experience was considerable, especially in England, and it was not uncommon for top teams to get caught out by lower-tier sides in competitions like the FA Cup or League Cup.
Definitely, definitely, as a Premier League team, Wimbledon knew they could not afford to concede first against a second-division side.
He knew all too well that once a team concedes, the opposition usually parks the bus!
On the field, Wimbledon attempted another cross from the flanks. Their right midfielder managed to send a diagonal long pass into City’s penalty area just before Campbell could close in for a challenge.
The trajectory of the ball was promising, landing right around the penalty spot—a perfect opportunity for the strikers to dart in and head it.
Wimbledon’s two forwards indeed dashed towards the landing spot of the ball, and the fans held their breath, nervously watching this attack unfold. They began to rise from their seats, tense with anticipation.
Thankfully, Shay Given, who had already seen the danger, reacted quickly. With a swift move, he punched the ball out of the danger zone, sending it soaring toward Cafu’s feet. 𝔫𝖔𝖛𝖕𝔲𝔟.𝔠𝖔𝖒
After collecting the ball, Cafu turned sharply.
The opposing central midfielder was too far forward, attempting to pressure him, but Cafu effortlessly faked a move and passed it to Phelan, who had already scanned the field and saw the opportunity. With a quick flick, Phelan sent a long ball forward.
The crowd, initially silent, erupted in applause as City launched a blistering counterattack. The momentum had shifted in an instant.
Cafu didn’t waste time dribbling but instead made a precise diagonal pass to Jeff Whitley, standing near the center circle.
From the sidelines, Kinnear’s anxiety was palpable. He watched with growing concern as City’s attack moved seamlessly, and his heart tightened. Without hesitation, he barked commands, urging his players to focus and track back.
Whitley, sensing the moment, carried the ball forward with purpose, his mind racing with possibilities. He seemed to channel a bit of Maradona, dodging a challenge before passing to Roberto Carlos, who was drifting in from the left.
Roberto Carlos, having already made an overlapping run, found himself in the wide area just past the halfway line. He paused for the briefest moment—a flicker of hesitation over whether to take on the defenders himself or deliver a cross.
Then he noticed a raised hand—Ronaldo, signaling and already preparing to make his run. The defender assigned to mark him was too fixated on the ball at his feet to notice.
Choosing not to rush, Roberto Carlos maintained his position on the left sideline. Without hesitation, he executed a precise through ball, threading it perfectly between the center-back and the full-back.
Ronaldo was already on the move, anticipating Roberto’s pass. The Brazilian chemistry was in full display!
Though the pass had moderate speed, its accuracy was flawless. The exact moment Roberto played the ball, Ronaldo surged forward, evading the attention of Wimbledon’s left-back.
Wimbledon, having spent nearly 70 minutes attacking and pressuring City, were completely unprepared for this sudden breach. What caught them even more off guard was Ronaldo’s blistering speed!
The center-back, deciding to ignore Solskjær, tried to chase down Ronaldo, but no matter how hard he pushed, the distance between them only grew wider. He even had no chance of grabbing hold of Ronaldo’s jersey.
Ronaldo expertly timed his run, positioning himself one-on-one with the goalkeeper.
The entire crowd stood as one, their collective gaze fixed on Ronaldo as he surged toward the goal.
Watching the attack unfold from the sidelines, O’Neill’s heart raced with exhilaration. His calm exterior cracked, replaced by pure anticipation.
Even Richard, holding his radio, whispered under his breath, "Put it in the net, put it in the net, put it in the net!"
The fifth round of the FA Cup!
A victory here would take them to the sixth round, and just one more win would see them through to the semi-finals—an incredible achievement for the new Manchester City!
As Ronaldo neared the edge of the penalty area, he subtly slowed his stride, scanning the goalkeeper’s position. Dropping his shoulder slightly, he feinted as if about to unleash a thunderous right-footed shot.
The goalkeeper took the bait. Instinctively, he launched into a full-stretch dive, limbs splayed like a spider, hoping to block what he thought was a certain strike.
But this was Ronaldo Luís Nazário de Lima—the future legendary R9.
With the effortless grace that defined his greatness, Ronaldo coolly nudged the ball to his left, slipping past the diving keeper without breaking stride.
The fake worked to perfection, leaving the goalkeeper sprawled helplessly on the turf. One defender was scrambling back in panic behind him, desperate to cover the open goal, but Ronaldo kept his balance and composure.
He took one more controlled touch, angled his body, and calmly slotted the ball into the empty net—no power needed, just precision.
No panic. No wasted motion.
Just pure brilliance, sending the south section of Selhurst Park into ecstatic uproar!
