Football Dynasty

Chapter 115: Double Red Card!

Fans in the stands threw their arms up in jubilant delight, leaping and cheering with childlike exuberance.

After slotting the ball home, Ronaldo sprinted along the byline toward the corner flag, igniting a wave of celebration among the nearby supporters.

"Ro~nal~do!"

"Booh~"

A roar of approval rang out—mixed with a chorus of boos from the opposing side.

The two sets of fans clashed in a battle of noise—chants, cheers, and jeers echoing around the stadium. And though City’s supporters were vastly outnumbered, their voices rose with pride, refusing to be drowned out by the Wimbledon faithful.

After conceding the goal, Wimbledon grew more aggressive. True to their identity, they kept relying on long balls, but their forwards looked noticeably disheartened.

Every attempt to challenge in the air was shut down by the imposing figure of Campbell, whose experience and physical presence proved too much. On the flanks, Cafu and Roberto Carlos were relentless, blocking every route and forcing turnovers.

Wimbledon were well-known for their physical challenges—it was their trademark. That aggressive style worked well when trying to win back possession. But once the ball was at their feet, things changed.

When it came to technical play, they were noticeably lacking. Truth be told, their main attacking plan relied almost entirely on the height and strength of their strikers to create goal-scoring chances.

Once again, Wimbledon’s Nigerian star Efan Ekoku, positioned on the left flank, shaped up to deliver a cross. But Ian Cox read the move perfectly.

With a well-timed stretch of his leg, he intercepted the ball and sent Ekoku tumbling onto the turf. The ball trickled to Campbell’s feet, who calmly passed it to Cafu.

Ekoku, was livid. "What the hell! That was an obvious foul! Damn it, a foul!" he bellowed toward the pitch.

But the referee was unmoved. No whistle. No foul. No card.

The crowd erupted—not in protest, but in raucous applause. Even some Wimbledon fans couldn’t help but join in.

What was football to them? Tactics? Rules?

To them, football was a mix of booting the ball... and booting legs.

Cafu wasted no time. He skipped dribbling altogether and passed it swiftly to Phelan, who, sensing the urgency, released it just before an onrushing forward could close him down.

The ball reached Ronaldo at midfield. Without delay, he launched a long ball forward that dropped beautifully at Solskjær’s feet.

Solskjær surged ahead toward the center. Just five meters away, Wimbledon’s defenders began to collapse on him, trying to block a possible long-range strike. But instead, with flawless precision, Solskjær split the defense with a through ball, threading it between the center-back and the left full-back.

"Oh! Roberto Carlos is already on the run—he’s winding up for a cross—No, wait! That’s not a cross! That’s a shot! What a strike from Roberto Carlos! It’s 2–0 to Manchester City!"

Indeed, just as the ball reached the edge of the box, Roberto Carlos had already wound up his legendary left foot. The Wimbledon goalkeeper launched himself toward the near post, expecting a traditional delivery.

But the ball wasn’t aimed for anyone.

It was aimed for glory.

With the force of a cannon, Roberto Carlos unleashed a howitzer of a shot that curved wickedly through the air. The keeper, mid-dive, glanced back helplessly.

Too late.

The ball soared past his fingertips and curled into the far corner of the net, spinning gently to a stop inside the goal.

Selhurst Park shook with the noise of City’s small section going wild. Wimbledon stunned. Roberto Carlos—unstoppable.

After City’s second goal hit the back of the net, the entire away end erupted. Near the corner flag, supporters surged forward in celebration, many nearly spilling over the barrier as they tried to get closer to Roberto Carlos—the man of the moment.

Thankfully, the security fence held firm.

On the touchline, Robertson turned to a beaming O’Neill and shouted over the noise, "Did you see that?!"

O’Neill laughed, eyes wide. "Of course I did! That left foot of his—it’s magic!"

No wonder Richard had asked them to arrange special shooting and free-kick training sessions for him—now everyone could see exactly why.

The two exchanged a grin before turning back to the pitch, clapping and shouting to rally the players. City now had one foot in the next round. In this FA Cup fifth-round clash, they were already two goals up.

As the game resumed, both managers made substitutions at the same time.

O’Neill, looking to secure the lead, brought off Ronaldo for center-back Nick Fenton and swapped Phelan for the more defensive Richard Jobson. Meanwhile, Wimbledon showed their hand—they pulled a midfielder and threw on an extra striker. It was clear: they were going all in.

The commentator shouted, "It’s do-or-die now for Wimbledon—wait, what’s happened?!"

O’Neill, mid-instruction with his two incoming players, turned sharply toward the City goal with a look of disbelief.

Red card!

Ian Cox has just been sent off, and Wimbledon have been awarded a penalty!

O’Neill knew that a coach’s perspective from the sidelines could often reveal more than a TV broadcast—but not always the most breathtaking moments.

So what had just happened?

He hadn’t even had a chance to ask Robertson when Kinnear, visibly furious, stormed toward him, only to be restrained by the official.

"What’s your player doing? What the hell does he think he’s doing—attempting murder?!"

O’Neill was taken aback. It wasn’t until he spoke with McLaren and the others that he and Robertson finally pieced together the full sequence of events.

Ian Cox had just received the ball near City’s defensive third when Wimbledon’s Efan Ekoku charged in to press.

The tension had been simmering for a while, but it flared instantly. Ekoku was aggressive, leaning in with elbows and hands, and Cox, clearly irritated by the physicality, shoved him away with both arms.

The referee blew his whistle sharply—foul, but no card. Just a warning, as players from both sides rushed in to separate them.

But it was a sign of things to come.

What Ian Cox did next was completely unnecessary. A free-kick was awarded to Wimbledon, and that’s when the chaos truly began.

For the third time in a row, Ian Cox was at the center of the commotion.

Wimbledon were pushing everyone forward—including their full-backs and center-backs. Campbell and Cox were no longer calmly anchoring the backline; they were firefighting, scrambling desperately to plug gaps and stop aerial threats.

Another attack surged down Wimbledon’s left flank.

Ekoku swung in a dangerous cross, and the penalty area became a tangled mess of bodies.

Cox locked eyes with Warren Barton, the Wimbledon defender charging in. Both men hurled themselves toward the ball. It resembled a wrestling match more than football—pulling, elbowing, and jostling for every inch of space.

He leapt into the air to meet the cross but mistimed his jump. He collided mid-air with Barton, their heads crashing together with a sickening thud. As they dropped to the ground, Cox instinctively wrapped his arms around Barton in a bear hug, preventing him from regaining balance.

"Oi! Get off me!" Barton roared, struggling to break free, fists clenched and face red with fury.

"Make me!" Cox snarled, nose-to-nose now, breath ragged, eyes blazing.

"You n*gger son of a bitch!" Barton snapped, landing a punch to Cox’s face and pulling him to the ground.

That was the tipping point.

"You say that again?" Cox barked, stepping in close. "Say it again to my face!"

Campbell, nearby, rushed in to restrain the furious Cox, stopping him from lashing out with fists or kicks.

PHWEEE!

The referee’s shrill whistle pierced the tension. Players from both Manchester City and Wimbledon, momentarily stunned, rushed toward the scene.

"Oi! Cut it out!"

Pandemonium erupted.

Players poured in like a dam had burst. Campbell stepped between them, trying to separate Cox, while Wimbledon’s Alan Reeves and Andy Clarke dragged Barton away from the melee.

But Cox wasn’t done—he broke free and stormed toward Barton, ignoring the referee, the chaos, and even his own teammates.

"What the hell did you just say?!" he shouted, voice slicing through the noise.

The referee didn’t hesitate.

The red card flashed toward Cox—no surprise, as from the official’s point of view, Cox had thrown the first punch and was also at the center of the chaos.

Barton was satisfied, thinking he’d gotten away with it. He turned away from the scuffle, brushing off his shirt as if nothing had happened. But just as he spun around, the referee was already striding toward him, eyes locked with purpose.

And then—snap—the yellow card first before the red card was raised.

Barton froze, stunned. "What?! I didn’t do anything!" he blurted, throwing his arms out in disbelief.

His face twisted in confusion and outrage as he tried to plead his case, but the decision had been made. The referee wasn’t interested in excuses—he had seen enough.

Loud jeers and wild applause erupted from the Selhurst Park stands, the crowd feeding off the storm of drama playing out on the pitch.

By the time they all pieced together the events, Ian Cox had already stormed off the pitch, fury in every stride. As he neared the touchline, O’Neill and his staff moved quickly to intercept him, hoping to calm him down.

"Ian, just—calm down! What happened?" Robertson urged, reaching out.

But Cox brushed their hands away, his face flushed with rage as he paced furiously near the dugout, punching the air and muttering curses under his breath.

"Let him be," O’Neill said quietly, glancing at Robertson. "He’s not hearing anyone right now." _{𝚗ov𝚙𝚞𝚋.c𝚘m}

All they had seen was the brawl between Cox and Barton—they didn’t know exactly what had happened.

It was the 90th minute when Wimbledon was awarded a penalty.

After a tense moment, they converted it, bringing the score to 2–1.

Selhurst Park finally erupted—nearly every section roared with renewed hope and adrenaline.

"Come on, come on!" one of Wimbledon’s players shouted, pumping his fists toward the stands as he sprinted back toward the center circle.

Wimbledon were throwing absolutely everything forward now—even their goalkeeper had crept out near the halfway line, waiting for a possible final set-piece.

City, meanwhile, scrambled to stay organized. O’Neill, arms crossed tightly, looked tense as he barked at his backline: "Hold your shape! No fouls!"

The final moments were going to be a storm—one last desperate surge to decide the fate of the match.

In a subsequent final attack, Ekoku once again received a pass and should have chosen to pass it to a better positioned Reeves to let the latter make the breakthrough. Instead, after he took a few steps, he kicked a very demoralizing booter.

Since it was already the final minutes, and tensions had boiled over, the City fans in the stands couldn’t help but get cheeky.

With grins on their faces and mischief in their voices, they burst into a lively chant: "Wimbledon’s an excellent American football club! They boot the ball straight into the sky! Oh yeah, oh yeah— They’re just here to kick, not to try!"

O’Neill glanced at his watch before pumping a clenched fist into the air. "Yes! That’s it!"

FWEEE!!

The final whistle blew.

Manchester City had done it—they had just secured victory in the FA Cup fifth round!