NOVPUB
Chapter 137: Soar high! There’s nothing stopping you now!
Morning practice was about to begin. O’Neill stood at the edge of the pitch, arms crossed, watching as his players trickled onto the field.
As the last player jogged into place, he clapped his hands to get their attention.
"Alright, listen up," he said, his voice calm but firm. "For the rest of the season, we’re making changes."
A few of them exchanged glances, and he could already see the skepticism.
"Starting today, we’re switching to a high-pressing 4-4-2—just like yesterday," he continued. "William, you’re the holding midfielder for the rest of the matches. Roberto and Cafu will keep pushing forward with overlaps. Tony, Ian One, and Ian Two will form the midfield line in front of William."
He gestured toward the tactics board where the new formation was laid out.
After a full five minutes of breaking down the details, Pollock suddenly raised his hand.
"But coach, we don’t have the legs for a high press. We’ll be gassed by halftime."
"Then you’d better start running." O’Neill dropped the bombshell, instantly silencing any opposition.
"..."
"You understand what I mean? I need you to stop acting like statues every time we lose possession."
"..."
"But that’s not important now." O’Neill clapped his hands. "Alright, get to training. Your performance in these sessions will decide if you’ll start in the match against Cambridge."
The next hour was hell for the players.
O’Neill and his staff drilled them relentlessly, leaving everyone confused.
Why had the drills suddenly changed?
Pressing drills and defensive shape maintenance. Every time someone slacked off, he restarted the drill.
He became increasingly harsh, prompting some players to mutter curses under their breath. They were used to lighter training sessions—this felt more like a military drill. Still, no one slacked off, likely because they were still in culture shock from the sudden change.
The next match was against Cambridge, and from start to finish—even in the changing room—it felt like nothing would be the same.
It was always the same words every time: "Press! Press! Press!"—so much so that the players were dizzy just hearing it.
The next two matches would determine whether O’Neill’s gamble—his tactics, his leadership, and his pressing strategy—had been worth it.
Richard, watching from the director’s box, wore a strange expression. City’s play now looked almost like Klopp’s gegenpressing—relentless and aggressive.
Every time they won the ball, it went straight to Ronaldo, and then Cafu and Roberto Carlos would rocket forward from the back, throwing the opposition’s defense into complete disarray.
Fixture 34: Cambridge United 1 vs 3 Manchester City
Fixture 35: Manchester City 2 vs 0 Macclesfield Town
Finally, after Cambridge and Macclesfield, the real challenge awaited: Birmingham City.
Birmingham City, the current leaders of the Second Division, were comfortably sitting at the top of the table. The next match was against them—and this time, O’Neill had no intention of playing it safe, determined to learn from his previous mistakes.
Birmingham City - 67 Points
Brentford - 63 Points
Bristol Rovers - 59 Points
Manchester City - 56 Points
Blackpool - 55 Points
Wycombe Wanderers - 52 Points
City moved up one spot after winning twice, and now they’re closing in.
Richard sat in his office, reviewing the usual invoices. One, in particular, stood out—a payment of £23,000 owed to Wythenshawe Hospital for the past two months.
"Any recent injuries?" Richard asked.
Miss Heysen nodded. "Mike Phelan, Tony Vaughan, Nick Fenton, and Richard Jobson—all picked up injuries during the match against Macclesfield Town."
High-pressing football was a double-edged sword. While the high press was exciting to watch and got the fans’ adrenaline pumping, ticket sales were climbing, and supporters were filling the stands again, the downside was that players were becoming more prone to injury.
Adding with Paul Lake’s career-threatening injury, City had to send Mike Phelan, Tony Vaughan, Nick Fenton, and Richard Jobson to the hospital now.
Richard nodded, signing off on the approval for the payment before his phone suddenly rang.
RING~
He glanced at the caller ID, his eyes lighting up. Without hesitation, he picked up the phone and greeted, "Gordon."
After the greeting, Richard and the barrister, Gordon Barry, who was currently in Rio de Janeiro, had a brief but important discussion. Once the call ended, not long after, a fax arrived from Brazil.
"Finally..." Richard skimmed through it, nodding in satisfaction.
One day before the Birmingham match, Richard waited until the changing room was empty before heading in.
Inside, Ronaldo, Roberto Carlos, and Cafu—who had already finished their training for the day—were waiting, having been told that Richard had something important to say.
After speaking with them for about twenty minutes, Richard was the first to leave. The three Brazilians remained seated in a daze, their thoughts still racing as they stared blankly at the floor, trying to process what had just happened.
They were still in shock, struggling to make sense of it all.
"Do you think he was telling the truth?" Cafu asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
"I’m not sure," Roberto Carlos replied, slowly shaking his head.
Ronaldo, holding a fax, looked at the others. "But what about this?" he asked, carefully pointing to the document as if it were made of gold.
When they looked closely, they saw it—an official stamp from the Brazilian Minister of Sports.
Pelé!
"..."
Suddenly, everything felt like it was spinning out of control. The pressure from back home was relentless, and their situation at City only seemed to be growing more complicated. But if what the fax said was true... things might be about to change.
They exchanged looks, a mix of disbelief and anticipation flickering in their eyes.
"Just like in Brazil?"
"Yeah. Just like in Brazil."
"Then let’s go."
Before the match began, O’Neill stood at the front of the dressing room, tapping the edge of the tactical board with the back of his marker.
"Listen up," he said, his tone sharp and focused. "They’re underestimating us. They think we’ll sit deep, soak up pressure, and try to hit them on the break."
He paused, looking around the room to make sure every pair of eyes was on him.
"But we’re not doing that. Not today."
O’Neill turned to the board and started sketching out his plan.
"We press. We force them into mistakes. They’re not expecting us to play like this, and that’s exactly why it’ll work. We press them high. From the first whistle. I want their backline uncomfortable. I want their midfielders turning with their backs to goal. I want their keeper forced into long balls. We’re not playing scared. We’re playing to win."
O’Neill pointed at Ronaldo’s name on the board.
"Ronaldo, Solskjær, you lead the press. Cut off the passing lane to their holding midfielder. Don’t let them breathe."
Then to the flanks.
"Cafu, Roberto—overlap constantly, just like we practiced. But recover fast. If you can’t go, signal and let the midfield rotate to cover."
He turned back toward the group.
"This is it. They expect us to roll over. They’ve already written the headlines. Let’s prove them wrong."
"Let’s go! (x3) Yeah!"
Ronaldo, Roberto Carlos, and Cafu were the first to spring from their seats, clapping and slapping their boots in a burst of energy, urging the others—still dumbfounded—to move. Just this morning, you looked so drained, but suddenly—what sparked this fire in you?
O’Neill, who knew the reason, was gratified. Finally, their passion for the game had returned.
The atmosphere shifted—cautious optimism turning into something fiercer.A challenge had been laid down.
And they were ready.
Goalkeeper: Shay Given
Defenders: Cafu, Sol Campbell, Rio Ferdinand, Roberto Carlos
Midfielders: William Gallas, Ian Ferguson, Ian Taylor, and Tony Grant
Strikers: Ronaldo, Solskjær
O’Neill opted for his strongest lineup.
The referee blew the whistle.
Kickoff.
Birmingham’s typical style of play was strong in aerial duels and disruptive pressing—opponents often struggled to build momentum. However, within less than a minute, they nearly had a heart attack.
Ronaldo feinted left, then quickly slid a disguised pass to Roberto Carlos, who had drifted inside from the left wing.
Their right-back and center-back reacted a split second too late.
Roberto, now free just outside the penalty area, took a touch, looked up—
And unleashed a howitzer of a shot.
Ian Bennett, Birmingham’s goalkeeper, was frozen in place before he heard the BAM!
The ball slammed into the top left corner of the net, leaving him stunned and momentarily paralyzed.
The crowd sighed in frustration.
Roberto Carlos threw his hands up in disbelief.
Bennett, still too shocked, could only stare at where the ball had collided with the crossbar, his breath heavy and labored.
"That’s Roberto Carlos’ signature shot! It’s been so long since we’ve seen a rocket like that from him!" the commentator roared.
"Stay focused!" Barry Fry, Birmingham manager shouted.
City wouldn’t stop, unfortunately. This was only the beginning.
15th Minute: Birmingham had barely touched the ball when Cafu, calm and composed, received possession just at the edge of the box.
With one smooth, effortless flick of his foot, he sent Solskjær through—perfect timing, perfect precision.
Bennett, the Birmingham goalkeeper, stepped up just a fraction too late.
Solskjær took a confident touch—then, without hesitation, rifled a shot past Bennett and into the top corner of the net.
Boom. n𝚘𝚟pub.𝚌o𝚖
Maine Road erupted into a deafening roar.
Richard barely reacted. He knew this was coming. But the way City carved them open in just fifteen minutes? It was terrifying.
12th Minute: Birmingham tried to settle into their rhythm, but City’s press was unyielding, suffocating every attempt to break forward.
A loose touch from their midfielder was all it took.
Gallas, always alert, pounced, intercepting the ball with clinical precision and immediately feeding it to Ronaldo, who would often collect the ball from deep, scanning the pitch like a general commanding his troops.
He immediately feeding it to Solskjær once again before he curled a beautiful shot into the top corner.
Bennett didn’t even move.
Barry Fry exhaled slowly. ’This could get ugly,’ he thought, then shaking his head. ’Impossible. City just got thrashed by United, and we managed to draw with them.’
And that stubbornness—blending with the chaos—could very well send Birmingham to hell!
