Football Dynasty

Chapter 171: BOO!

After wrapping up the internal meeting with O’Neill and his staff, it was soon time for Manchester City’s third fixture—an away match against Stoke City.

After a convincing 3–0 win over Brentford, City followed it up with another solid performance — a 2–0 victory against Barnsley.

Two games, two clean sheets, and five goals scored. The team was clicking, the confidence was growing, and suddenly, whispers of a promotion push didn’t sound so far-fetched anymore.

Most football clubs in England use stadiums that were originally built in the late 19th to mid-20th century, with many constructed between the 1880s and 1930s. These stadiums have often undergone extensive renovations or complete rebuilds to meet modern standards.

A major change came after the Taylor Report, following the Hillsborough disaster, which mandated that all top-flight football stadiums must be converted into all-seater venues. As a result, in the early 1990s, most clubs were forced to rebuild or significantly modify their stadiums.

For City, this transition was no small matter.

Their historic ground, once capable of holding 85,000 roaring fans, had to comply with the new seating rules—resulting in a drastic reduction in capacity to just 35,000. It was a difficult but necessary adaptation, mirroring the broader transformation of English football.

In fact, during the Lee Consortium’s reign, Manchester City faced even greater setbacks. When renovations on the Kippax Stand were abruptly halted, the club was forced to further reduce its stadium capacity—from 35,000 down to just 28,000.

It wasn’t until recently, under Richard’s leadership, that the original 35,000 capacity was fully restored following the long-overdue completion of the Kippax redevelopment.

Basically, according to Manchester City’s financial records, the entire transformation of Maine Road came at a cost of £29 million, marking a bold and crucial investment in the club’s future.

City’s next opponent, Stoke City, found themselves in a similar situation. However, instead of renovating, they chose to build a new stadium, leaving their historic Victoria Ground after 119 years.

The decision was driven by the fact that their stadium was surrounded by residential buildings, making renovations and expansions virtually impossible.

This forced the club to seek new land for their construction projects, and sooner or later, Maine Road would share the same fate as the Victoria Ground.

Despite the shared challenges, Cityzens and the Potters have little animosity between them, so when O’Neill stood at the side of the Victoria Ground touchline, directing the game, the atmosphere in the stadium felt oddly quiet.

"PHWEEE!"

The match began, and O’Neill realized he had overestimated the situation.

From nearly the first minute, City seized control of the game.

Though Stoke City was playing at home, their attacking efforts lacked intensity. Their traditional long-ball tactics meant the ball often flew from their half into City’s defensive zone.

This was essentially the same style as Brentford’s tactics.

Moreover, since their entire attack was essentially built around a lone striker, Stoke’s offense lacked variety and depth.

Most of the time, when their forwards failed to break through and the ball became loose, it immediately turned into an opportunity for City to launch dangerous counterattacks.

What helped Stoke, however, was their extremely conservative defense, with defenders staying compact and four midfielders lingering back.

City couldn’t break into Stoke’s penalty area.

"BOOO!"

The frustration was growing—not just on the pitch, but in the stands as well. The fans began to boo loudly, fed up with Stoke City’s ultra-defensive tactics.

It was clear to everyone: Stoke had completely parked the bus.

Nine men sat deep behind the ball, barely venturing out of their own half. Every City attempt was met with a wall of bodies, and the game had turned into a one-sided siege.

They dominated possession, passed patiently, tried switching flanks, and played through the middle—but nothing seemed to work.

O’Neill stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He knew something had to change—and fast.

"Why is it so difficult today?"

O’Neill frowned as he looked toward all the City players, and then, as if a lightbulb had gone off in his head, he found the answer.

Unlike the dazzling days when City’s attack was on fire, especially down their left side, which was lethal with players like Roberto Carlos and Ronaldo, today both of them seemed completely out of sync, visibly struggling.

O’Neill lowered his head to glance at his watch. It was only the 33rd minute, and they were already off pace?

He turned toward Robertson, his assistant, and asked, "What’s going on with Ronaldo and Roberto?"

Robertson, hearing this, looked just as confused. "They were fine in training, right?"

O’Neill nodded, but the worry was still etched on his face. He turned his attention back to the match, trying to make sense of what was happening on the field.

As the match progressed, O’Neill became more and more restless. He glanced toward Stoke’s manager, and the more he watched him, the more his mind raced with thoughts.

He was conflicted—was Stoke seeking a counterattack, or were they simply trying to settle for a draw in this match?

"What do you want to do now?" Robertson asked carefully, looking at O’Neill.

One goal. Just one goal, and they’re done for.

Regardless of the situation, O’Neill knew he had no choice. He needed to change his tactics now, or he’d regret it deeply if City ended up with a draw. He couldn’t accept it. After all, they had really dominated the match.

The game continued, and soon, a collective gasp echoed through the stands.

It happened during a tussle for possession.

Ronaldo lost the ball, but Van Bommel was quick to recover it. He passed to Neil Lennon, who played a clever one-two with Larsson.

"Beautiful!" Richard, from the stands, clapped his hands in approval of the slick tiki-taka play.

Unfortunately, Larsson’s shot was blocked by Stoke’s center-back. But, unbeknownst to everyone else, Roberto Carlos had found space on the edge of the penalty area and fired a volley.

The stands held their breath, waiting for what seemed like a perfect strike, but the ball sailed just over the crossbar and behind the net.

Richard slumped in his seat, shaking his head

The first half was drawing to a close, and the score was still 0-0.

As the players filtered back into the dressing room, the silence was deafening.

Many of them avoided eye contact, their frustration obvious. Sweat clung to their brows, and though they’d dominated the half, the scoreboard remained unmoved.

O’Neill let out a heavy sigh, a sense of helplessness settling over him. It had come to this—and he knew he couldn’t afford a loss at this stage.

It wasn’t just about the points anymore; it was about pride, momentum, and belief. Losing a match they had clearly dominated, simply because they couldn’t convert their chances, would deal a serious blow to the team’s morale.

O’Neill waited until everyone had settled. Then he stood in front of them.

"Alright. Listen up."

The room turned to him.

"You’ve done well to control the tempo. Possession? Ours. Territory? Ours. But control doesn’t win games—goals do."

He paused, letting that sink in before continuing.

"Stoke isn’t here to play. They’ve parked the bus, and they’re praying we lose patience. But we’re not going to hand them this match. We’re going to outthink them. We’re going to stay sharp."

He pointed toward a diagram he’d sketched. Arrows crisscrossed the pitch, especially around the flanks.

"We need to stretch their back line. Ronaldo, Roberto—what’s going on out there? You’ve only played 30 minutes, and you’re already gasping for air? We need more energy, more intensity. Come on!"

"Boss, there’s no space to move, no room to create." Ronaldo replied.

Roberto Carlos nodded in agreement. "Every time we try to push up, they’ve already dropped ten behind the ball."

O’Neill sighed at their excuse but nodded anyway. "Alright, then I’ll give you one chance. Ronaldo, I want movement. Make those defenders uncomfortable. Drag them wide. Create space for Henrik. Our midfield will push up with you—no more hesitation."

His gaze swept across the room.

"Don’t let their game plan frustrate you—let it expose them. Play with discipline, not desperation."

He turned back to the players, his voice quieter now.

"We’ve trained for this. Now it’s time to show why we’re different. Let’s go out there and take this."

The room, once heavy and still, now buzzed with renewed purpose as the players stood—fists clenched, heads held high.

"PHWEEEE!"

The second half had begun.

Unfortunately, three minutes into the second half, the situation remained unchanged. If anything, it was Stoke City who capitalized on a rare opening.

A quick break down the left flank saw Stoke’s winger, aware that Cafu was in front of him, whip a high, curling cross into the penalty box early on.

It was a dangerous delivery, aimed directly at the Stoke striker, who was perfectly positioned just inside the six-yard box.

The striker, a towering figure, launched himself into the air, meeting the ball with a forceful header aimed at the bottom corner.

For a split second, it looked like the ball was destined for the back of the net.

Richard held his breath, and the crowd did the same as the ball flew toward Lehmann’s goal. But then, out of nowhere, the German goalkeeper sprang into action with cat-like reflexes.

In a single motion, Lehmann stretched his leg, extending it as far as possible, just barely getting the tip of his boot to make contact with the ball.

It was a stunning save.

The ball spun off his foot, deflecting away from the goal and out for a corner. The crowd exploded in a mix of disbelief and admiration, while commentators were left momentarily speechless.

"Unbelievable!" the commentator finally broke the silence. "Jens Lehmann, what a save! That’s world-class reflexes right there. He’s practically levitated to keep City in this match!"

O’Neill, watching from the sideline, clenched his jaw, his heart racing. But after seeing the save, he sighed in relief.

For the next, The two forwards, Larsson and Ronaldo, were constantly making active runs to pull defenders out of position. Meanwhile, Neil Lennon, Roberto Carlos, and Cafu seemed to be growing increasingly despondent, taking long-range shots despite knowing the chances were slim.

They were frustrated.

O’Neill furrowed his brow, watching the scene unfold. He turned and beckoned for Solskjær and Shevchenko to come over.

Shevchenko, who had been intently focused on the match, noticed the boss signaling to him. He looked surprised and pointed to himself as if asking, ’Me?’

O’Neill nodded, and Solskjær immediately stood up and pulled Shevchenko with him.

Both players quickly stood beside O’Neill.

"Do you want to play?" he asked, looking directly at them, especially Shevchenko.

"Of course!" Solskjær replied immediately.

O’Neill turned to Shevchenko, who was still in a daze, surprised that he was being called to play.

After a nudge from Solskjær, Shevchenko snapped out of it and responded, "Absolutely!"

"What will you do when you get on the pitch?" O’Neill asked, his gaze intense.

"To score, of course!"

"How are you going to score?" O’Neill asked. "The ball won’t just roll to your feet, and it won’t magically fly into the opponent’s goalmouth if you touch it casually."

Solskjær fell silent, his mind turning over the question. Shevchenko remained quiet as well, unsure of how to respond.