Football Dynasty

Chapter 177: The Guvnors, Once Again

The commentator’s voice soared with excitement, "Unbelievable! What a spectacular chip from Shevchenko! That ball dipped like a bullet and just sailed over the keeper’s hand into the back of the net! Pure genius!"

Fans in the stands jumped to their feet, roaring with delight. Some were clapping wildly, others hugging each other in disbelief.

City supporters waved scarves and sang Shevchenko’s name, while Derby fans stood in stunned silence, unable to believe what they had just witnessed.

Richard gaped in disbelief — it was the exact legendary Shevchenko strike from an impossible angle, fired past Buffon in a thrilling 1-1 draw against Juventus!

That, of course, is something for the future.

But who would have thought he’d be seeing the goal right now!

On the other side, Derby County’s manager looked stunned, seemingly taken aback by the turn of events.

Things were already tough — back-to-back losses had piled on the pressure, and another defeat could see his team drop to the bottom of the league table. Still, he clapped his hands on the sidelines, trying to fire up his players and spark a response.

"Come on, boys! There’s still plenty of time! Keep your heads up! Remember — we once crushed them with five goals! We can do it again!"

His words lifted Derby County’s spirits, and the players quickly came together, launching a series of dangerous attacks right after kickoff.

O’Neill caught wind of the opposing manager’s fiery shout, his words cutting through the noise of the match.

The history was clear — Derby County had crushed them last time, five goals to nil, sending City straight to hell. Just like Richard had said before the game.

With a steely look, O’Neill set down his water bottle, walked to the sideline, and turned to his ’nuclear weapons’: Ronaldo, Roberto, and Cafu.

"He says they can beat us again — five goals against us! Did you all hear that?"

The three players’ eyes lit up instantly.

O’Neill nodded. "Alright, warm up."

As the ball soared high over the bar, the referee immediately blew his whistle, the sharp sound slicing through the tension in the stadium.

PHWEEEE!

The fourth official raised the board.

Number 9. Number 2. Number 3.

Ronaldo. Cafu. Roberto Carlos.

The fans erupted.

"RONALDO!"

"CAFUUU!"

"ROBERTOOOOO!"

"And here they come! O’Neill has released the big guns! Ronaldo, Cafu, and Roberto Carlos are stepping onto the pitch — and just listen to that reaction!" The commentator’s voice spiked with excitement, nearly shouting over the roaring crowd.

Ronaldo jogged in with his usual swagger, eyes locked on the goal as if he could already see the net rippling.

Cafu followed — a general on the battlefield, directing his teammates even before his boots touched the grass.

And Roberto Carlos... Calm, focused, and hungry.

On the sideline, O’Neill patted the shoulder of Gallas, then Zambrotta, and finally Shevchenko as they walked off the field, sweat-soaked, with a quiet "Good job."

The tempo of City’s defensive play continued until the eighty-minute mark of the second half.

After sustained pressure, Derby County started showing signs of frustration, their defense also becoming lax.

Roberto Carlos pounced on a loose ball after Materazzi’s clearance. He shifted to the side, smooth as ever, slipping past two pressing Derby players.

Then he looked up.

No one?

Oh, there he is.

He saw it — Cafu, already raising his hand, sprinting into space on the far right.

Roberto Carlos didn’t hesitate. He took a step back, then planted his left foot, his body leaning into the motion with that signature swagger.

WHUMP!

The ball rocketed off his boot, flying from the left flank and cutting through the air like a guided missile — soaring over the heads of Derby’s entire midfield.

Cafu was already on the move, tracking the ball with laser focus. It dropped perfectly ahead of him, just enough space to run onto it. A thing of beauty — a pass that begged to be controlled.

The commentator’s voice rose above the thunder of the crowd.

"What a pass! Roberto Carlos with a cross-field bomb — and Cafu is through!"

The Derby defense froze for half a second — then chaos.

Defenders spun on their heels, chasing back with everything they had. Arms stretched, lungs burning, they closed in on Cafu like a collapsing wall. Even if they had to foul him, they were going to stop him.

But Cafu?

He wasn’t slowing down. Or maybe... he didn’t need to control it at all.

Because the moment the ball touched the ground — once, bouncing slightly high — then twice, lower and skimming — Cafu already knew.

The third touch. That sweet spot.

Right as the ball leveled out — waist-high, dipping fast, skimming just below knee level — Cafu adjusted his stride, angled his body, and whipped a trivela.

Outside of the boot. A curve sent from the gods.

The ball spun violently, bending inward like it had a mind of its own. It curled around the desperate leg of the nearest defender, sliced through the box, and—

"My word, what a ball!" The commentator nearly lost it.

Ronaldo was fast — but not fast enough to reach the curling ball in time. He knew it. So instead of chasing it down, he peeled off to the left, dragging one Derby midfielder with him.

Larsson, positioned wide on the right in O’Neill’s 4-4-2 formation, read the play instantly. He was already in motion — the timing, perfect. The ball from Cafu dropped right into his path.

He took a single touch to control it, then surged into the penalty area.

The stadium went silent.

One-on-one.

Larsson found himself face-to-face with the Derby goalkeeper, just three meters separating them. The keeper lunged forward, trying to close the angle — feet braced, gloves low.

But Larsson didn’t panic.

He didn’t shoot.

Instead — with a calm that defied the pressure — he tapped the ball ever so slightly to the side. Just enough.

Then, with a quick glance and flawless technique, he lobbed it.

The keeper, already diving at Larsson’s feet, could only twist his neck upward, watching helplessly as the ball rose gently over him.

It wasn’t fast. It didn’t need to be.

The ball floated — slow motion — past the outstretched gloves, past the final challenge.

An open net.

Larsson took two calm steps forward, let the ball bounce once, and with a simple tap, guided it home.

Goal.

The stadium exploded.

Derby County 0 – 2 Manchester City

"That’s it," Richard said happily, clapping his hands as he suddenly rose from his seat.

"Where are you going?"

The people around him—especially Miss Heysen and Marina—were taken aback and asked.

"Of course, to work."

"What about the match?"

"It doesn’t matter. City will win this match for sure."

They both looked at each other and, with no other choice, followed Richard as he left the stadium early.

The next day, as the sun dipped and the streetlamps flickered on with a warm orange glow, Manchester began to stir in a way only it knew how.

It wasn’t sleek or modern like the skyline of West London, which glittered with steel and glass. Here, the streets felt rougher, more real—filled with chatter.

Radios played Britpop from shop windows, Oasis and Blur competing for airspace. The smell of vinegar-drenched chips and meat pies drifted from the corner chippy, filling the air with something unmistakably local.

Richard headed to the pub just down the road from Maine Road. He had a meeting arranged there—a quiet pint and a chat with Rich Turner, the owner of the Bluemoon MCFC website.

He pushed open the pub door, and the moment he stepped inside, the buzz of voices hit him. He glanced left and right, searching for the person he came to see. _{𝖓𝔬𝔳𝔭𝖚𝖇.𝔠𝔬𝖒}

"Over here!" someone called from the back.

Richard picked out the familiar voice and weaved through the crowd—dodging shoulders, spilled drinks, and laughter—until he spotted him.

There was Rich Turner, behind a shiny new bar, grinning as wide as the City badge on his scarf.

"Business good enough now to hire some help?" Richard teased.

Turner laughed, wiping his hands on a towel.

"Takes a personal touch tonight. Opened this place near Maine Road—fans flock in before and after games. A couple of us running the show isn’t so bad."

They shook hands and sat down.

Richard leaned back, then his eyes drifted up to the giant screen hanging above the room. He blinked, surprised.

A Jumbotron.

But what really surprised Richard wasn’t the Jumbotron itself — it was what was playing on it. He leaned forward, lowering his voice as he nudged the person in front of him.

"Sooner or later, either the FA or Sky’s gonna come knocking if you’re still showing illegal matches. When that happens, this new pub of yours could get shut down fast. Don’t be the first to get caught—things can go south real quick in court."

Turner gave a slow nod, clearly taking Richard’s warning seriously.

To be honest, it wasn’t just here — nearly every pub across the UK was using hacks to illegally broadcast the games.

The Premier League was exploding in popularity, so as their fanbase grew, so did the demand to watch the matches live. But with Sky Television holding exclusive broadcasting rights—and their pay-TV service priced beyond what many could afford—fans and pubs alike started looking for alternative ways to catch the action.

Because of this, many pubs—and even some homes—used hacked satellite receivers or scrambled signals to access feeds illegally, bypassing the paywalls.

The Football Association (FA) and Sky were aware of this and were constantly trying to clamp down on these illegal streams. They conducted raids on pubs and businesses, shutting down those caught showing matches without a license. But with so many pubs involved, enforcement became a constant game of cat and mouse.

After that, Richard didn’t bring up the illegal broadcasting again—after all, they were both adults and understood the risks.

Time passed, and soon the two of them were deep in conversation—talking about City’s form, the Premier League dream, and the future of BlueMoon MCFC. After all, both had big plans for the site, and running a fan site was no small feat.

Turner would write match reviews late at night and upload them over a dial-up connection. Now, word was spreading. Fanzines were fading, and the internet—as patchy as it was—was starting to feel like the next big thing.

"I had three people from Ireland send letters," Turner said, grinning. "Printed out the match ratings, mailed them around—proper old-school internet."

Richard chuckled. "That’s dedication. So what—"

The bar was just about to close when six or seven middle-aged men suddenly pushed through the doors.

Without missing a beat, they made a beeline past the stools and regulars, heading straight toward the pool table at the back.

The group didn’t bother with pleasantries. One slapped a few coins onto the edge of the table while another racked the balls with practiced ease. They moved like they owned the place.

Richard glanced over and couldn’t help but notice the bruises—black eyes, swollen lips, scuffed knuckles. But none of them seemed to care. They were laughing, clinking pints, trading stories like nothing had happened.

From the bits of conversation drifting through the air, he quickly pieced it together: after the match, they’d jumped a few unlucky Derby County fans in an alley, given them a solid beating, then slipped away before the local police could show up—straight out of Derby and back to Manchester before anyone could pin it on them.

Richard’s face instantly darkened.

"They’re the guvnors," Turner said briefly, wiping a glass with a rag as he reluctantly glanced over at the group.

"Do they come here often?" Richard asked quietly.

Turner nodded.

Richard let out a slow breath, leaned in, and whispered,"I need you to help me find someone. The Blazing Squad’s top guy — I think his name’s Morran, or something like that. Whatever it is, he’s the one they all follow."