NOVPUB
Chapter 98: Let’s Go!
"OOOH! That’s a big hit!" the commentator shouted, his voice filled with concern. "A perfect challenge from Ellis, but it looks like Lake is in real trouble here!"
Lake collapsed to the ground, clutching his knee in agony. His face contorted in pain as he lay on the pitch, his fingers digging into his knee as if trying to hold it together. Time seemed to slow as the pain took hold.
The crowd’s reaction was a mixture of concern and frustration. Some were on their feet, urging Lake to get up, while others looked on with bated breath, hoping he wasn’t seriously hurt. Only after seeing Lake’s scream and his face twisted in agony did they calm down.
Even the Blackpool fans, who would normally cheer a good challenge, fell quiet, sensing the seriousness of the moment.
PHWEEEEE!!
The referee blew his whistle urgently and rushed over to check on Lake, while his teammates gathered around, faces filled with concern. The crowd, equally anxious, held their breath, waiting for any sign that Lake would be okay.
Richard, from the director’s box, was visibly enraged. His face turned crimson as he leaned forward, pointing furiously at the pitch. "What was that?!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the tension in the stadium. "That’s a foul! A clear foul! How is that not a booking?!"
The fans around him were stunned by the outburst, but soon some began to echo his frustration.
A few of them stood up, "Yeah, that’s a foul! How is that not a booking?!" they shouted, their voices rising in unison.
"Come on! He’s got to give a yellow for that!" another shouted
Now it was Richard’s turn to be stunned. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. ’With the new stadium, I promised the director’s box would be soundproof, but hell, it can be switched to non-soundproof whenever we need it.’
He gestured toward the sleek, state-of-the-art facilities, the polished glass windows offering a panoramic view of the pitch. "We spent millions on this, and now I’m just realizing we’ve got the technology to flip the switch anytime—make it as loud or as quiet as we want," he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Hey, calm down, calm down," John’s voice suddenly broke through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.
"Hey, guys, tone it down, would you?" Richard quickly followed up, trying to calm the person beside him who had already stood up.
Just three days ago, he’d been warned about some crazy individuals. There was no way he was going to let anything ruin his first official match.
Here’s why English football hooliganism thrived in the first place. It’s not just a coincidence that people have such violent tendencies.
For the English, football is a tough, no-holds-barred sport, where passion and grit are paramount. Players who shy away from physical confrontations or battles for the ball risk losing the respect of the fans.
The rougher you play, the happier the people are, as long as you don’t cross the line. Fans do not applaud based on whether their team’s playstyle is conservative or flamboyant, nor do they abandon their spirited chants when the team falls behind.
For them, loyalty—often spanning generations—is unwaveringly pledged to a singular club, regardless of whether that club is at its lowest or on top. The fans who sing, "We’re Not Really Here," embody this loyalty particularly well.
If current City and Blackpool were to play in Spain, at venues like Camp Nou or the Bernabéu, they would undoubtedly face a chorus of boos from the fans. However, here, even in moments where the team seemed disadvantaged—whether it’s a clearance, a tackle, or a collision—regardless of its legality, the crowd would applaud both sets of supporters.
That’s why Ronaldo, Cafu, and Roberto Carlos, who only tried to play with non-league teams, struggled. Richard could see they were playing cautiously, as they were entering a foreign league with a unique culture they needed to adapt to.
Had they faced clubs like Birmingham or Blackpool in a friendly, things might have played out differently.
As the first half came to a close, O’Neill, staying true to his style as a "player-manager," wasn’t the first to stride down the tunnel. Instead, he waited, giving each player a pat on the shoulder, one by one. After the last player had passed, he followed behind them.
With the score at 0-0, City had been largely confined to defensive duties during the first half. While they were commendably resolute, there was a distinct lack of effective and fluid attacking play, especially considering O’Neill’s tactical directives, which restricted all players except the center-backs from making aimless long balls.
The players trudged into the locker room, heads down, exhausted from the first half. O’Neill followed them in, his mind already turning over what needed to be done.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Players slumped on benches, their bodies soaked with sweat.
Steve Lomas, the center midfielder, angrily threw his water bottle against the wall. "This isn’t working!" he snapped.
No one disagreed.
O’Neill stepped in, closing the door behind him. Silence fell. He let it linger for a moment before speaking.
"We’re abandoning the wings now," he said firmly.
The players looked up in shock.
"What?" Tony Grant, Paul Lake’s partner on the wing, wiped sweat from his brow. "Coach, I can play in the midfield!" n𝚘𝚟𝚙𝚞𝚋.𝚌o𝚖
"That’s why you’re getting substituted," O’Neill said, slapping him hard across the shoulder, sending a wave of anger through Grant.
As a senior player, Grant’s pride was on the line.
"What? Did you say something?" O’Neill stepped forward, towering over him.
Everyone was surprised by this. Usually, O’Neill was approachable, even friendly. But today, he seemed different.
Indeed, there was no room for negotiation. His discipline was non-negotiable. Rules were his foundation, and when someone challenged his directives, he saw it as a breach of team integrity.
"N-no, coach," Grant quickly shut his mouth. The season was long, and he definitely didn’t want to get into trouble with the new manager.
O’Neill nodded in approval. "We don’t have the legs to play wide now that Paul is injured. Tony, you’re versatile enough to adapt to the middle," he said, walking over to the tactics board and wiping it clean. "But now it’s not about adapting. We need to chase the score. So, we change now."
He grabbed a marker and drew a new formation on the board. "We’re going with a 4-1-3-1-1. Keith, you’ll replace Tony as defensive midfielder. Ian, I hope you’re ready to step in for Paul."
At the mention of his name, Ian Ferguson straightened his back. "I’m ready, coach," he replied confidently.
Ian Ferguson, the new loanee from Rangers, hadn’t played in the friendly match, but he was familiar with the system. After all, the Scottish league wasn’t much different from English football.
O’Neill nodded. "Right. We’ll switch to a 4-1-3-1-1. We’ll sit deeper, stay compact, and counter quickly. Cafu and Roberto, don’t worry about losing your positions. Keith will cover for you, but make sure you track back quickly when needed."
He pointed to the midfield. "Steve, Ian, and Taylor, you’ll win possession and attack immediately. We stop wasting energy pressing and start using it for fast transitions—direct, fast, aggressive. Don’t worry about defense; Curle, Sol, and Ian will cover. Now, we attack their middle."
Then he turned toward Emile Heskey. "Emile, today I’m keeping my promise to make you a starter. I hope it’s a good experience for you, but now, I’m sorry, we’re chasing the score."
"Don’t worry, coach, I understand," Emile said with a smile. Barely 17, his time was still ahead of him.
Finally, O’Neill turned to the forwards. "Ole, are you ready?"
"Yes, coach," Solskjaer replied.
There was a reason Ole only came on in the second half—he’d been knocked out with the flu. This morning, O’Neill couldn’t tell whether to laugh or cry, watching his nose as red as a tomato.
"Then you’ll sub in for Emile," Still, O’Neill said, locking eyes with his striker. "We need you to keep their defense on edge."
And then came the trump card.
"Ronaldo," O’Neill said seriously.
’I think I can see and understand even better how multifunctional he is,’ O’Neill thought to himself, quietly admiring Ronaldo’s versatility.
You have players who are only good when they receive the ball in a certain part of the pitch. Some attackers are just really good in the box. This leaves a lot of responsibility on other players to get them the ball exactly where they want it.
Ronaldo was different. He loved to drop to the midfield, to receive the ball. Once he got the ball, defenders could only watch him zoom by like he had rocket boosters strapped to his boots. He was incredibly skilled.
Of course, he wasn’t perfect, so O’Neill’s instructions were clear: "Ronaldo, you’ll play behind Ole, and you can play freely. Treat it like a training match. Just express yourself. But..." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Attack their left flank. Roberto will cooperate with you."
With Paul Lake’s injury seeming severe, all the previous formations became jumbled, so this new formation came to his mind. They were now back to square one, as this was the time to shape the team, focusing on establishing a solid foundation, once again.
After encouraging his players, O’Neill clapped his hands to get their attention.
"I firmly believe in you—all of you are the finest. Truly, ask me a hundred times, and I will respond a hundred times: you are the best. I hope you all feel the same as we face the challenges ahead. You must leave your mark here. Do not come and go in obscurity. Fight for this club, fight for yourselves. Engrave your names in the annals of victory. As long as we persist, I truly believe we can overcome any obstacle that stands in our way and climb to the top of Europe and the world," he said before clapping his hands. "Let us unite and turn these dreams into reality. Go for it!"
"Let’s go, guys!"
"Let’s go!"
"Yeah, let’s go!"
"Come on!"
Once O’Neill finished, he turned and flung open the locker room door, leading the way onto the field. Behind him, the Manchester City team members echoed in unison, filled with determination.
