Chapter 455: Chapter 455

Richard sat in the director’s box with the others, his eyes fixed on the pitch below. The air was electric — different now, heavier with expectation rather than awe. The clash between Manchester City and Manchester United no longer carried the same sense of intimidation it once did.

Three years ago, City had approached this fixture as outsiders, challengers desperate to prove they belonged. Back then, playing against Manchester United felt like standing before a mountain — immense, immovable, and far above them.

But times had changed.

The Premier League and Champions League triumphs had reshaped everything. City’s fans no longer looked at United as an untouchable giant. The players, too, had shed the inferiority that once haunted them. They had beaten United before, and they knew they could do it again. The fear was gone — what remained was ambition, hunger, and a fierce resolve to prove themselves once more.

The referee’s whistle pierced through the roar of the crowd — kickoff.

Manchester United started with the ball.

In midfield, Scholes received the first pass, his movement calm and methodical. He glanced up, then rolled the ball to Giggs on the left flank.

Giggs didn’t rush forward as he often did; instead, he played short one-twos with Keane and Irwin, easing United into rhythm, letting the team breathe and settle.

City, on the other hand, held their shape. O’Neill’s men didn’t press aggressively. They waited, patient and composed, forming a compact block that mirrored United’s cautious start. The opening minutes felt like a chess match — two experienced players testing each other’s defenses, looking for a crack but refusing to expose themselves too early.

The tension in the stands was almost physical. Every completed pass drew murmurs of anticipation, every interception a cheer. The fans could sense it — the calm before the storm.

This wasn’t the kind of match decided in the opening moments. Both sides understood that. The priority was simple: don’t concede first. The full-blooded, end-to-end battle would come later — once someone dared to draw first blood.

On the right wing, Beckham took possession, his signature long stride carrying him down the touchline. Immediately, Ronaldinho closed in — light on his feet, his body shifting with feline agility as he shadowed Beckham’s every move.

A faint chorus of boos rippled through the stands whenever Beckham touched the ball.

The echoes of the 1998 World Cup still lingered, and the criticism Beckham received during that tournament had not been forgotten. Thankfully, the Maine Road crowd reacted calmly. It wasn’t the seething hatred Beckham had often faced in other stadiums since that infamous red card made him England’s villain.

Yorke controlled the ball neatly before slipping a pass to Giggs, who darted into the box. Realizing that Zambrotta had expertly blocked his path inside, Giggs changed direction, darting wide before whipping in a cross from near the touchline. Cole narrowly missed the connection, but Yorke was quick to follow up—only for Lucio to retreat in time and clear the danger over the byline.

Both teams began cautiously, feeling each other out. The tempo stayed measured—brief flashes of acceleration followed by moments of calm. Neither side wanted to open up too soon; pressing too hard might create chances, but it also meant leaving gaps to be punished.

At the back, Manchester City’s defense looked solid. With Materazzi (RB), Thuram (CB), and Lucio (CB) anchoring the line, their aerial presence at set pieces was formidable. Beckham’s corner curled in beautifully, but the trio rose in unison to clear, denying United any opportunity to capitalize.

Applause rippled through the stands—fans could sense the newfound stability brought by the club’s latest signings.

On the touchline, O’Neill and Mourinho stood side by side, eyes sharp, their expressions unreadable. Every time City transitioned from defense to attack, the instructions were clear: play through Ronaldinho.

The reasoning was simple—Keane and Scholes were tasked with shielding United’s midfield. If they drifted wide to help the full-backs, Okocha and Stanković would exploit the gaps through the middle.

"Here comes Ronaldinho with the ball! Beckham’s sprinting back to cover—trying to cut off his inside lane! Neville’s dropped his stance, ready to block him—what’s Ronaldinho going to do? Will he play it safe and pass back? Wait—no! Ronaldinho bursts into a dazzling move! A feint to the right—Neville’s caught flat-footed, Stam’s trapped inside—he spins, drives toward goal, and fires! But Schmeichel reads it perfectly and smothers the shot!"

Richard shot to his feet, ignoring the dark look on Martin Edwards’ face beside him. He clapped enthusiastically from the director’s box, applauding the brilliant piece of play.

He had worried earlier that O’Neill might bench Ronaldinho again, but seeing the Brazilian not only start—but dazzle—filled him with genuine relief and pride.

Meanwhile, Ronaldo’s threat on the opposite flank forced Giggs to track back much deeper than usual. Manchester United knew his game inside out—and it had to be said, one man alone couldn’t contain Il Fenomeno.

That was why Ronaldinho had become the key to breaking the deadlock. If he could consistently outplay Neville in one-on-one duels, Beckham would be forced to drop back and defend, limiting his ability to push forward. City might not seize total control of the match that way, but they would successfully blunt one of United’s sharpest weapons—their dominance on the wings.

In the previous season, if City managed to suppress both wings of their opponents, it was almost equivalent to prying open the gates of victory. But this season’s Manchester United posed a different challenge.

With Yorke capable of holding up the ball and orchestrating play through the center, United could still launch effective attacks even when their flanks were under heavy pressure. As long as Yorke retained possession, the wings could time their runs and support the attack fluidly.

Richard couldn’t help but nod approvingly toward O’Neill. The manager had clearly done his homework—he understood Manchester United’s patterns inside and out.

On the opposite touchline, Ferguson stepped closer, his expression darkening as he barked instructions. The tempo of United’s attack was far too slow for his liking.

Beckham’s lack of pace was proving to be a problem. By the time he advanced from deep, City’s defense had already settled into shape.

Even when he received the ball, he found himself in awkward positions, too far from goal to deliver an effective cross.

Zambrotta is the problem. He marked his zone with precision, never giving Beckham an inch near the dangerous areas. City’s defensive line was disciplined—if an opponent entered within 35 yards of goal, they immediately closed down and fought to reclaim possession.

With Beckham forced to operate far from goal, even his famous crosses lost their sting. City defenders stayed compact, refusing to be drawn out of position, rendering his deliveries largely harmless.

Then, on the opposite flank, Ronaldinho lit up the pitch once again. Dribbling forward with effortless flair, he executed a flurry of step-overs, dazzling Neville before slipping past him on the outside. But before he could burst into the box, Beckham came tracking back and clipped him from behind, sending the Brazilian tumbling onto the turf.

The referee wasted no time blowing the whistle and brandished a yellow card toward Beckham. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ NovєlFіre.net

A murmur ran through the stands as Ronaldinho picked himself up, brushing grass off his shirt.

He placed the ball carefully on the turf, standing over it with quiet focus. Okocha jogged over, lowering his voice so only Ronaldinho could hear.

"Take it," Okocha said.

"...?" Ronaldinho tilted his head in surprise.

"Take it. The wall’s a bit close," Okocha muttered, glancing at the referee. "If I step over it and drag Keane and Scholes out, you curl it near post. Schmeichel’s leaning too far left."

"Wait, what? I’m the one taking it?" Ronaldinho asked, still unsure.

Okocha only shrugged. "Don’t waste the chance."

Ronaldinho was stunned — but deep down, anticipation began to build.

His eyes flicked toward the goal, reading the setup in an instant. "Near post, yeah? If they bite, I’ll go over the wall."

Okocha gave a small nod and backed away, his body language selling the idea that he might take the kick himself.

Ronaldinho kept his eyes locked on the goal. He had it — the skill — though it wasn’t fully developed yet. He’d been working hard on his free-kick technique in training, fine-tuning his accuracy and power. Even those around him could sense his growing confidence.

Ronaldo stood at the top of the arc, drawing Manchester United’s attention and forcing them to commit defenders to him — they knew if he got the ball, it could spell disaster.

The rest of City’s players were tightly marked, making passing options nearly impossible.

As Ronaldinho’s gaze hardened and he prepared to take the free kick, he suddenly bent slightly and placed one hand behind his back, giving a subtle signal. Okocha, who caught it out of the corner of his eye, was momentarily taken aback.

Manchester United’s defenders expected the ball to be passed to Okocha — but Ronaldinho’s faint gestures, his eyes, and the look on his face made them hesitate for just a split second.

Sure enough, every Manchester United defender had the same thought the moment the referee blew the whistle —

’He’s going to shoot!"’

Ronaldinho’s posture sold it perfectly: his stance, the slight lean forward, the intense stare at the goal — everything screamed direct shot. Even Schmeichel braced himself, shifting his weight, ready to dive.

The Brazilian boy was bluffing!