Chapter 476: Chapter 476

Manchester City raised the Super Cup at the Louis II Stadium for the first time.

After the game, O’Neill naturally became the center of attention. He had underestimated Chelsea before the match, only to dismantle them with a cautious counter-attacking strategy. The turnaround was dramatic, yet the outcome was enough for him to hold his head high in front of the media. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ novel⸺fire.net

After the final whistle, Chelsea-Manchester City, and especially Bates and Richard all made sure everything was in order before the post-match interviews began.

When a reporter asked if he felt proud of defeating Chelsea and claiming the title for the first time in his career, Richard turned serious, anticipating how O’Neill would respond.

O’Neill replied calmly at first, "I don’t even know where this pride comes from. Is it because of the trophy or because we beat Chelsea? If it’s the former, I can’t say I’m proud, but I am satisfied with the players’ performance. If it’s the latter, that seems absurd to me — Chelsea isn’t anything remarkable, though they definitely played up to their standard.

He paused, then his tone sharpened. "Before the match, everyone kept saying Desailly and Leboeuf paartnership are better than Cannavaro and Thuram. Did you all forget who made City concede the fewest goals last season?"

He continued, leaning slightly forward. "And then you said Wise and Di Matteo would outclass Zidane and Makélélé. Are you crazy? That’s the most ridiculous comparison I’ve ever heard. Comparing two teams based on individual matchups is meaningless. Cannavaro isn’t going to face Desailly one-on-one, and Thuram doesn’t defend against Leboeuf. Does it really matter who’s better on paper?

"What’s important is that Cannavaro and Thuram neutralized Flo and Casiraghi, while Makélélé restricted Wise and Di Matteo. Chelsea couldn’t handle City’s attacking players. We’re simply stronger. There’s nothing to argue about. So should I feel proud for defeating a weaker team? Yes — but only because we proved our strength, not because of their weakness."

When the reporter repeated the question, asking if O’Neill truly felt proud of defeating Chelsea and winning the title again, Richard remained serious. But after hearing the full response — blunt, even a little aggressive — he nodded in agreement.

O’Neill had said what everyone else had been thinking. The best approach is not to overdo psychological warfare, but you definitely need it in football, expecially it’s important role in the long-term sustainability of a football league.

Sometimes, fans don’t watch football just for tactics — they watch for stories. Rivalries, pride, revenge, underdog comebacks — these narratives make every match feel bigger. When managers or players use psychological tactics, they create tension that keeps fans, sponsors, and the media engaged.

It’s similar to WWE SmackDown: the fights themselves are only part of the show. What truly drives viewership are the stories — the rivalries, betrayals, and bold claims before the match. When one wrestler says, "I’ll destroy him in the ring," fans immediately tune in to see if it’s true.

That same principle applies in football — it builds identity and passion.

For example, Alex Ferguson’s Manchester United mastered the art of "mind games." He pressured referees through the media, planted mental doubt in rival managers, and used public comments to strengthen his team’s us-against-them

Because of this, the league became more dynamic. The competition didn’t grow flat, predictable, passionless, or commercially dull — it stayed alive and full of emotion.

Ferguson’s psychological warfare created an aura of dominance that lasted for decades — not just by winning matches, but by shaping how people perceived the club.

A confident, mentally resilient team keeps fans proud and loyal. And loyal fans are the lifeblood of a league’s sustainability.

To be honest, in this match, Richard had grown weary of the media’s constant elevation of Chelsea’s supposed "prowess."

Yes, Chelsea had improved — they had certainly made progress — but that didn’t mean they had reached a level worthy of being called a top team caliber. Especially when the media, out of boredom, compared teams vertically by "strength," a method he found absurd.

Normally, comparing two teams means evaluating players across three lines — defense, midfield, and attack — to see who’s stronger in each position. But as a head coach, O’Neill never compared teams that way. To him, it was meaningless.

When he analyzed opponents, his comparisons were reversed. Midfielders might directly confront each other — that mattered for controlling the center — but comparing defenders to defenders, or forwards to forwards, had nothing to do with how a match actually played out.

He only compared the opponent’s forwards to his own defenders, and his own forwards to the opponent’s defenders, carefully crafting his strategy around those dynamics.

If their defenders were slow, he exploited the speed advantage. If they struggled in aerial duels, he used long balls. If the opponent’s forwards were quick and incisive, he adjusted his defensive line, assigning Cannavaro to play deeper to intercept runs. If the opponent relied on long passes, the defenders focused on controlling the space.

He could honestly admit that the midfield combination of Makélélé and Pirlo had no possession advantage against Chelsea. So, he adjusted his tactics and focused on wing play. Manchester City’s attack spread wide across the pitch, maximizing their strengths and minimizing their weaknesses — that was the key to victory.

The post-match interview ended on a sour note, with O’Neill criticizing the media. He believed their constant comparisons disrespected his players and affected their morale. After all, no player would feel pleased hearing their performance compared unfavorably to their opponents — even after winning.

Still, a win made everything easier to swallow.

After the awards ceremony, Manchester City celebrated quietly before many players departed for international duty with their national teams.

O’Neill took the remaining few players back to Manchester. The next league match wouldn’t take place for another ten days.

Except for the main national-team players like Pirlo , most of the young starters either sat on the bench for their senior national teams or were called up to the U23 or U21 squads. O’Neill and Richard didn’t object. He believed that playing for youth internationals would aid their development, even if it risked City’s rhythm in upcoming fixtures — the so-called "FIFA virus."

Back in Manchester, Richard’s daily rhythm returned to normal.

And today’s agenda was simple — the interview.

When André Villas-Boas arrived at the club that morning, Manchester City were preparing for an away match. Richard had just wrapped up his morning work when he ran into the newcomer in the corridor — a young man in a neatly pressed suit, standing stiffly, almost too formal for the occasion.

"Hello," Boas greeted politely.

When Richard saw him, he was momentarily taken aback.

Twenty-one years old!

Six months earlier, Villas-Boas had briefly worked as the director of the British Virgin Islands national team — and now, Manchester City had finally accepted him, arriving with a letter of recommendation from José Mourinho himself.

Richard nodded and shook his hand. Boas’s grip lingered a little too long — clearly nervous — until Richard smiled and gently pulled his hand away, prompting the younger man to release it immediately.

Inside Richard’s office, he gestured for Boas to take a seat.

"Although you were recommended by Mourinho," Richard began, "I’m not hiring you just because of him. I hope you can show me your own talent — something that makes me trust you."

Boas nodded and quietly took in the office. His eyes widened when he noticed the three framed photographs of Manchester City on the wall — images of the squad over the years, and a fresh one just below them, taken before last season’s Champions League final.

These photos represented the history of Richard’s era at City — the pride, the progress, the trophies.

Richard poured a glass of water and set it on the coffee table. Boas sat on the single sofa, while Richard settled onto the larger one. Without any preamble, he asked, "Tell me, what exactly did you do at Porto?"

Boas adjusted his tie nervously. "I was responsible for analyzing opponents — watching matches, studying individual players, their habits, strengths, weaknesses, tactical structures... I’d compile the data and prepare reports for the coaching staff."

Richard nodded, "A pure analyst, then."

That was expected. He remembered André Villas-Boas’s story — especially when he managed Chelsea and how Fleet Street had dug up everything about him.

"Having never played football at any level, his analysis and scouting of the opposition were unlike anything Sir Bobby had ever seen from someone his age. It was this talent that led Sir Bobby to instruct the club to pay for his UEFA C coaching license when AVB was just 17."

That was what The Times had written. Boas had earned a reputation for his precision and dedication.

After that Mourinho promoted him to the first team as Opposition Scout at Porto. His task also included analysis of opposition sides and evaluation of games as well as improving team shape and confidence of star players. In fact, he produced detailed tactical and player analysis reports, helping Mourinho prepare strategies that led to Porto’s Champions League and league success.

Later, during Mourinho’s successful spell at Chelsea, it was revealed that Boas had produced meticulous, twenty-page intelligence reports on opponents — even those from the lower leagues. His attention to detail earned widespread respect within the football world. Having someone like him on the staff didn’t just sharpen preparation; it quietly elevated the club’s entire standard of professionalism, even if most of the public never saw the work behind the scenes.

Still, Richard tested him. "You know," he said casually, "we already have five people doing that kind of work here."

Of course, that wasn’t entirely true — he just wanted to see how Boas would respond.

In truth, Richard didn’t know exactly how many people worked under Marina Granovskaia. From match analysis and data collection to preparing tactical reports for the first team, her department — working closely with Ram Mylavagam from Prozone — handled everything.

Richard and the coaching staff simply received the finished reports. That much he knew, because whenever City played in the Champions League, their scouts were already in the stands weeks beforehand, studying opponents in meticulous detail — tracking formations, transitions, and every subtle tactical habit.

Boas didn’t flinch. "Then I can build a player database," he said quickly. "I’ve already started one — it covers attributes, tendencies, statistics, even preferred movement zones. If an opponent fields a new player, the database will immediately help identify him.

Richard chuckled. "We already have that too."

Boas blinked — surprised, even a little deflated. But Richard could tell the spark hadn’t dimmed. The boy was processing, recalibrating, trying to find another way to prove himself.

Of course, what Boas didn’t realize was that his database was far more detailed than anything City had — more, even, than most professional analytics institutions could boast. Had he not been destined for coaching, he could easily have built a career in football intelligence — working for an analytics firm, or even designing player ratings for video games.

Richard decided to ease the tension. "Tell me," he said with a grin, "do you only want to be a scout here at City?"

Boas hesitated, then met his gaze. "No, sir. I want to be a coach. But I know I have to earn that right."

Richard nodded slowly. "Good answer. In that case, here’s what we’ll do. You’ll review all the scouting reports before they reach me. If you see any weaknesses, point them out. Once you’re familiar with the system, help update the database. Then, during first-team training, I’ll have you assist with specific drills. Learn how we work — from the ground up."

Boas blinked in surprise, then slowly asked, "I... I’m hired?"

Richard’s grin widened. "If you want to be a coach, you start from the basics. If I let you do only what you’re already good at, when will you ever grow into the coach you want to be?"

Boas’s eyes glimmered — a mix of disbelief and excitement. He stood and shook Richard’s hand again, this time with confidence.

"Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint you."

"I know," Richard said, smiling.

After signing the paperwork, Boas asked if he could accompany the team to their upcoming away match. Richard agreed immediately — his enthusiasm was exactly what City needed.

Youth had never been a problem for Manchester City.

Done with André Villas-Boas, Richard leaned back in his chair, a faint grin tugging at his lips. One challenge down.

Now, his sights turned to the next — the final boss. The man known across Europe as "The Sergeant," the fitness guru who turned teams into war machines.