Football Dynasty-Chapter 296: Broken Spirits of West Ham Fans

PHWEEEE!

The sharp sound of the whistle echoed across the stadium.

The referee marched over with purpose, reached into his pocket, and—flash!—brandished a yellow card toward Michael Hughes.

On the sideline, Robertson looked ready to protest, but O’Neill held him back. As an experienced head coach, he knew better than Robertson.

If it had been Old Trafford or Highbury, a tackle like that might’ve earned a straight red.

In England, status speaks louder than protests. Unless your badge carried real weight—one of the top six clubs, steeped in decades of glory—arguing with officials was a waste of breath. Manchester City wasn’t there yet. Not in the eyes of referees, and certainly not in the silent hierarchy of influence that governed English football.

The game resumed, and Manchester City’s players struggled to adapt to the physicality. In training, they were accustomed to off-the-ball runs, quick interchanges, and one-touch passing. However, today they had to break those seamless movements into several distinct actions.

They had to adopt a stand-still position, secure possession under physical pressure, and only then make their passes. The runs became less dynamic, making it hard to break free; the opposing players would closely mark them.

Only after about forty minutes of adapting did Manchester City’s ball control noticeably improve.

As for West Ham’s attacks, with the rhythm of the game slowed down, even their most straightforward passes were easily intercepted by City.

Iain Dowie received the ball on the wing, but just as it settled at his feet, Gallas muscled in and dispossessed him effortlessly.

When it comes to physical strength, few teams in the Premier League can rival Manchester City’s back four. However, City prefers elegance—they don’t embrace a physical, hard-hitting style of play.

Redknapp’s expression grew grave. He realized he had miscalculated. He had expected Manchester City to be a technically refined team reliant on fluidity, and had set his tactics to bully them—old-school, rough-and-tumble English football. Yet with the first half nearing its end, West Ham had not managed a single shot on goal, unable to break through City’s formidable defensive wall in front of the box.

With that, Redknapp had run out of clever ideas; all he could do now was hope his team could conjure something from a set-piece—one moment of chaos, one lucky break.

PHWEEEEE~

Redknapp exhaled in relief as his team managed to survive the onslaught, while O’Neill, sitting at the back of the bench beside Robertson, shook his head—already preparing to make a change.

At the start of the second half, Manchester City brought on Shevchenko to replace Henry.

Although Ronaldo and Henry had trained extensively to coordinate their movements, their partnership in the 4-4-2 setup hadn’t been effective. The issue lay in their tendency to drift toward the left, often congesting the same area and leaving the right flank of City’s attack exposed and underutilized.

West Ham had picked up on this pattern and capitalized on it, shutting down City’s attacks effectively throughout the first half.

When Shevchenko came on, everything changed.

Ronaldo shifted to the left, Shevchenko slotted in on the right—finally, a balanced front two.

It was the perfect fit for the 4-4-2 system.

In the second half, West Ham’s attacks still weren’t breaking through, and Redknapp began urging his midfield to push higher up the pitch, resorting to the most brutal long-ball tactics. However, this approach proved ineffective against City’s well-structured, layered defense.

The ball would come flying in—only to be cleared right back out again.

Manchester City’s players also had fully adapted and were now performing much better, displaying smooth coordination in tight spaces.

In the 60th minute, Robbie Savage launched into a sliding tackle from the right flank, cleanly intercepting the ball from Lazaridis. Fans along the sideline erupted, shouting for a foul, but Savage quickly got to his feet and passed the ball, muttering a curse under his breath at the West Ham supporters.

"F*ck you."

One irate West Ham fan roared back, but Savage didn’t even flinch—either he didn’t hear it, or he just didn’t care.

Lennon received the ball and passed it forward to Okocha, who was pushing up through the right-central channel. Zanetti, spotting the space ahead, made an overlapping run. Without hesitation, Okocha slipped a perfectly timed through-ball into his path.

With the ball being rapidly passed among them, West Ham’s defense was forced to tighten its grip.

Zanetti received the ball near the right edge of the penalty area. Without hesitation, he cut inside from the right and unleashed a powerful long-range shot from just outside the box.

The ball, like a cannonball, was slightly too direct. West Ham’s goalkeeper, Luděk Mikloško, leapt to make the save but couldn’t reach it due to the sheer speed of the shot.

The faces of West Ham fans froze—then came the sharpest, sweetest sound: Bang!

The ball crashed against the crossbar with a thunderous crack.

Zanetti clutched his head in disbelief as he watched the ball rebound... right into the air near the penalty spot, where someone had already leapt to meet it!

Inside the box, West Ham’s defenders stood frozen. Zanetti’s shot had momentarily stunned them, but City’s two strikers weren’t spectators—they had been drilled to chase down second chances.

It was Shevchenko, with razor-sharp instinct, who rose highest and powered a header toward the bottom-left corner—a direction Mikloško had no chance of covering.

As the ball hit the back of the net, Shevchenko landed on his feet and immediately turned to check the linesman’s flag. Seeing it stay down, he burst into a frenzied smile and sprinted toward the Manchester City supporters in the stands.

"It’s Shevchenko again! Zanetti’s long-range rocket slammed off the crossbar, but City were ready—Shevchenko followed up with a brilliant header to open the scoring!"

And just like that, the floodgates opened.

Fresh off Shevchenko’s opener, Manchester City found their rhythm—and West Ham simply couldn’t keep up.

In the 70th minute, it was Ronaldo’s turn. After a slick one-two with Lennon at the edge of the box, he ghosted past two defenders and calmly slotted the ball into the bottom right corner. The West Ham crowd fell into stunned silence.

West Ham United 0 - 2 Manchester City

Upton Park was in despair.

Redknapp sat with a grim expression, driven into a corner. The once-raucous atmosphere now felt like a weight pressing down on him. Under immense pressure, he quickly made a substitution—desperately sending on another forward in a last-ditch attempt to turn the tide.

Seeing the substitution, Robertson took advantage of a moment when the ball went out of play. He gestured quickly, waving Neil Lennon over. As Lennon approached, Robertson leaned in and whispered sharply, "Them strengthening their attack means one thing—space will open up at the back. Their defense is weaker now."

Lennon gave a sharp nod and jogged back onto the pitch, passing the message along.

Eight minutes later, in the 78th minute, Manchester City launched yet another attack.

This time, it was Ronaldo who turned creator. Latching onto a lofted through ball from Nakata, he brought it down with an elegant first touch, gliding past a defender with a quick step-over before cutting inside. With a flash of vision, he curled a low, teasing pass across the face of goal—perfectly weighted, inviting a final touch.

And to everyone’s shock—including the West Ham defenders—it wasn’t Shevchenko, nor Henry, nor even Okocha who arrived.

It was Robbie Savage.

Charging in like a man possessed, the midfielder lunged forward and met the ball with a thunderous first-time strike.

The net rippled violently. However, just as Savage was about to celebrate, an unexpected turn of events unfolded.

"Oh, for God’s sake..."

Richard instantly leaned forward in the VIP box, his eyebrows furrowed.

In the stands behind West Ham’s goal, a young fan wearing a Hammers jersey suddenly leaped over the barrier, taking advantage of a distracted security guard, and dashed onto the pitch.

Upton Park erupted—Hammers fans roared with laughter, cheering on their "brave" supporter.

The pitch invader, a man in his twenties, launched into a full sprint, instantly throwing the security team into chaos. The guards—none of whom looked like they’d seen the inside of a gym in years—gave chase. One hefty fellow tripped over his own feet and fell with all the grace of a felled tree, sending the crowd into hysterics.

But this wasn’t just a streak of mischief—the fan had a target.

Charging across the field, he flipped off the City players as he sprinted, yelling, "F**k you!" loud enough to draw the attention of both teams.

Ronaldo and Shevchenko were his first targets. Shevchenko looked like he was about to bolt toward the guy, but Ronaldo grabbed his arm and held him back.

The invader wasn’t done. He made a beeline toward City’s half, giving middle fingers to Lennon and Okocha as he ran by. Behind him, the security guards continued their bumbling pursuit, looking more like part of a comedy skit than a serious response team.

Now, the fan locked eyes on his final destination: the man who’d just scored, Robbie Savage.

From the VIP box, Richard stood up in alarm.

"Shit—don’t tell me we’re about to see a repeat of Cantona’s kung-fu kick!"

Even 23-year-old Nakata stood frozen in place, wide-eyed. He’d never seen anything like this.

The West Ham supporters, meanwhile, were loving every second—chanting, laughing, hailing the pitch invader like a cult hero.

As the man closed in, Savage didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked amused. He raised his middle finger back in perfect synchronization.

Five meters. Three meters. One meter—

What happened next?

True to his name, Savage didn’t choose violence—at least not at first. Just as the pitch invader charged toward him at full speed, Robbie Savage sidestepped smoothly, pivoted his body, and then raised his leg—

WHAM!

He tackled the fan with a textbook sweep, flipping him flat onto the turf!

The stadium fell into stunned silence.

"...."

Then came the eruption.

"WOW! What just happened?! That was the most explosive moment I’ve ever seen!" commentator Martin Tyler shouted. "Andy, did you see that?! Did you SEE that?! The fan rushed Savage—and Savage just... took him out!"

"That’s right, Martin," Andy Gray replied, barely able to contain his disbelief. "You could call it self-defense, but Savage definitely initiated physical contact. Now, the referee has a real dilemma on his hands!"

All eyes turned to the officials. The players froze. Even the security guards—still wheezing behind the scene—stopped in place.

Moments later, the referee approached Savage, flanked by two security officers who had finally reached the pitch invader and restrained him.

"But I was defending myself!" Savage barked, his voice rising in disbelief. "How did I know he wasn’t coming at me with a knife?!"

The fourth official spoke calmly but firmly. "Those are things you can explain to the FA after the match. Right now, we need to calm the crowd and continue the game. Please cooperate and leave the field."

Savage’s face burned with frustration, his jaw clenched. But the referee had already raised the red card.

He was sent off.

And though his tackle may have been justified in spirit, in the eyes of the law—it was still an offense.

As Savage walked off, the crowd erupted again—some cheering, some booing—but everyone watching knew one thing:

This match had just entered football folklore.

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