Football Dynasty-Chapter 306: Okocha’s New Role

Hello everyone, before you start reading, please note this: Due to a technical error during the editing and exporting process, half of this Chapter may appear duplicated. I am currently working to fix it, and I’ve already contacted the Webnovel admin — thank you for your understanding!

You can skip the duplicated part, as I’ve already placed a divider in the middle of this Chapter. Thank you!

_____________________

---------------------------------

F*ck!

The posts at White Hart Lane truly carry the spirit of Tottenham—glorious, stubborn, and cruel.

The shot crashes against the upright with a sickening thud that echoes through the stadium. A collective gasp rises from the stands. For a split second, time freezes.

But it’s not over—far from it.

The ball ricochets wildly off the post and drops into the six-yard box like a rogue pinball, plunging the area into utter chaos.

Tottenham’s Colin Calderwood scrambles back, attempting to clear, but misjudges the bounce. He stumbles awkwardly, crashing into his teammate Kerslake, who collapses beside him like a felled tree.

The ball bounces twice—once, twice—right along the goal line.

Neil Lennon reacts first.

He pounces, launching a low-driven shot toward goal!

Ian Walker saves it again!

He dives—not with his hands this time—but just manages to get his thigh in the way, blocking what should’ve been a certain goal.

White Hart Lane holds its breath. Fans are gasping, clutching their scarves, wide-eyed with disbelief.

The ball spins out of the chaos, rising gently through the air in a high, slow arc—a shimmering rainbow gliding across the dusk sky.

It falls outside the box, and just as the Tottenham defenders rush forward to regroup, they see him—a blur charging in.

Zanetti.

With perfect timing and a calm fury, he meets the falling ball and unleashes a thunderous volley.

Bang!

The net ripples.

Goal!

Top left corner. Unstoppable.

"One shot, two shots, three, four—and finally, Zanetti!" the commentator roars. "He scores his first goal for Manchester City! Andy, that was their fifteenth attempt of the half—and they’ve finally broken through! This match is wild!"

"Absolutely, Martin," Andy replies, laughing. "They’ve played beautiful football all half—sharp, intricate, dominant—and missed every chance. And in the end? It’s brute force that does the trick. That’s football for you."

"Still, no surprise that City takes the lead. They’ve earned it. Tottenham’s been holding on by a thread."

Zanetti sprints to the corner flag, arms wide, fists clenched, roaring with joy. His teammates rush to him, swarming him in celebration. Relief floods their faces—they’re finally on the scoreboard.

On the touchline, O’Neill and Robertson hug tightly, finally letting out the tension that’s been building all half.

After so many missed opportunities, after trying to unlock the door with patience and finesse—they found out sometimes, you just have to kick it down.

F*ck!

The posts at White Hart Lane truly carry the spirit of Tottenham—glorious, stubborn, and cruel.

The shot crashes against the upright with a sickening thud that echoes through the stadium. A collective gasp rises from the stands. For a split second, time freezes.

But it’s not over—far from it.

The ball ricochets wildly off the post and drops into the six-yard box like a rogue pinball, plunging the area into utter chaos.

Tottenham’s Colin Calderwood scrambles back, attempting to clear, but misjudges the bounce. He stumbles awkwardly, crashing into his teammate Kerslake, who collapses beside him like a felled tree.

The ball bounces twice—once, twice—right along the goal line.

Neil Lennon reacts first.

He pounces, launching a low-driven shot toward goal!

Ian Walker saves it again!

He dives—not with his hands this time—but just manages to get his thigh in the way, blocking what should’ve been a certain goal.

White Hart Lane holds its breath. Fans are gasping, clutching their scarves, wide-eyed with disbelief.

The ball spins out of the chaos, rising gently through the air in a high, slow arc—a shimmering rainbow gliding across the dusk sky.

It falls outside the box, and just as the Tottenham defenders rush forward to regroup, they see him—a blur charging in.

Zanetti.

With perfect timing and a calm fury, he meets the falling ball and unleashes a thunderous volley.

Bang!

The net ripples.

Goal!

Top left corner. Unstoppable.

"One shot, two shots, three, four—and finally, Zanetti!" the commentator roars. "He scores his first goal for Manchester City! Andy, that was their fifteenth attempt of the half—and they’ve finally broken through! This match is wild!"

"Absolutely, Martin," Andy replies, laughing. "They’ve played beautiful football all half—sharp, intricate, dominant—and missed every chance. And in the end? It’s brute force that does the trick. That’s football for you."

"Still, no surprise that City takes the lead. They’ve earned it. Tottenham’s been holding on by a thread."

Zanetti sprints to the corner flag, arms wide, fists clenched, roaring with joy. His teammates rush to him, swarming him in celebration. Relief floods their faces—they’re finally on the scoreboard.

On the touchline, O’Neill and Robertson hug tightly, finally letting out the tension that’s been building all half.

After so many missed opportunities, after trying to unlock the door with patience and finesse—they found out sometimes, you just have to kick it down.

The stands at White Hart Lane fell into a stunned silence.

That kind of fierce, relentless attacking style—that used to be our football.

When did it become something a newly promoted side like Manchester City could pull off?

After Zanetti’s goal sent the away end into a frenzy, one figure stood out in the chaos—Carl Morran, a die-hard City fan and a member of the UK garage group Blazin’ Squad.

Stationed right at the front of the away section, Carl erupted with such raw emotion that he tore off his shirt without hesitation. It was only early March—the air was still bitterly cold—but he didn’t care.

Veins pumping with adrenaline and pride, he spun his shirt above his head like a helicopter, his chest red from both the chill and sheer passion. Around him, City fans bounced, roared, and chanted in unison.

Then Carl, voice hoarse and fists clenched, led the charge:

"El Tractor! El Tractor! El Tractor!"

The chant echoed through the away end.

In a club bursting with rising legends and cult heroes, Richard understood the power of nicknames—not just for the fans, but for shaping the players’ identities and building myth.

Ronaldo had already captured imaginations as "The Alien"—a player whose talent seemed otherworldly.

Henrik Larsson was dubbed "The King of Kings"—a moniker fit for his elegance, leadership, and regal presence in front of goal.

And for Javier Zanetti, Richard gave him a title that fit perfectly:

"El Tractor."

Not flashy, but always there—charging up and down the pitch, covering more ground than anyone else. Cleaning up in defense, providing width in attack, closing down threats, and bringing calm under pressure.

After the Olympics, Zanetti had completely won over all of Manchester City’s supporters—not just through his performances, but through his unmatched professionalism. Even many neutral fans came to admire him as a role model.

He perfectly embodied the kind of footballer English fans cherish most: hard-working, humble, relentless—a true reflection of the working-class spirit.

This season, the number of Manchester City fans had surged dramatically. It wasn’t just due to their aesthetically pleasing style of play—their lightning-fast counterattacks and fluid passing drew attention. The frequent live broadcasts of City’s matches added to their exposure, and many of the squad’s rising stars had become fan favorites across the country.

But at that moment, Spurs manager Gerry Francis was having a headache. He saw exactly where the problem lay.

Tottenham’s defense had been fixated on Ronaldo, which weakened their control of the flanks and gave Pirlo—the unheralded Italian youngster—space to dictate the game.

Before the second half kicked off, Francis urged his players to clamp down on Pirlo.

In the final seven minutes of the first half, Spurs narrowed their midfield shape and tightened the space around Pirlo, which led to three consecutive errors from the 17-year-old. Thankfully, Van Bommel had been there to cover him, sparing City from conceding.

PHWEEEEEE~

The first half ended with Manchester City leading 1–0, heading into the dressing rooms.

In the locker room, O’Neill took a moment to talk to Capdevila, preparing him mentally. Pirlo had enjoyed too much freedom early on—unmarked, playing passes and launching attacks like it was a training session.

But once Spurs adjusted, he started to falter. When the pressure came, he panicked.

He was still young, and O’Neill didn’t expect him to become a master overnight. This was all part of the process. At this stage, the mental game was more important than technical skill.

Many talented players had been crushed under the weight of competitive football—often not because of a lack of skill, but due to psychological strain.

As the second half began, Spurs believed they’d cracked the code—press Pirlo aggressively and disrupt City’s rhythm.

But the rabbit was awake now.

Pirlo began to toy with Spurs’ midfielders, dancing through their traps. He no longer held the ball long; instead, he sprayed quick passes, always moving, always just out of reach. Van Bommel offered support behind him, while the pressure on Neil Lennon eased—giving him more space to attack.

With a crisp touch, Pirlo fed the ball to Okocha, who drove forward. The four-man City attack shifted into motion, moving like clockwork.

Spurs’ commitment to closing Pirlo left gaps—and he exploited them with surgical precision.

Francis, seeing the breakdown unfold in real-time, leapt to his feet in fury.

Lennon feinted a shot, then slipped a perfectly timed through-ball into the penalty area—a move City had rehearsed countless times.

Pires darted behind the defenders.

He wasn’t the fastest, but his timing and positioning were flawless. He connected at a tight angle and with a graceful touch, curled the ball toward the far corner.

The ball curved beautifully, almost as if it would miss—until it dipped just inside the post.

Walker lunged, fingers outstretched—but it was too late.

Goal.

With a two-goal advantage, the match was effectively over. And to make it even more special, Zanetti had just recorded his first-ever goal for Manchester City—a moment that capped off a dominant display and solidified his place in the hearts of the fans.

_____________________

---------------------------------

"What a beauty! Zanetti’s goal is definitely in the running for the Premier League’s Goal of the Week — probably rivaling Andy Cole’s thunderous long-range effort against Manchester City. Andy, it looks like City’s tactics have shifted again today. Have you noticed that 17-year-old Italian kid?"

"I’ve had my eyes on him for the past hour. He plays like a ghost — you barely notice him, yet everything flows through him. Without him, City’s midfield would collapse. He doesn’t deliver assists or take shots, but he unlocks Lennon. That’s his genius. Lennon doesn’t have to drop deep anymore. He lingers higher up the pitch, right on the edge of danger. That last assist — it broke Spurs’ defensive line wide open. One moment the ball was in City’s backline... the next, Lennon had it at his feet."

"Every football coach knows one thing — the ball moves faster than the players. For a while, City tried to outpace time itself with rapid transitions. But now? They’ve matured. They’ve returned to the essence. Lennon doesn’t need to start the attack anymore. He finishes it. And that makes City terrifyingly efficient."

With a two-goal cushion, City’s Zanetti finally etched his name onto the Premier League scoresheet.

On the touchline, O’Neill stood calmly with a slight smile, while Gerry Francis wore a grim, resigned expression.

His tactical adjustments resembled patchwork — plugging one hole only for another to appear. Containing Lennon may have disrupted his rhythm, but it also unleashed his full attacking threat — and that proved equally disastrous. Not to mention, his deep-lying role was unexpectedly reinforced by Pirlo.

"What to do now?!" Francis muttered under his breath.

In this era, there’s no shortage of forwards willing to commit to defensive duties. After all, the philosophy of total football is rooted in that very idea. But in English football, it still hasn’t become the norm for wingers and forwards to track back extensively.

Francis was left shouting from the sidelines, urging his players to drop deeper — at the very least, instructing Sheringham to help press Pirlo near the halfway line. As a result, Spurs’ shape began to compress.

And for the next stretch of the match, one man dominated the pitch: Mark van Bommel.

Every time Spurs attempted to push through the midfield, the Dutchman was there — anticipating, intercepting, disrupting.

Sky Sport’s commentator Martin Tyler could barely contain his excitement, "Mark van Bommel is a key player who can reshape the game!"

In defense, he guarded space with tactical intelligence. In possession, he ensured continuity and control. His pass completion rate — the highest in the team over the last 18 months — stood at over 84%. His passes after interceptions kept the tempo alive, anchoring Manchester City’s tactical balance.

Spurs, meanwhile, had become disjointed — their formation stretched and flattened. With ten minutes to go, Francis signaled a final push: raise the tempo, take more risks. The center-backs pressed higher, hoping to compress the midfield — especially with just a single striker left up front.

Several long balls followed — but they came to nothing. Manchester City’s counterattacks, however, were now meeting firm resistance in the middle third.

Then, with just three minutes left on the clock, City launched another break.

Spurs players were still recovering their shape when Pirlo found himself in space. Their midfield had collapsed around him, and the fullbacks were tightly marking Okocha and Lennon.

Pirlo received the ball, lifted his head briefly, then looked down — and delivered a masterful long pass. The ball glided effortlessly over the midfield and dropped just outside the Spurs penalty area.

Cauldwood turned to chase, but Larsson had already surged past him.

Ronaldo — alert and perfectly timed — broke through the line with a diagonal run just as Pirlo’s pass arrived. A second slower, and he’d have been offside. A second faster, and the pass would’ve gone behind him. But it was perfect.

At the edge of the box, the Brazilian brought the ball down with a flawless chest control. Cauldwood lunged in, but Ronaldo feinted, halted, and shifted direction in one fluid motion.

He drove into the penalty area. Walker rushed out — but Ronaldo, who had already missed two golden chances earlier in the game, wasn’t going to squander this one.

A calm, composed shot curled into the far corner.

White Hart Lane fell silent.

Only the distant roar of City’s away supporters echoed through the stadium.

Three goals. Total dominance.

"Fantastic! We’ll stomp all over you!" someone bellowed from the stands.

Ronaldo turned, grinning, and pointed straight at Pirlo before jogging back into his half.

On the sidelines, O’Neill clapped steadily. Before the final whistle, he made two late substitutions to run down the clock.

At full-time, he extended a cordial handshake to Francis. Earlier in the season, the two managers had exchanged pleasantries — but today, Francis, tight-lipped and grim, simply nodded before walking away.

Manchester City had stormed White Hart Lane with a brilliant 3–0 victory.

Full-time: Tottenham Hotspur 0 – 3 Manchester City

CLAP!

Richard clapped his hands in quiet satisfaction before rising to his feet.

For today’s match, he was alone — both Miss Heysen and Marina were busy attending to their respective duties. That left only his ever-watchful bodyguard by his side, silently accompanying him through the roaring chaos of the stadium.

That evening after the match, O’Neill and Robertson invited Okocha over for dinner. Of course, the invitation wasn’t just about food — O’Neill clearly had another intention in mind.

When Okocha arrived, the hosts welcomed him warmly. They enjoyed freshly roasted steak, drizzled with sauce straight from the oven, and opened a bottle of red wine. As they poured him a glass, O’Neill smiled and gestured toward the plate.

"Please, enjoy."

Okocha sat down at the dining table, familiar with the quiet routine. It wasn’t the first time he had a one-on-one dinner with the gaffer and coaching staff. Back in training, O’Neill often invited players into his office for a personal chat — especially newcomers — to check how they were adjusting to life in Manchester.

Dinner flowed smoothly, the conversation light and easy. But after the plates were cleared, Okocha could sense that the evening wasn’t meant to end with small talk. He didn’t press — just waited, knowing the real reason would come soon enough.

Sure enough, as Robertson took away the last dish, O’Neill reached for his bag and pulled out a slim, leather-bound notebook — a tactical journal.

With a calm smile, he placed it on the table in front of Okocha.

"August," he began, his voice thoughtful, "you’ve probably guessed that I wanted to talk football. More specifically, about your career."

Okocha nodded slowly, reaching for his tea and taking a sip. He sat up straighter, attentive now.

O’Neill continued, "To be honest, August, you have the kind of talent and work ethic every coach hopes for. You listen. You follow instructions. You don’t argue for the sake of ego. And because of that, I want to have a conversation — not a command. This is about your future, not just this week’s match."

Okocha’s expression changed. The casual tone was gone now, replaced by seriousness. He gave a quiet nod.

O’Neill paused briefly, then slid the notebook toward him.

"Take a look at this."

Okocha opened it. Inside were neatly sketched tactical diagrams — the first page showed a 4-4-2 formation, the next a 4-3-3.

The player positions were clearly marked, symmetrical, with precise lines denoting attacking and defensive movements. Dashed lines indicated defensive runs. Solid lines traced paths into the final third.

Okocha’s eyes were immediately drawn to his own position.

In the 4-3-3, he was a winger.

In the 4-4-2, he appeared as a wide midfielder and sometimes inside forward, just like Henry.

Despite the shift in structure, the offensive instructions were nearly identical — the solid lines slashed toward the opponent’s penalty box. Defensively, his role demanded he track back just ahead of the full-backs, covering space in transition.

O’Neill leaned forward slightly.

"This is just a basic sketch, August — offensive and defensive expectations by shape. Now tell me...Do you understand what skills your position will demand in the future?"

The question caught Okocha off guard. He furrowed his brow, eyes still scanning the page.

After a brief pause, he looked up.

"Boss... do you want me to play closer to the penalty area?"