Football Dynasty-Chapter 545: Do You Want to Fight?

As the first half came to a close, the players made their way toward the tunnel. Both teams tried to maintain a composed appearance, but the Manchester City players were clearly disgruntled. Mourinho walked toward the tunnel from the touchline, while fans in the stands leaned forward, gesturing at him in all manner of ways.

Booing, jeering, sarcastic applause, curses, and laughter rang out from the crowd:

"Hey, don’t get too excited! We’re UNITED! We won’t be pushed around that easily! So what if you pulled one back? By the time this match is over, you’ll be crying all the way back home!"

Mourinho continued walking with a calm expression, seemingly unaffected by the pressure from the Manchester United supporters. Engaging with them would have been the most foolish response.

Back in the locker room, he scanned his players. They appeared fine, their spirits intact, though he noticed that a few had become overly emotional. After a brief moment of thought, he picked up a marker and sketched a simple tactical diagram on the board, circling Zambrotta’s position. Turning to him, Mourinho said calmly,

"Forget the first half. In the second half, keep pushing forward to support the attack. Don’t carry any psychological burden."

Let’s go all out!

Hearing this, Zambrotta nodded vigorously. Toward the end of the first half, he had been afraid that another mistake while pushing forward would lead to another goal against them, so he had played cautiously, staying deeper than usual.

Mourinho kept one crucial thought to himself: in truth, he believed that half the responsibility for the conceded goal lay with him as the head coach.

Turning to Makelele, he continued,

"Claude, if we find ourselves in a situation like the first goal again, don’t rush to intercept the counterattack. Drop back first, even if it means retreating all the way to the edge of the penalty area. The priority is to avoid being outnumbered in the most dangerous zones in front of our goal. Compress the space before they enter the box."

As he spoke, the players instinctively looked up at him. Seeing his calm smile, they felt reassured; it was clear the coach was not blaming them. After all, having a two-goal lead reduced to level terms within one half would inevitably dent confidence.

In fact, Mourinho’s original tactical plan had required Makelele to step out quickly and intercept counterattacks down the flanks. However, it had proven ineffective. The width of the pitch played a role, and against Manchester United’s two-wing system, it was unrealistic to expect Makelele to outrun the ball.

By having him cover both flanks, Zambrotta and Ashley Cole were encouraged to push forward too often, leaving gaps at the back. That was why City were caught out repeatedly in the first half. It was essentially the same situation as in the second goal, when Ashley Cole panicked. It was a tactical misjudgment that allowed space to open up in the center, giving Keane and Scholes the opportunity to push forward.

Adjusting the plan at halftime meant overturning his earlier setup, and Mourinho felt no shame in doing so. Everyone makes mistakes; errors are not frightening. What is frightening is refusing to acknowledge them and failing to learn.

By instructing Makelele to drop deeper after losing possession, even if Manchester United entered the box with numerical superiority, City’s defensive structure would remain intact, maximizing their ability to compress vertical space and limit danger.

After outlining several more detailed instructions, Mourinho once again lifted the team’s morale, praising their performance in the opening forty-five minutes and urging them to carry that intensity into the second half.

The halftime break came to an end, and the players made their way back onto the pitch.

However, before the substitutes could even take their seats, Mourinho suddenly stopped one of the players.

Gattuso.

"Gennaro, come here."

Gattuso paused, momentarily surprised, then jogged over. He stood in front of Mourinho, waiting, his expression serious.

Mourinho leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only the two of them could hear.

"Watch United’s number sixteen," he said calmly.

Gattuso frowned for a moment, then nodded.

"That’s Keane," Mourinho continued. "He doesn’t look dangerous when he doesn’t have the ball—but that’s when he’s at his most dangerous. He presses, he provokes, he drags people out of position. I want you to watch him closely."

Gattuso nodded again, this time more firmly.

"I understand," he said.

Mourinho straightened up, giving a brief pat on his shoulder.

All of City’s staff returned to the touchline—especially Mourinho, hands in his pockets, chin slightly raised. That posture alone gave the players a surge of confidence. As a head coach, he himself was part of the first line of defense; no matter the result, he could not be the first to crumble.

Sure enough, his composure gradually spread to the players on the pitch.

If a head coach showed timidity—shrinking back when facing Manchester United, lacking the courage to challenge them—then even a squad filled with stars, players with the aura and reputation of Baggio or Maldini, could still suffer a humiliating defeat.

PHWEEEEE—

Ferguson returned to his spot on the touchline, chewing his gum, looking as calm as he had been before kickoff.

Referee Durkin blew his whistle, signaling the start of the second half, and Manchester United kicked off.

Though the score was still level, United were running out of time. With only forty-five minutes left, they clearly had no intention of dropping points in the opening round of the league—especially not at home, and certainly not against a newly promoted side.

As a result, Manchester United launched a fierce offensive, forcing City to drop deep and defend in the opening minutes of the second half.

From the sidelines, Richard—watching the match closely—suddenly noticed something unusual about United’s shape. The number of red shirts involved in the attack seemed different from the first half.

At first, it felt like a visual illusion. When focusing on the midfield battle, the players at either end of the pitch blurred in his peripheral vision. Most of the time, the red and blue figures moved in roughly equal numbers.

But then it became clear.

Manchester United had committed more players forward than before.

Who?

The extra man had to be an unexpected element.

Richard narrowed his focus and finally spotted it—a player quietly advancing from defense into the attacking zone.

The left-back, Dennis Irwin.

However, what Richard had in mind naturally differed from what Mourinho envisioned.

Irwin played with a far more attacking instinct, pushing higher up the pitch to add extra firepower down the flank. The trade-off was obvious: the left side was left exposed. And leaving that kind of space against players like Ronaldinho—supported by the relentless overlapping runs of Ashley Cole—was an invitation to disaster.

As Ferguson realized this, his eyes widened. He saw Ashley Cole already surging forward, seamlessly linking up with Ronaldinho as they closed in on Giggs, who had just received the ball near the touchline. Ferguson’s heart sank; there wasn’t even time to shout a warning.

Giggs reacted on instinct. With a single, light touch, he slipped the ball to his right.

Irwin saw it instantly.

Spotting the opening, he burst forward from Giggs’s right side, accelerating into the space ahead of him.

"Intercept him!" Pirlo yelled.

The players, locked in intense concentration, couldn’t possibly hear the shout—and even if they had, reacting in time would have been nearly impossible.

But Ashley Cole did not disappoint. Having spotted the interplay between Giggs and Irwin, he reacted purely on instinct. This was precisely why Richard had promoted Ashley Cole in the first place: to fully exploit his aggression, speed, and defensive awareness.

Cole exploded into motion, tracking back with remarkable pace and cutting sharply across Irwin’s path just as the move began to unfold. He accelerated decisively, angling in from the side. Extending his thigh to block Irwin’s stride, he launched into a fierce tackle. He won the ball cleanly—but Irwin was sent tumbling to the ground.

Sensing his positional advantage, Ashley Cole immediately abandoned his post. Makélélé, reading the danger, dashed backward to cover the space Cole had vacated, ensuring no opponent could exploit the temporary gap.

"Continue!" referee Durkin shouted.

Ashley Cole rose to his feet, playing with even greater ferocity.

He surged forward, and the first to step into his path was Beckham—yet bypassing him proved almost effortless.

Still, Cole sensed danger. Lurking just behind, Roy Keane was already moving, watching him closely, like a crocodile waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Cole chose caution over bravado.

On the City bench, Mourinho saw it unfold and sprang to his feet.

"Gennaro, warm up!"

Gattuso had been studying Roy Keane’s influence on the game, his intensity, his command of midfield battles. The call caught him off guard—but only for a moment. A grin spread across his face. His time, in a match of this magnitude, had finally come.

Back on the pitch, Ashley Cole glanced up and caught sight of Roy Keane closing in. He decided not to carry the ball any further. His choice was clear.

Ronaldinho.

Already asking for the pass, Ronaldinho drifted into space, his body language calm, almost casual—as if the chaos around him didn’t exist.

BANG!

The ball rocketed off Cole’s boot.

Ronaldinho killed it instantly with a deft first touch, cushioning the pace as though the ball were tethered to his foot. Before Gary Neville could even settle into his stance, Ronaldinho flicked the ball upward with the outside of his boot, letting it skim just past Neville’s reach. Neville tried to lean in, using his body to disrupt the Brazilian—but Ronaldinho absorbed the contact effortlessly, rolling his shoulder and spinning away in one smooth motion.

The ball dropped obediently at his feet.

In a single heartbeat, Neville was behind him.

"Ohh—did you see that?! Absolutely outrageous!"

The crowd inhaled as one as Ronaldinho slipped past Gary Neville as if he weren’t even there.

When Ferguson saw this, he knew United’s chances of disaster now outweighed any sense of safety.

He snapped his head toward the nearest defenders.

Jaap Stam and Ronny Johnsen.

"DROP HIM!"

Stam went in anyway.

Ronaldinho had just nudged the ball past him, inviting contact, when Stam lunged—late.

Too late.

His shoulder smashed into Ronaldinho’s ribs, and his trailing leg clipped the Brazilian’s standing foot. The ball was already gone. Ronaldinho was sent spinning.

"HEY, REFEREE!"

The instant they saw it, City staff in the technical area burst out, protesting furiously.

PHWEEEE~

This time, the referee pointed decisively to the spot of the foul.

"Yes!" Richard clenched his fist the moment he saw the signal.

Frustrated and momentarily helpless, Ronaldinho bent down, picked up the ball, and held it tightly before slamming it onto the turf. But when he noticed the referee pointing to the white mark, his anger began to fade. He picked the ball up again and turned—only to see Pirlo already walking toward him.

When facing a master of set pieces, there was little he could do. Even the manager and the head coach could offer very little in moments like this.

The Manchester City side fell silent.

The Manchester United side, however, was anything but.

Ferguson and Roy Keane were animated, shouting instructions, gesturing frantically.

Should United commit more players to the wall? Or should they advise the goalkeeper which way to dive?

The stadium held its breath.

When Richard saw Pirlo take possession of the ball for the free kick, he immediately sensed that something was about to happen. He couldn’t be sure how far Pirlo’s set-piece ability had developed this season. Last year, despite their goal tally reaching double digits, their free-kick conversions had been merely average.

Defending a direct free kick doesn’t involve overly complex tactics. The wall blocks the near-post angles, while the goalkeeper guards the far post. The principle is simple: the wall forms a barrier along the shortest straight-line path between the ball and the goal. Players jump to expand the defensive area, and the goalkeeper prepares for a shot aimed at the far corner. If the ball is struck toward the far side, it takes longer to reach the goal, giving the goalkeeper more time to react.

United set up their wall, while other players closely monitored City’s attackers lurking inside and around the penalty area.

Calmly, Pirlo positioned himself behind the ball, studying the wall.

PHWEEE—

The whistle sounded, and Old Trafford fell silent.

Under the floodlights, Pirlo began his measured run-up. His left foot planted firmly beside the ball as his right leg drew back. At the same time, his left arm swept upward in a smooth arc to maintain balance as he leaned sharply to the left. He struck the ball cleanly with the instep of his right foot, generating immense spin and power.

The ball rose, spinning violently through the air. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

The wall jumped—Stam and Johnsen reaching their highest—but neither could make contact.

For a moment, it looked as though the ball would sail over the bar. But after clearing the wall, it dipped suddenly, following an exaggerated, rainbow-like arc. As the wall landed, City’s players turned as one toward the goal.

Peter Schmeichel stood frozen, his head swiveling helplessly as the ball nestled into the net.

Old Trafford erupted like a tidal wave of sound, the roar crashing through the stadium.

ANDREA PIRLO!

BOOM!

"Three–two! Manchester City have turned the game around at the start of the second half! From a disastrous two-goal deficit, they’ve reclaimed control of the match! That free kick was pure magic—the trajectory was absolutely breathtaking!"

WOOOOAAAH!

The East Stand exploded. Pirlo laughed, throwing his arms wide toward the crowd, radiating pride and triumph beneath the floodlights.

Not only Pirlo, but everyone in the City technical area was smiling now—applauding, exchanging looks of disbelief, praising that spectacular free kick. For a brief moment, everything seemed to fall back into place, returning to a familiar rhythm.

But Mourinho knew better.

This was far from over.

"Gennaro!" he shouted, before turning sharply to give instructions to Brito.

PHWEEE—

Manchester City made their substitution immediately, and to everyone’s surprise, the change was bold and ruthless: Zidane off, Gattuso on.

As Gattuso prepared to enter the pitch, Mourinho pulled him aside. He leaned in close, his voice low, deliberate.

"Your job is Roy Keane," he whispered. "I don’t want him organizing. I don’t want him breathing. Provoke him—whatever it takes."

Gattuso nodded slowly with seriousness creeping across his face.

Just after the second half began, Manchester City struck, overturning their poor performance at the end of the first half after United had managed a comeback. With nearly forty minutes still left to play, City were the first to make a substitution.

Zidane was taken off for Gattuso.

Of course, he was furious—but what could he do?

He shook his head as he walked toward the touchline, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the turf. Mourinho extended a hand, but Zidane brushed past him, ignoring the gesture entirely.

The bench went quiet but Mourinho decided to talk to him later.

Seeing the substitution, Ferguson understood that City were trying to stabilize the pace of the game.

With Manchester City now in the lead, it was United who began to feel the pressure.

PHWEEEE~

The match restart.

And from what everyone could see, Gattuso didn’t ease himself into the game.

From the moment he stepped onto the pitch, he locked onto Roy Keane like a shadow that refused to disappear. Every step Keane took, Gattuso mirrored it—close enough to breathe down his neck, far enough to strike.

The first clash came quickly.

Keane received the ball with his back to goal, already scanning for options, when Gattuso crashed into him from the side.

"FUCK!" Keane shouted.

Gattuso merely smiled.

Next duel.

Keane surged forward to press, but Gattuso stepped across his path, clipping his heel just enough to break his stride. Nothing obvious. Nothing punishable. Just disruption.

Keane threw his arms out in frustration.

"FUCK YOU! That all you’ve got?!" he snapped, instantly shoving Gattuso.

Gattuso exaggerated the contact, tumbling backward theatrically.

The stadium exploded.

PHWEEEE—

Yellow card!

The instant Mourinho saw it, he stormed forward, protesting furiously.

"What the hell?! That was clearly a push on a City player!"

He jabbed a finger toward the pitch, incredulous, while the fourth official moved quickly to restrain him.

Gattuso was already back on his feet, dusting himself off—but this time, the smile was gone.

Mission accomplished.

For the next thirty minutes, Gattuso barely allowed Keane a single breath. He pressed relentlessly, stepping into passing lanes, nudging him off balance, whispering provocations whenever the referee’s back was turned. Keane’s face grew red, his jaw clenched tighter with every exchange.

Gattuso followed him everywhere.

Keane tried to impose himself with authority, barking orders, demanding the ball—but Gattuso was always there first. A toe poke. A shoulder. A late step across his path. Nothing blatant. Nothing obvious.

Just enough.

Then came the 81st minute.

Keane dropped deep to receive the ball, determined to force the game forward himself. As he turned, Gattuso lunged in—quick, sharp, irritating. Keane lost control for half a second.

That was all it took.

Keane snapped.

He launched into the challenge—late, reckless, driven by frustration rather than judgment. His studs clipped Gattuso’s shin, sending him sprawling to the turf.

The whistle screamed.

PHWEEEE—

Chaos erupted.

Makélélé stormed toward the scene, his composure finally shattered.

"You were aiming for his legs, weren’t you?" he roared, pointing furiously. "That’s criminal! Absolutely criminal! Fuck you!"

United players rushed in, voices overlapping, arms raised. Keane was already being pulled away, still shouting, still fuming.

City wasn’t done.

"Is this how United teach their players to play?" some player continued, veins bulging in his neck. "Do you have no moral boundaries at all?"

Another step forward, eyes blazing.

"You don’t know a damn thing about football!" he barked. "You wouldn’t last five minutes with me!"

It took three City players to drag him away.

The referee sprinted in, arms stretched wide, desperately trying to separate bodies as tempers boiled over. United players formed a shield around Keane, while City players crowded forward, shouting back, chests puffed out.

From the sidelines, Ferguson barked orders, furious but controlled, demanding his players pull back.

One shove followed another. The fourth official sprinted in, nearly colliding with the referee as whistles pierced the noise again and again.

PHWEEE! PHWEEE!

More yellow cards flashed—warnings, threats, lines drawn in fluorescent plastic.

The crowd was on its feet now, Old Trafford boiling, half roaring in fury, half screaming in triumph. Every insult was met with a wave of noise, every shove magnified by sixty thousand voices.

Mourinho, meanwhile, said nothing.

He simply watched—but he knew that as time ticked away and the conflict continued, with United reduced to ten men, City were firmly in control.

No, this match was theirs now!