Football Dynasty-Chapter 553: Burying United’s Hopes of a Treble

United’s attacking problems were plain to see. Their three main forwards—Cole, Yorke, and the often-benched Solskjær—had combined for fewer than forty league goals this season, accounting for less than sixty percent of Manchester United’s total output.

Solskjær, averaging under 0.3 goals per game, offered little to praise in terms of numbers. Injuries had disrupted his rhythm, and statistically he was producing at a rate similar to Sheringham’s. Cole, however, was the exception. With sixteen league goals to his name, he was in fine form and still had an outside chance of finishing as the Premier League’s top scorer—if he could somehow produce a hat-trick today.

Yet United’s European commitments had taken their toll. The congested schedule and shifting priorities left their attack inconsistent. Yorke, usually so reliable, was stuck on fifteen league goals, trailing behind Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink of Leeds United with seventeen, and Michael Owen with sixteen same with Trezeguet

By the fifty-sixth minute, the crowd began to buzz with anticipation.

Manchester United were throwing men forward, while Manchester City shifted their focus firmly to defense. The situation was clear. Yet neither City’s fans nor the coaching staff could afford to feel optimistic. United’s attacks were producing no results, and Ferguson responded by instructing his full-backs to drop deeper, hoping to lure Manchester City out and force them to commit more players forward—loosening their defensive structure.

Unfortunately for United, City’s tactical discipline left Ferguson increasingly frustrated.

Manchester City defended in perfect unison. The organization was so solid that City fans relaxed in the stands, beginning to enjoy the match rather than fear it.

Even when United’s three midfielders found opportunities to push forward, City remained disciplined, refusing to bite. They relied on controlled clearances and long balls, with midfielders rarely venturing past the center circle and full-backs staying tightly aligned with the back line.

As a result, it was Manchester United who grew increasingly impatient.

United’s attackers were constantly double-teamed, smothered before they could turn. Thuram and Cannavaro surged forward repeatedly, but their efforts down the flanks made little impact.

It was at moments like these that everyone in the stadium could see just how crucial Cannavaro’s presence was at the heart of City’s defense.

"Here! Block him!"

"Hey—!"

From time to time, Cannavaro barked commands, constantly organizing the back line and cutting off passing lanes before danger could develop.

Ferguson felt the pressure mounting. Manchester City’s defensive setup felt like a chess match. Even when City allowed space out wide, their compact shape ruthlessly shut down every passing lane into the center.

After Thuram intercepted a loose pass, he immediately released the ball to Ashley Cole. Cole surged down the flank, dazzling with his footwork as he slipped past David Beckham. Just as he broke free, however, Gary Neville was waiting, winding up for a powerful clearance.

"Shit!"

Seeing Neville’s foot coming in, Cole reacted instinctively, toeing the ball away wildly just before Neville’s boot slammed into his own.

PHWEEEE~

"AAARGHH!"

The whistle pierced the air as Cole went down,

The stadium erupted.

Boos and shouts rained down from every direction as players from both sides rushed toward the scene.

The referee forced his way through the crowd, arms outstretched as he separated the players with sharp, decisive gestures. Neville stood a few steps away, hands on his hips, jaw clenched—he knew he had arrived late.

Then the card came out.

Yellow.

Just as it was raised, Ashley Cole sprang back to his feet, rubbing his shin as if to test it.

That only made the roar inside the stadium explode.

"What an actor!"

"Bullshit!"

Shouts rained down from the stands, a mixture of fury and mockery.

The referee ignored the noise, turned, and waved play on.

And the match resumed under a boiling atmosphere.

PHWEEEE—

Play restarted with a free kick.

Three minutes later, Pirès combined neatly with Zambrotta, whose overlapping run dragged Denis Irwin out of position and opened a channel inside. Pirès drove forward, but c stepped up to close him down.

With a quick feint of the shoulders, Pirès lifted a teasing cross toward the center.

Ronaldo had already peeled off his marker.

Jaap Stam lunged in at the last moment, stretching desperately to clear—but Ronaldo was quicker. With his trademark burst, he chopped the ball past Stam with a sharp change of direction, sending the defender sliding helplessly across the turf.

For a split second, Ronaldo was free.

The box opened up in front of him.

Schmeichel reacted instantly, charging off his line to narrow the angle, his massive frame rushing forward like a wall. Ronaldo didn’t panic. With one more touch to steady himself, he shifted the ball onto his right foot.

Then—bang.

Ronaldo drove a low shot across goal, skimming the grass and curling just beyond Schmeichel’s outstretched glove. The ball kissed the inside of the far post before rippling the net.

GOAL!

0 - 2!

"WHAT A FINISH!"

"Ronaldo sends it low across Schmeichel, inside the far post, and Manchester City have struck at Old Trafford! City have been patient all game, soaking up the pressure—and with one moment of brilliance, they’ve broken Manchester United’s resistance!"

"What are you doing?!" Ferguson roared in anger, seeing his team concede again.

A minute later—whether it was Giggs or Beckham—United tried once more. This time Giggs released the ball early. He chose not to dribble, instead swinging in a cross—only for Cannavaro to throw his body in the way and block it.

Moments later came a more delicate attempt: a floated ball into the box. Beckham controlled it brilliantly, slipping past Ashley Cole, but the retreating Thuram recovered in time to dispossess him.

Attack. Disruption. Attack. Disruption.

That was the rhythm of the match, a clear sign of Manchester United’s growing desperation. In their desperation, United stopped trying to force their way through the middle. Beckham dropped deeper, and they began attempting long-range shots from outside the box, hoping to crack the compact defense.

But most of those efforts were disappointing—either blocked by City’s defenders or drifting harmlessly wide.

With sixty-seven minutes gone in the second half, United had managed only one shot on target.

They still hadn’t registered a single clear chance on goal.

Ferguson stood on the sidelines, his nose reddening as he remained still for a long time. Before the match resumed, he waved his hand, sending a clear signal to the Red Devils: attack!

No matter how much time was left on the clock, even if it was just a second, they had to fight for a miracle!

He paced the touchline. He had studied Manchester City for half a month and had never anticipated Mourinho deploying such a conservative, calculated setup. Had he been present in United’s tactical meetings, he would have known that Ferguson had actually drawn inspiration from City’s earlier encounter against them.

The midfield had been reinforced to shield the space in front of the penalty area, the defensive lines layered and perfectly synchronized, with responsibilities clearly defined. Rather than altering the duties of his center-backs, Ferguson had instructed Stam to act as a retreating defender, tasked with neutralizing penetrative runs.

But the plan was faltering.

The 4-4-2 formation had been designed to balance attack and defense, yet Manchester City were defending with alarming comfort.

The core issue was that City had successfully neutralized Yorke and Cole. They were tightly marked by Cannavaro and Thuram, and even when the pair managed clever link-up play, Makélélé’s late interventions extinguished the danger at the final moment.

So far, United had coped with City’s occasional long-ball counters—but that offered little consolation.

’Two goals conceded...’

Ferguson had never anticipated this.

As he weighed possible adjustments, Makélélé intercepted a pass intended for Cole.

Wait a minute—

Suddenly, Ferguson froze.

His pacing stopped.

His eyes narrowed.

Makélélé didn’t rush forward. He reading the situation, and moved to support the wing, cutting off York’s dribbling lane.

In that instant, a flash of enlightenment struck him as he watched how Makélélé stepped in to win the ball.

Yes... Makélélé.

The one who wasn’t always making tackles—but the one who kept appearing at the decisive moment.

This time, not a tackler. An interceptor.

The true disruptor of United’s rhythm.

Beckham attempted to break through on his own, briefly deceiving Ashley Cole, but Makélélé dispossessed him cleanly in the tight space.

Makélélé looked up and immediately played a grounded pass to the right flank.

Irwin, who had just surged forward moments earlier, was now scrambling back. United’s biggest defensive gaps were appearing on the wings whenever they committed men forward.

Zambrotta collected the pass from Makélélé and surged ahead, instantly pinning United’s back line. Zidane read it perfectly, drifting into space on the right, while Neville hesitated, unsure whether to step up or hold his position.

Zidane burst forward—then suddenly stopped.

Perfectly in sync with the unfolding chaos, he didn’t engage Neville. Instead, he scanned the space opening through the middle, where Nicky Butt was caught in a precarious position, desperately trying to cover the ground Neville had vacated after being dragged wide by Zidane’s movement.

Makélélé saw it immediately.

"HERE!"

With one touch, he slipped a precise pass into the gap, threading the ball into the space Zidane had already claimed, his hand raised in anticipation.

Ferguson noticed it—and a chill ran down his spine.

"Drop back! Quickly—defend!" he shouted from the touchline.

United’s players scrambled in panic. It was a bizarre sight: an attack born from a counterattack, Zidane driving through the center with the ball at his feet, Ronaldo peeling away to the left, Pirès sprinting on the right, while Ronaldinho dropped deeper, instinctively covering the space behind Zidane—ready to collect any loose clearance or second ball.

"FOUL THEM! STOP HIM!" Ferguson roared.

United’s defensive line reacted instantly—Neville, Stam, Johnsen, and Irwin all retreated at full speed, while Nicky Butt stepped forward, trying desperately to confront Zidane head-on.

But there was hesitation.

No structure.No coordination.

They retreated on instinct rather than organization—and Manchester City seized the moment.

United’s defensive shape collapsed.

Nearly forty yards from goal, Zidane received the ball.

One touch to settle.Another to adjust his angle—just enough to deny Manchester United any chance to close him down.

Then he struck it.

KABOOM!

The ball exploded off his boot, rising viciously before dipping late, screaming through the night air toward goal.

"WHAT A STRIKE!" the commentator bellowed. "ZIDANE FROM DISTANCE—UNSTOPPABLE!"

Schmeichel sprang to his right, every inch stretched, fingertips clawing at nothing but air.

The net rippled.

Old Trafford fell into stunned silence—then the blue end erupted.

"Manchester City are THREE–NIL UP!"

"Zidane with his FIRST shot on target of the match, and what a way to announce it!"

Zidane didn’t celebrate wildly. He simply turned, arms slightly raised, face calm—almost indifferent—as his teammates swarmed him. It was the kind of goal that didn’t need embellishment.

Power, timing, precision.

Three goals down. Outplayed. Outpaced.

This wasn’t a collapse—it was a statement.

REVENGE... COMPLETED!