Richard definitely knew about Prozone—the name itself had become synonymous with pioneering data analytics in football. But he didn’t know the people behind it, so he decided to be cautious. He needed to make sure he had the right person in front of him.

    "Please come to Maine Road," Richard said. "You’ll be most welcome—Manchester City will be playing Charlton Athletic in the second leg of the playoffs."

    "Of course, I’ll be there," Mylvaganam replied with a smile. At least it wasn’t an outright rejection—or someone looking to get a free ride off his product. It was a start.

    With that, Richard nodded politely and rose from his seat. He didn’t waste any more time—he headed straight back to Manchester.

    The journey from Charlton to Manchester typically took between three and a half to four hours, depending on the traffic. By the time the city lights of Manchester came into view, Richard had already made a decision: he needed to hold an emergency meeting with John Robertson.

    Richard didn’t bother going to his office the moment he arrived at Maine Road. Instead, he headed straight to the squad’s training ground.

    As he turned the corner near the physio wing, he unexpectedly crossed paths with Ronaldo — moving slowly, supported by a pair of crutches.

    Richard paused before greeting him. "Ronaldo," he said, stepping forward and placing a reassuring hand on the forward’s shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

    "A little better," Ronaldo replied. "But I still can’t run. They say I need another two weeks before I can even touch the ball again."

    Richard nodded thoughtfully. "You have to be patient. It’s not just about recovering — it’s about recovering the right way."

    Ronaldo looked down at his crutches, then back up with a sigh. "I miss being on the pitch."

    "I know," Richard said. "And the team misses you. But we’d rather wait two weeks for the real Ronaldo than rush you back at fifty percent."

    The striker gave a small nod, and Richard gave him a final pat on the back. "Keep going. You’re almost there."

    Done with Ronaldo, Richard knocked firmly on the coaching staff room door.

    Once inside, he got straight to the point.

    First, he asked about Materazzi and Robbie Savage’s condition, especially their mental state after the two fatal mistakes they made in the recent matches

    Regarding Materazzi, Richard had reviewed the CCTV footage from after the match. Rather than displaying fury, Materazzi quietly removed his jersey and sat alone on the bench in front of his locker. That silence spoke volumes—it was a worrying sign.

    "He’s disappointed," Steve continued. "Feels like he let everyone down."

    An attacking player can fail repeatedly for ninety minutes but still become a hero with just one moment of success. Meanwhile, a defender can perform consistently well throughout the match, yet a single mistake can turn them into a scapegoat.

    That’s the reality of football.

    "What about Robbie?" Richard then asked, especially after that unnecessary tackle that cost City a penalty.

    "Robbie?"

    The staff, like Steve Walford and Terry Genoe, looked at each other before saying, "It seems like nothing happened."

    Richard narrowed his eyes but said nothing. "Where’s John?" he then asked.

    "He’s out on the gym doing some personal training with the players."

    Richard nodded thoughtfully and decided to abandon his plan for the meeting.

    Originally, he wanted to give a harsh ultimatum, but after hearing this, he decided not to add pressure and avoided breaking the already tense situation.

    His offer to the current youth manager, Domènec Torrent, to replace Robertson as caretaker was declined. Although it was undoubtedly a significant opportunity, Torrent felt it would be ethically wrong to step in under those circumstances.

    Richard understood his decision and chose to respect it.

    In the following days, another playoff match between Stoke City and Ipswich Town delivered an unexpected result. Ipswich Town defeated Stoke City 3-0 in the first leg at Stoke City’s home ground!

    With this victory, Ipswich Town was now one step closer to Wembley.

    Four days later at Maine Road, Richard was already seated with Mylvaganam as his guest, and they were already discussing Prozone.

    "How did you come up with this idea?" Richard asked curiously.

    "Oh, that… I just saw the Derby manager trawling through VHS recordings of their own games, cutting segment after segment. Don’t you think it’s a hugely laborious process?"

    Richard agreed. In O’Neill’s staff, the ones who did that were usually Steve Walford and Robertson. But now, with O’Neill injured, Robertson had taken his place, leaving Walford as the only person capable of doing the analysis.

    The result? Walford’s eyes were clearly puffy — he must not have slept at all.

    "I asked him why he didn’t get someone else to do the work for him," Mylvaganam continued. "He told me there was no one else. He knew what he was looking for, so it was down to him to filter out the good, the bad, and the ugly."

    Mylvaganam went on, "That’s why they started to use more of my products. But at the end of the day, they were interested yet reluctant to fully pay for it."

    "Do you know why they were reluctant?"

    Mylvaganam shrugged. "Because my plan was to video every match with multiple cameras — a minimum of six and a maximum of eight. They would track the movement of each player every 0.1 seconds, and the range of camera angles would increase the accuracy of the results."

    "How much did you ask them for?"

    "￡100,000 to around ￡300,000, depending on how much detail they wanted."

    Richard was surprised by this — the price seemed quite reasonable, especially considering that this kind of technology had helped Derby County climb to the top of the First Division.

    Of course, that might not have happened if City hadn’t had that incident at The Den earlier.

    Mylvaganam coughed, "Well, that was only the cost for the product, not the other equipment. I also told them we would need a lot of internet bandwidth and would have to employ image recognition and programming experts. But yeah, you know..."

    While they were deep in discussion, the gates opened and fans began to pour in.

    As expected, with City playing at home, the energy around Maine Road felt unmistakably electric.

    "Wembley, Wembley!~"

    "We’re the famous Man City and we’re going to Wembley~"

    "This is a nice atmosphere." Mylvaganam was surprised at this.

    "I know, right?" Richard said, proud of it.

    When both teams began entering the pitch, Richard sighed in relief — it seemed Robertson had finally come to his senses.

    GK: Lehmann

    DF: Cafu, Gallas, Ferdinand, Roberto Carlos

    MF: Zambrotta, Lennon, Van Bommel, McNamara

    FW: Larsson, Henry

    PHWEEEE!

    The moment the match kicked off, Maine Road came alive.

    The roar of the home crowd reverberated through the stadium — a relentless wave of noise that seemed to press down on the Charlton players before they had even touched the ball.

    Charlton had altered their tactics, opting for a high press and a more attacking approach.

    Robertson had expected this. They wanted to snatch an early goal, take the aggregate lead, and then turtle their way through the rest of the match — just like they had done earlier.

    So, in the first thirty minutes, Charlton began trying to loft the ball into the penalty area from the flanks, attempting to use headers to break through City’s defense.

    Thankfully, with Gallas, Ferdinand, Zambrotta and Van Bommel joining in defense, they hardly faced any direct challenge from their strikers yet.

    After failing to score despite numerous attempts, Alan Curbishley stood anxiously on the Charlton sideline.

    One of the most common features of football matches is this: if a team fails to convert several chances, they are likely to concede sooner or later.

    Charlton, playing away in the second leg, could not afford to concede first! S~ea??h the Novёl?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

    In the 12th minute, Charlton’s Phil Chapple attempted another breakthrough. He managed to send a long pass into City’s penalty area just before Gallas could close in to challenge.

    The trajectory of the ball was promising, landing right around the penalty spot—a perfect opportunity for Carl Leaburn and Garry Nelson to dart in and head it. And they indeed dashed towards the ball, making City fans hold their breath.

    Thankfully, Lehmann punched the ball clear first, making the fans exhale in relief as applause erupted from the stands.

    "Oh no! That’s a City counterattack! The ball has landed at Van Bommel’s feet!"

    Charlton had been growing into the game, with their midfield finding more pockets of space. Their defensive line was pushed very high at the moment, as they went all-out in attack.

    Larsson, playing as the attacking midfielder, had started dropping deeper, looking to pull the strings.

    Under pressure, Van Bommel didn’t dare make a hasty pass. Passing wasn’t his forte — tackling and winning the ball was. After receiving the ball from Lehmann, which landed right in front of him, he calmly passed it back toward Ferdinand without even bothering to turn around.

    Ferdinand, who could clearly see Larsson already signaling for the ball, wasted no time. He immediately passed it toward Cafu, who then launched a diagonal ball over the top, slicing it right through the crowded pitch.

    All the Charlton players could only watch as the ball soared high through the air—then, suddenly, panic. They turned and realized with a jolt: the space behind them was wide open.

    Steve Brown, the captain, immediately threw up his hand and shouted, "Offside! That’s offside!"

    But the linesman on the far side didn’t raise his flag.

    No offside.

    Crap!

    It took a second for everyone to register what was happening.

    By the time they reacted, Larsson was already gone, and Henry had already taken off the moment Larsson touched the ball.

    Thierry Henry and Henrik Larsson VS Mike Salmon— even a five-year-old could guess the outcome.

    Larsson burst through the empty space with Henry on his left.

    Mike Salmon charged out of his box in desperation, arms spread wide, trying to narrow the angle.

    Larsson didn’t panic. He took one touch, then another—head up, watching the keeper rush at him like a freight train.

    And just as Salmon lunged to intercept, Larsson slid the ball sideways.

    A soft, simple pass… into open space.

    And who was there?

    Thierry Henry, of course.

    Running in like it was scripted. No defenders in sight. The goal wide open.

    Henry calmly tapped the ball in.

    GOAL!

    The stands erupted—a wave of noise crashing down from every corner of Maine Road.

    Up in the commentary booth, as usual, the banter began immediately. Someone could already be seen pulling out a hundred-pound note from his wallet.

    Mark gritted his teeth. "That shouldn’t even count! Larsson could’ve scored himself, but he gave it to Henry! That goal wasn’t even from Henry’s effort."

    His co-commentator shrugged. "Doesn’t matter. The bet was whether Henry would score—and he did. What’s wrong? Not happy? Want to bet again?"

    Mark could only shut his mouth in defeat.