Back to the playoff final match.

    The net rippled. The stadium erupted.

    Ipswich fans burst into wild celebration—arms raised, scarves flailing, voices merging into a deafening roar that swept across Wembley like a tidal wave.

    On the Manchester City bench—silence.

    Robertson sat frozen, jaw clenched, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his seat.

    "F**k!"

    Richard cursed under his breath the moment City conceded. Are you kidding me John?!

    The first goal down, and not even ten minutes in. This wasn’t how it was supposed to start.

    In the next few minutes after the match resumed, Manchester City focused on offense while Ipswich concentrated on defense, making the tactical situation crystal clear.

    For a split second, Wembley became a stadium split in two—two contrasting emotions, two contrasting strategies.

    City’s relentless attacks yielded no results, prompting Robertson to instruct both full-backs to pull back and reinforce the defense, hoping this would lure Ipswich out of their low block and encourage them to commit more players forward.

    Unfortunately for Robertson, George Burley’s tactical discipline offered no such opportunity.

    Ipswich played in perfect unison. Even when chances emerged for their three midfielders to push forward, they remained committed to their long-ball strategy. The midfielders rarely advanced beyond the center circle, and the full-backs stayed tight with the back line.

    As a result, it was City who began to grow increasingly impatient. Trying to break down a well-organized block with just five attacking players against eight defenders was a recipe for frustration.

    Three minutes later, Henry combined with Larsson on the left side.

    Henry made a sharp cut inside, but just as he took a step, Tony Mowbray closed in and applied pressure. Henry feinted a dribble and swung a cross toward Larsson in the center, but Larsson—desperate to make the play—was denied as Claus Thomsen slid in and cleared the ball away.

    Just ninety seconds later, Henry tried the same move. This time, he chose not to dribble but launched a sweeping cross from left to right. Shevchenko, arriving from the far side, collected the ball cleanly and unleashed a shot—but Tony Mowbray was there again, bravely blocking it with his body.

    Attack. Disruption. Attack. Disruption...

    The main theme of the match was unmistakable. Manchester City had stopped trying to penetrate through Ipswich’s compact defense.

    Larsson dropped deeper, and along with Henry, Shevchenko, and Neil Lennon, they began attempting long-range shots in hopes of piercing the dense defensive wall. However, most of their efforts were less than impressive—either blocked or drifting off target.

    By the 39th minute of the first half, City had managed only one shot on target.

    Meanwhile, Ipswich had yet to register a single attempt on goal.

    45th+1 Minute

    The referee’s whistle cut through the noise of Wembley, signaling the end of the first half.

    Manchester City trailed 1–0.

    Walking back to the dressing room, the silence was deafening.

    Henry wiped sweat from his forehead, muttering under his breath. McNamara kicked the wall as he passed, frustration etched across his face. Lennon barely looked up, his hands resting on his hips. The players weren’t just losing the game—they were losing belief.

    Robertson closed his eyes and tried to imagine what O’Neill would do. How would he handle this halftime?

    So he entered last.

    He didn’t speak at first. He just stared at the players.

    For a few moments, he let them sit with the weight of it. Let them feel the silence. Then his voice cut through the room—sharp and cold.

    "Is this how we go out?"

    Nobody responded.

    "Is this how you want to be remembered?"

    Still silence.

    "Look at me, all of you."

    One by one, their eyes met his.

    "Ipswich think this game is over. They think we’re finished. They think they can sit back for forty-five minutes and coast their way into the Premier League. Bullshit! It’s just one goal. ONE!"

    His voice rose, now burning with fire.

    "You’ve got forty-five minutes to change history. Forty-five minutes to flip this stadium on its head. Forty-five minutes to remind everyone watching that we are Manchester City—and we don’t f***ing quit."

    "We get one goal, and everything changes. One goal, and they panic. One goal, and the entire stadium turns against them."

    He turned to Cafu and Roberto Carlos.

    "You two—no hesitation. I want you driving forward every single time you get the ball. Make their full-backs suffer."

    Then he turned to Richard Wright.

    "You…"

    Wright looked up.

    "Don’t disappoint me. I chose you over Jens for this match."

    Second Half Kickoff.

    Unexpectedly, just a minute into the second half, Jackie McNamara committed a tackle inside the penalty box, sending Ipswich fans into a frenzy of excitement.

    They could already see it: City trailing 2–0 in the second half, collapsing just like Stoke City had against them weeks before.

    Richard sat in despair, closing his eyes.

    One second…

    Two seconds…

    Fifteen seconds…

    But suddenly, the noise wasn’t coming from the distant stands—it was erupting from the people around him.

    Richard’s eyes shot open, confusion written all over his face.

    "Richard Wright saves Alex Mathie’s penalty! Unbelievable! Wright denies Ipswich the chance to double their lead!"

    Richard froze. Sometimes, when you want to rally your team… it doesn’t have to start with a goal, right?

    "LET’S GO!!" Wright roared, slapping the post with both hands, adrenaline pouring out of him.

    Sure enough, thanks to Richard Wright’s crucial save, City seemed reborn.

    Cafu managed to burst past Ipswich’s left side, drawing a foul near the right wing of the opposing half. Manchester City was awarded a free kick.

    Sensing the opportunity, Henry immediately went over to Neil Lennon and Roberto Carlos—City’s usual free-kick takers—and whispered something to them. Both nodded in agreement.

    The set-piece routine they had practiced all week was finally about to be put into action.

    Larsson, Shevchenko, and Henry sprinted into the penalty area. Thuram also pushed forward, leaving his defensive post.

    Manchester City’s entire aerial unit had advanced.

    Only Van Bommel and Gallas stayed back. Everyone capable of scoring with a header was now crowded in front of Ipswich’s goal.

    Neil Lennon placed the ball carefully and scanned the box. As expected, Ipswich’s defenders focused all their attention on the biggest threats—Thuram, Larsson, and Shevchenko.

    No one paid any attention to Thierry Henry.

    He wasn’t particularly short, but his record back at Monaco showed he had never scored a header from a set piece. As outlined in the Ipswich manager’s pre-match briefing, Henry wasn’t considered a danger in the air.

    So, they ignored him. And that was a mistake.

    After analyzing the tightly packed defense, Lennon finally caught sight of Henry slipping through the gaps—a moving shadow between the bodies. Thuram, Larsson, and Shevchenko had done their job. They were the perfect decoys.

    "Here!" Henry suddenly yelled.

    Lennon struck the ball—not a high, looping cross, but a fast, chest-high bullet.

    Flat. Direct. Straight to Henry.

    The crowd gasped. Chest? And wait... was his back to goal?

    Confusion rippled through the Ipswich defense. Was it a mis-hit? Was Henry trying to blocked the ball or what?

    Then, in the midst of the confusion, it happened.

    In one fluid motion, Henry twisted his body and flicked the ball to the left—with his chest.

    What?! A pass with his chest?

    Tony Mowbray, who saw it clearly, raised his hand and shouted at the referee, "Handball!"

    The defenders hesitated. Everyone looked around, distracted, waiting for a whistle that never came.

    And there—waiting—was Roberto Carlos.

    Just like the goal against Charlton.

    He loaded his powerful left leg like a cannon.

    BANG!

    The ball rocketed off his foot, a howitzer of a shot tearing through the air.

    Ipswich goalkeeper Craig Forrest couldn’t even react, distracted by the shout for handball.

    The ball crashed off the underside of the crossbar and slammed into the net—before Forrest even knew what had happened.

    "GOAL! GOAL! GOAL!" the commentator screamed it three times. "Would you believe that?! A chest pass—from Thierry Henry! Yes, with his chest! Who even does that?! And Roberto Carlos—oh, my word—he’s unleashed a missile! That’s not a shot, that’s a declaration of war!"

    He turned to his co-commentator, his voice still trembling with disbelief.

    "Look at that again—look! Henry, with his back to goal, just caressed it sideways with his chest... like it was nothing! And Carlos—well, I don’t care how many times you’ve seen him strike a ball, you never get used to that. The keeper had no chance. None at all!"

    Manchester City 1 - 1 Ipswich Town

    After City’s equalizer, Robertson immediately made two substitutions: Jackie McNamara came off for Robbie Savage, and Larsson was replaced by Trezeguet to serve as the target man.

    What followed was a thrilling sequence of back-to-back goals.

    "Wow! Ian Marshall with a long-range effort puts Ipswich ahead once again! That was their first shot on target since kickoff!"

    Manchester City 1 – 2 Ipswich Town

    With Ipswich back in the lead, their fans were in high spirits.

    About forty yards from the edge of the box, Ian Marshall received the ball again. He sidestepped to adjust his angle and position, denying Thuram any chance to apply immediate pressure, then unleashed another powerful shot.

    The strike was beautiful, aimed straight for the top right corner of the goal, slicing through the air with deadly precision.

    But Richard Wright made a phenomenal save!

    Seeing the shot denied so dramatically, Ipswich manager George Burley was left dumbfounded—shocked to the core. "Damn it," he muttered. "Is Manchester City in cahoots with Lady Luck today?"

    Richard Wright, seeing that the Ipswich players were still disorganized, immediately placed the ball on the ground and launched a quick, high-powered kick toward the penalty area.

    The ball soared through the air, flying directly toward the Ipswich goal.

    Ipswich had already pushed most of their players forward to organize the next attack, leaving their backline dangerously exposed. However, City, still recovering from the previous play, had most of their players watching the ball hanging in the air.

    Amidst everyone’s dazed expressions, one player remained fresh and alert—David Trezeguet, tasked as the target man.

    Craig Forrest, seeing the long pass from Richard Wright, rushed out of his goal in a panic, intending to catch the ball—a terrible decision. If he had tried to punch it instead, they might have avoided punishment.

    Now, it all came down to anticipation, concentration, and decision-making—knowing exactly when the ball would drop and quickly deciding the best way to react. The players had to judge the flight perfectly, time their moves flawlessly, and commit fully to their choices. One split-second hesitation or miscalculation could change everything.

    Because Forrest tried to catch the ball, his reach was shorter. As the ball began to descend, Trezeguet timed his run perfectly and jumped just as Forrest did. Sёarch* The N?vel(F)ire.ηet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

    And the result?

    Unexpectedly, in mid-air, Trezeguet let out a sharp "Ahhh!" and crashed to the ground, writhing in pain. Forrest was confused, but with the referee running over from the City goal—and no VAR here—no one knew exactly what had happened.

    All they saw was Trezeguet screaming in pain.

    Chaos.

    Ipswich players definitely knew something bad was going to happen, and so did George Burley.

    Goalkeepers are the last line of defense. If they commit a foul that denies an obvious goal-scoring opportunity (DOGSO), especially outside the penalty area or during a clear breakaway, referees usually issue a straight red card to discourage professional fouls.

    The referee was immediately swarmed by several Ipswich players, while others turned their attention to Trezeguet, who was still writhing in agony on the ground.

    "Don’t lie! Get up, quickly!" one of the Ipswich players, Claus Thomsen, barked angrily as he tried to force Trezeguet to stand.

    But Robbie Savage saw it.

    "What are you doing?!" he shouted, storming over to confront Thomsen.

    Thomsen shoved him without hesitation. "F*** off!" he snapped, then turned back to Trezeguet. "Wake up, you liar!"

    Savage, furious, looked ready to explode. But just as he was about to retaliate—just for a split second—he caught something.

    A wink.

    Trezeguet had winked at him.

    Savage froze, realization hitting him like lightning.

    Then, dramatically, Savage clutched his chin and threw himself backward, rolling on the ground like he’d been struck.

    "Eyyyyy!" the crowd roared, half in disbelief, half in amusement.

    The referee glanced back—and misunderstood the entire situation. Shaking his head in frustration, he turned toward Claus Thomsen and pulled out a straight red card.

    Gasps erupted around the stadium.

    And then, without hesitation, the referee turned back to Craig Forrest—the Ipswich goalkeeper—and raised another red card!

    Two red cards for Ipswich Town!

    Richard couldn’t help but give a thumbs-up to both Trezeguet and Savage

    ’Cunning ladies!’