CHAPTER 507: OH GATTUSO!

In the away team’s locker room, City’s players rested as the masseurs went around helping them relax their muscles, asking how they felt physically.

Richard lingered outside the restroom, listening closely to everything happening inside. He didn’t need to step into the locker room to know the players were exhausted.

Although this wasn’t the longest they had run or the most intense 45 minutes they had ever played, it was certainly one of the most draining. The long journey had worn them down physically, while the psychological pressure had quietly chipped away at their energy.

The situation was worse than he had expected. If they wanted to avoid defeat, they couldn’t afford to take reckless tactical risks.

City had used their best 4-4-2 formation and patiently tried to create chances, but they had failed to apply any meaningful, continuous pressure. This forced a series of fierce midfield battles toward the end of the first half.

After waiting for about a minute—and with a clearer sense of what needed to be done—Richard finally walked into the locker room. The players immediately looked up at him, but he simply waved his hand and quietly moved to the side of the room.

Everyone understood that if they tried to play their usual attacking football, they would become stretched and vulnerable to Sturm Graz’s counterattacks. They had managed to limit the opponent’s chances in the first half, but to win, they needed determination. The second half would be the true turning point.

O’Neill finally began. He clapped his hands and said, "Alright, I’ll keep this brief. We need to make some adjustments in the second half. Everyone remember this: when we’re attacking in positional play, keep it simple. Don’t hesitate to take any shooting chance you see—but that’s not the main point. The key is to shut down their counterattacks the moment they transition from defense to attack. If we stop their counter immediately, then on our next attack, we can use the space left behind by their high line and go straight for the kill. We have to strike back against their counterattacks."

Strike back against their counterattacks?

The players understood and nodded.

In their season opener against United, several goals had come from this exact principle—punishing the opponent during their transition moments.

When the Red Devils shifted from defense to attack, the brief window created by their mistake—or by City’s successful interception—allowed City to launch a secondary attack that tore them apart.

But today was different. In the Manchester derby, City had been able not only to capitalize on counterattack errors but also to exert constant pressure, keeping United’s nerves on edge until the inevitable opening appeared.

Tonight, they couldn’t do that. Maintaining continuous pressure required elite fitness and precise interceptions from midfield and defense. The players didn’t have that level of energy tonight. They needed to use what they had smartly to maximize their impact.

Mourinho stepped forward and began assigning tasks on the tactical board, reminding the defenders of the adjustments they might face in the second half.

Sturm Graz, of course, would make changes of their own.

Even Richard didn’t believe that Ivica Osim would be satisfied with just a draw at home.

The greatest strength of Eastern European teams has always been their home-field advantage. Austrian teams had failed to progress in the Champions League in the past two years largely because of their poor away performances. But at home, they often played with intense aggression.

Now, after Rapid Wien—the first Austrian club to reach the Champions League group stage in 1996—failed to make an impact, Sturm Graz had stepped forward to replace them, determined to give everything they had on the European stage.

Suddenly, Sturm Graz changed their formation to a 3-5-2, signaling their intent to play aggressively.

The forward line remained the same with Mario Haas and Hannes Reinmayr, with Ivica Vastić positioned just behind them. However, Foda, who had previously partnered with Mario Posch in central defense, was now stepping further forward, acting almost like a defensive anchor in front of the midfield trio: Roman Mählich, Tomislav Kocijan, and Günther Neukirchner.

At the back, the defensive line consisted of Darko Milanič, Mario Posch, and Mihovilović, with Thomas Mandl as the goalkeeper.

When the second half began, the atmosphere on the field shifted dramatically. The cautious approach from the first half vanished, replaced by a clear intent from both teams to attack more aggressively.

Larsson received the ball in the attacking midfield area and first evaded Vastić with a sharp sidestep, but he couldn’t break through the trio of Mählich, Kocijan, and Neukirchner. He quickly laid the ball off to Zidane, who outmaneuvered his marker and attempted a long-range shot before Thomas Mandl could close in—but the effort flew well off target.

Attack after attack came in waves. This time, Stum Graz surged forward again. Roman Mählich received the ball on the left near the halfway line, cut inside, and after taking a few strides, slipped a pass back out to the flank where Vastić was making a bursting run. But just as Vastić took his first touch, Zanetti pounced—cleanly dispossessing him and knocking the ball out for a throw-in.

Darko Milanič, reacting instantly, grabbed the ball and hurled it back into play toward Vastić, who had retreated wide to receive it.

This quick restart caught City’s defenders by surprise. Vastić cushioned the ball on his chest and lofted a teasing cross into the penalty area.

Mario Haas, positioned just outside the box, suddenly darted forward and attempted a looping header. The effort lacked power, but it startled Cannavaro and Terry—defenders hate when the striker they’re marking vanishes for a second and reappears in a completely different danger zone.

Buffon managed to push the weak header away, but everyone’s attention had been fixed on Haas... and they completely lost track of the real threat—Ivica Vastić.

The moment the ball dropped loose, Vastić reacted first. He burst forward, snatching the ball away as if it were glued to his feet. He looked ready to charge straight toward goal, but Zambrotta threw himself in front of him, blocking his path at the last second.

Forced wide, Vastić pivoted, spun around, and sent the ball rolling toward the edge of the penalty area.

And there—

Darko Milanič was already waiting.

He stepped into the ball with perfect balance and unleashed a spectacular long-range strike from nearly 40 yards.

The ball sliced through the frigid air, dipping violently as it approached the goal.

Buffon took one desperate step—

But it was too late.

The shot smashed into the top corner with a thunderous crack.

GOAL for Sturm Graz!

The stadium erupted, a wave of roaring noise shaking the winter air. City players froze in disbelief, while Milanič sprinted toward the corner flag, arms wide, consumed by the explosion of the moment.

Sturm Graz led 1–0.

Milanič’s thunderous strike, and Vastić surged into the box to follow up for a rebound. Zambrotta who failes to clear the danger, and after getting up, he exchanged a few words with Bufood, hoping the keeper could direct the ball out rather than back into the penalty area.

Buffon felt frustrated; the shot was unpredictable, and he hadn’t expected Vastić to suddenly turn around and pass the ball outside the penalty area instead of taking the shot himself. Even for him, goalkeepers always feared erratic long-range attempts like that.

Richard, seeing City concede, could only shake his head.

Time ticked by as both teams continued exchanging attacks, looking as though they were relying solely on individual brilliance to decide the match.

Up front, Trezeguet had practically disappeared from the game, tirelessly making runs to create openings for his teammates. Twenty-five minutes into the second half, City still hadn’t produced a single meaningful chance—nothing.

Sturm Graz didn’t rush their play. Even during counterattacks, once they reclaimed possession, they would slow down, reorganize, and push forward steadily. This made it impossible for City to exploit their counterattacks with quick breaks of their own.

After the eightieth minute, the tempo surged—faster and faster. Graz could no longer contain themselves; they needed a confirmation.

The second goal. A bad mistake however.

Trezeguet was dispossessed while trying to advance, and Foda immediately sent the ball to Mihovilović on the left.

Mihovilović pushed forward, and just as Zambrotta moved in to cut him off on the flank, he passed the ball inside to Tomislav Kocijan. But before Kocijan could settle it, Makélélé came from behind and stripped him cleanly.

The midfielder stumbled and fell, appealing for a foul, but the referee waved play on.

Makélélé instantly released the ball to Lampard, who had already surged ahead. He blew past the caught-off-guard Mihovilović, leaving Sturm Graz’s entire right side completely exposed.

This was the moment City had been waiting for—and the forwards knew it was no longer about individual heroics. They had to move together, like a machine finally switching into full gear.

Lampard carried the ball forward, aware that Mihovilović was chasing him down. He nudged the ball ahead, and Ronaldinho sprinted to the side to support, drawing Foda and Posch toward him.

Receiving the ball, Ronaldinho slipped a perfectly weighted pass behind Graz’s defensive line. Larsson, fully attuned to the rhythm of the attack, made his run right on cue.

After controlling the ball, Larsson turned as Graz’s defense collapsed inward. Calmly, he laid the ball back to the edge of the box, returning it to Ronaldinho before darting toward the center.

Milanic, who had been marking Zidane, could no longer stay with the Frenchman. As he rushed toward Ronaldinho, he was stunned to realize that the through-ball had already slipped between his legs—a clean nutmeg—before he could react.

The pass was so quick that even Thomas Mandl, the Graz goalkeeper, was left dizzy. He also turned to chase Ronaldinho, but in doing so, he completely forgot about the empty central area—the very space where City were most likely to deliver the killing blow.

Zidane.

Ronaldinho glided forward effortlessly, reached the ball, and with a gentle flick of his toe sent it rolling back across the box—slipping it past both the chasing Milanič and Mandl into the center.

A double kill from Ronaldinho.

There, Zidane stood completely unmarked. He headed the ball straight into the undefended net.

"Eighty-five minutes in, and the visiting City have equalized! The goal is scored by Zidane! A brilliant counterattack from City—fluid, cohesive, perfectly executed! Neither side had shown a clear advantage earlier, but it is City who finally break through the Sturm Graz defense with magnificent passing!"

O’Neill immediately made a substitution after the goal.

Gattuso, who had been warming up, came on to replace the visibly exhausted Lampard. Considering Lampard had been the only true box-to-box outlet, carrying the ball from defense to attack for nearly eighty minutes, O’Neill was already more than satisfied with his performance.

This goal had exposed a key issue for Sturm Graz: their central players weren’t organizing the play effectively and were acting merely as links to the wide men.

With Gattuso’s introduction, Makélélé could finally push forward and assume Lampard’s responsibilities.

Stum Graz 1 - 1 Manchester City

PHWEEEEE—

City had just equalized, and Graz were still in the middle of an emotional surge.

Gattuso settled on the left side to help Zambrotta deal with the Mählich–Milanič combination on the flank.

Makélélé orchestrated things in the middle, ready to attack or defend as the situation demanded. As the match entered its tense final minutes, he moved aggressively to the right, winning the ball with a crunching tackle before rushing over to support Zanetti in resisting Graz’s wing threats.

In the stands, hundreds of City fans erupted instantly, waving their flags with unrestrained joy.

Another counterattack!

Sturm Graz supporters, meanwhile, grew visibly tense. Some cursed in frustration.

They still didn’t understand what was so great about this English champions. Aside from that one spectacular goal, they saw none of the traits expected from a top-tier team. Like Zidane had only flashed his brilliance briefly. Ronaldinho had been quiet all game, barely posing a threat.

It seemed the Graz fans had become a bit too arrogant after becoming champions, conveniently forgetting that City, that had also achieved a double last year. To be fair, you couldn’t entirely blame the Graz supporters.

Football is full of champions who rise gloriously one season and vanish from memory the next.

How many teams have lifted a trophy only to fade into obscurity afterward?

In the future, there would be Leicester City—a miracle champion whose fairytale would be followed by a return to reality. Or Chelsea under Di Matteo, who conquered Europe by winning the Champions League... only to decline almost immediately after.

So perhaps Graz fans weren’t being arrogant—just realistic in the way football often is. Champions or not, if you played badly, the world forgot fast.

At the moment, City weren’t playing like last year’s double winners. They were playing like a team trying to discreetly exit the group chat.

Graz fans? They smelled weakness.

And City? They don’t care.

City had seized that one golden opening; had they missed it, the match might never have given them another.

Now, they were pushing forward with everything they had—defensive midfielders and defenders all stepping high together!

But with the pitch so congested, accurate passing was essential. City’s midfield and backline grouped tightly just thirty yards from Graz’s goal.

When the away team’s attack reached a dangerous zone, their aggressive pressing came into full force. Graz would soon remember this day for a different reason. Ronaldinho, Gattuso, Makélélé, Zidane—each one a powerhouse!

Even Gattuso, even if only played simple passes, he linked flawlessly; and Makélélé—his stamina was unbelievable. He ran left and right endlessly, driving the Graz players mad with his relentless movement.

Sturm Graz struggled to find an outlet; they simply weren’t used to facing opponents who attacked with this kind of total commitment.

Players from both sides began to swarm everywhere, the front line turning wild and chaotic. City were not inferior in numbers, and their defensive shape was far more purposeful. In that crowded situation, Zidane drifted to the wing to receive the ball. With no clear route inside, he could only whip in a cross and trust fate.

Foda missed the ball completely, but Mandl managed to punch it clear.

The ball dropped outside the box, where Larsson rushed back to collect it. Foda pressed him immediately, but Larsson had already anticipated the challenge—nudging the ball to the side before accelerating past him in a smooth arc.

Mario Posch, who had been marking Trezeguet, now found himself alone at the back. Seeing Larsson charging toward him, he abandoned Trezeguet, believing the Frenchman was stuck near the offside line anyway.

Larsson saw it instantly. He chipped a clever ball over the top, dropping perfectly into Trezeguet’s path. However, unexpectedly, Trezeguet just stood there staring at the ball, doing absolutely nothing.

Smart!

Richard actually praised that.

Instead, it was Gattuso who suddenly charged forward like a starving wolf that had just smelled dinner. Facing the goal—possibly his first goal ever—he wound up his leg and absolutely hammered it.

It wasn’t the most powerful shot, and Mandl couldn’t reach it—the angle was simply too tight.Richard clenched his fist, already celebrating in his heart.

Finally.

Then—

BANG!

"..."

The ball smacked against the post so loudly it sounded like someone had slammed a frying pan.

Every City player froze in disbelief.

Every Sturm Graz player froze in terror.

Even the referee took a step back.

It was as if the entire stadium suddenly paused for loading.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

"Mamma mia, PERCHÉ?!" he shouted, throwing his hands up to the heavens as if demanding an answer from God Himself.

He dropped to his knees on the grass like a medieval knight who had just watched his sword shatter. Hands on the ground. Head down. Pure despair.

Meanwhile the ball was still spinning away from the post.

"GET UP!" Makélélé yelled while already sprinting past him. "THE BALL IS STILL ALIVE!"

Only then did both teams come back to life and sprint into the box—twenty-players charging in like a Black Friday sale, all desperately scrambling for the rebound.