Chapter 135: When Pressure Becomes Power

The day after the 5-0 thrashing by Manchester United, something felt off.

Unlike the usual uproar from City fans, there were no protests, no angry parades in front of Maine Road.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

There were no supporters gathering outside like they had during the protests against the Lee Consortium—something Richard had experienced before.

The security team and staff breathed a sigh of relief. But those accustomed to handling high-level crises knew better. This silence wasn’t peace—it was the sign of something deeper, something far worse brewing within Manchester City.

The usual laughter and banter in the locker room? Gone.

The confidence that had carried City through January? Shattered.

O’Neill arrived at the changing room and found his players had already finished warming up.

No one spoke much. Heads were down. Movements were mechanical. The weight of the defeat still hung heavy over them.

Robertson, his assistant, leaned in and whispered, "Still shook by what happened."

Indeed, for someone like Campbell and other seasoned veterans, maybe they could compose themselves. But for newly promoted players like Gallas, Ferdinand, Gillespie, and others, it was a different story.

O’Neill nodded grimly. He had expected this. Losing was part of football—but getting humiliated in a derby, in front of thousands? Seeing your teammate collapse mid-game?

That kind of defeat left a scar. The kind that made you question everything—yourself, your teammates, even the shirt on your back.

O’Neill clapped his hands, snapping the room out of its haze.

"Right, lads," he said, pacing slowly in front of them. "I’ve seen more life in a library after closing time. What is this—City or a funeral procession?"

A few players let out quiet chuckles, but most still stared at the floor.

"I know what you’re thinking," O’Neill continued, voice softening. "You’re embarrassed. Frustrated. Maybe even wondering if this whole thing’s slipping away. If you’re good enough. If I’m good enough."

He let the silence settle, then added with a smirk, "Well, if you’re expecting me to resign, I’ve got bad news—I’ve already paid rent through June."

A ripple of laughter. Heads began to lift.

"Good," he said, more serious now. "Because that feeling in your gut—that sting? That’s not shame. That’s fire. That’s the game telling you: ’Get up, or stay down forever.’ And we’re not the type to stay down, are we?"

He stepped closer to the squad.

"You saw what happened to Ronaldo. You saw what it did to all of us. But he played because he believed in this team. He knew we had something special. So we honor that—not by sulking, but by fighting for every last point."

He looked around the room, meeting each player’s eyes one by one.

"There are 14 games left. That’s 14 chances to prove we’re not some tabloid punchline. That we’re Manchester bloody City. So let’s win for Ronaldo. Let’s win for ourselves. And let’s remind the league why they should fear sky blue."

Hearing this, Campbell clenched his fists. No way he had left a Premier League club to captain a third-division side just to fail at promotion. That would be a humiliation he couldn’t live with.

He exhaled sharply, wiped his face, then stood up and roared: "That’s right, lads. We’re not going down like this! If we’re bleeding, they’d better be ready to bleed harder. We finish what we f***ing started!"

The players slowly stirred.

"Yeah!" Campbell shouted, voice rising. "They embarrassed us—humiliated us in front of the whole country. So what? We show ’em you don’t bury this team—not without a fight!"

Boots thudded on the floor. Cafu clapped hard. "F***!"

Everyone’s eyes widened. Even the most disciplined, composed Cafu had cursed?!

Ferdinand grinned and bumped shoulders with Gallas.

"I like this," he said before standing up as well. "Let’s go!"

"Come on, City!"

Now even the youngest stood up first—no way the veterans were going to be outdone.

O’Neill stood back, arms crossed, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Much better," he muttered. "Now go out there and play like you remember who the hell you are."

For the first time since that crushing loss, the room felt like a team again.

Alive. Ready.

Richard leaned against the outside of the changing room wall, a smile tugging at his lips as he heard the chaos inside. He knew he hadn’t made the wrong choice in picking O’Neill.

Every head coach has his own approach to connecting with players. Mourinho thrives on making them feel it’s them against the world, while Ferguson’s fiery hairdryer treatment and old-school gangster mentality are legendary. Ancelotti keeps it calm, with his mantra of ’I don’t have a problem with any player,’ and Benitez? Well, he believes players should be like emotionless robots. In short, every coach has his own style of managing the locker room.

As for O’Neill, he is often described as having a ’Midas touch’ due to his ability to inspire teams to success. He’s known for using humor and inspirational words in his team talks, tailoring his approach to each situation. Of course, the current O’Neill is still far from that level, but that’s okay. This was enough

’Back to work.’

He smiled to himself.

Losing the FA Cup and League Cup? It didn’t matter anymore. Now, the focus was clear: the league. Promotion. No excuses. A Crucial Run of League Games.

For the upcoming matches in March, April, and May, City will have a packed schedule

March: Darlington, Cambridge United, Macclesfield Town, Birmingham City

April: Wigan, Hull City, Peterborough United, Stockport County, Notts County

May: Swansea City, Leyton Orient, Bradford City, Colchester, Rotherham United

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK

There was a knock at the door. Miss Heysen stepped in, holding a report in her hands—data from the recent matches against Wycombe and Bristol Rovers.

"What is it, Miss Heysen?" Richard asked, looking up from his desk.

"Richard, you’d better take a look at this," she said, handing him the document.

Richard scanned the report, then let out a slow sigh, rubbing his temples. The figures spoke for themselves. The last game against Bristol Rovers would be remembered for all the wrong reasons—Maine Road had just recorded its lowest-ever attendance: a mere 3,007.

Richard looked up. "Miss Heysen, please call Martin, Mr. Shepherd, and Mr. Barry for me."

Soon after, O’Neill arrived with Frank Shepherd (club’s solicitor) and Gordon Barry (barrister) entering Richard’s office.

"O’Neill, how’s the squad doing? And what’s Ronaldo’s condition?"

"Everything so far is still manageable. Ronaldo has even started training again and will likely be ready for the next match. It’s just that..."

"What is it?"

"It’s just... it would be best if we could stabilize the situation quickly. You know, in the last two matches, there’s been no difference between playing home or away—City’s voice is always drowned out."

Richard nodded, fully understanding the situation. The season was nearing its end, and the fight for promotion had become brutal. With Swansea City, Wigan, and Hull City all looking to squeeze themselves into the top spots, every remaining match was now a fierce battle. The role of fan support was crucial during times like these.

"Also..." O’Neill hesitated.

"What?" Richard asked, squinting.

O’Neill sighed before explaining. It’s basically coming from the Brazilians. Something was bothering them—and it all had to do with their position in the national team.

There were rumors circulating, mainly about the CBF’s involvement, but nothing solid. It seemed like whispers, but the uncertainty was enough to stir unease among them. They were basically wondering if they were at risk of being sidelined or replaced. Some local pundits and critics even suggested it would be better for them to join another club rather than stay with a third-tier team like City.

Richard didn’t answer at first. He looked toward Shepherd and Barry. "What do you think?"

"For the CBF? Even if they’re true, there’s nothing to worry about," Shepherd said with a sneer. "What can they really do? Sure, they can make threats—but they don’t have any real power to act on them."

"And the pundits and critics?" He paused, thinking for a moment. "Honestly, I’m about 80% sure they’re just mouthpieces for the CBF. They’re playing a dangerous game."

That caught Richard’s attention. He leaned in, intrigued. "Go on—tell me more."

Shepherd began to explain the situation, and what Richard hadn’t expected was that the attacks on Manchester City were far from random—they were part of a calculated political strategy.

The more Richard heard, the deeper his frown grew.

At the heart of it all were two powerful figures: Ricardo Terra Teixeira, the recently elected president of the CBF, and João Havelange, who was campaigning for re-election as FIFA president ahead of the 1994 vote.

A financier by profession, Ricardo Terra Teixeira had no prior experience in sports administration. However, by marrying the daughter of João Havelange—FIFA president since 1974—he was able to secure the position of CBF president, succeeding Octávio Pinto Guimarães.

"So, essentially, this is all about Havelange getting re-elected?" Richard asked.

Shepherd nodded. "A hundred percent sure."

It’s a textbook tactic—mixing football with politics to rally support.

As everyone knows, Brazil is a football-obsessed country. Ronaldo, Cafu, and Roberto Carlos had all made names for themselves at major clubs like Cruzeiro, Palmeiras, and Santos. Then there’s City, a bottom-tier, that somehow got lucky enough to sign all of them.

Richard couldn’t help but admire their strategy—it was clever, even if morally dubious.

"To protect Brazilian talent from a team like Manchester City? What a load of crap," he muttered, shaking his head as he flipped through the Brazilian newspaper Shepherd had brought.

Havelange embarked on an intense lobbying mission, with the aim of securing votes from the Confederation of African Football (CAF), Asian Football Confederation (AFC) and the Central American, North American and Caribbean Football Confederation (CONCACAF).

The problem was that his son-in-law had suddenly become president of the CBF. Who could honestly say that nepotism isn’t at play here?

This created hesitation among the confederations. Even if they had already made deals, there needed to be a breakthrough for them to give their vote, ensuring there would be no backlash later on.

Nepotism is undeniably problematic, but in the current climate—where the media is still relatively underdeveloped—this issue was less damaging compared to corruption. Living in Brazil, what’s the best way to restore a tarnished reputation?

Football.

"So he wants to play the protector, huh?" O’Neill nodded, finally getting the gist of it.

"Or at least it helped him cover up the controversy surrounding his son-in-law’s election," Gordon Barry chimed in.

"Isn’t there anything we can do to resolve this as quickly as possible? They’ve been too noisy lately?" Richard then asked seriously—this wasn’t a casual question; it was a direct and urgent inquiry to both of them.

How to silence the Brazilian Football Confederation.

Of course, Richard had no intention of jeopardizing his relationship with the CBF, especially since he planned to sign more Brazilian players in the future. Escalating the situation would only make things worse. Still, their constant noise was becoming unbearable.

With the CBF constantly yapping and

The Sun

fanning the flames, the situation from the outside looked like City was crumbling—though in reality, it wasn’t.

Richard naturally wanted to dismiss it all first, but based on the last two performances, it was clear the noise had started to affect the players and their performance on the pitch.

Forbidding players from reading the newspapers? Impossible. He couldn’t monitor them 24 hours a day.

And the fans—they were also waiting for answers. The low attendance figures likely reflected their stance.

It was as if they were silently asking,

"So what now? Do you still want to keep quiet?"

—a challenge directed at him as the new owner. This was, in essence, a test. A moment to prove how capable the club’s new ownership truly was in facing a crisis like this.

Shepherd gave Richard a list of ways he could handle the crisis—legal and PR countermeasures to manage media damage, issuing a public statement or press release, fan re-engagement tactics, letting the manager and players do the talking, and even threatening legal action.

Textbook crisis control.

Too neat. Too clean. Too safe. Richard shook his head as he scanned the list Shepherd had handed him.

Seeing Shepherd run out of ideas, Richard turned toward Barry, hoping he would have a more unconventional approach to handle the situation.

After all, as barristers, they were typically engaged when cases escalated to litigation or required specialist advocacy—quite different from Shepherd, who handled the day-to-day administrative legal work.

Barry paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. "The CBF is tough, but that doesn’t mean there’s no way to handle them."

He began outlining a strategy to make the CBF quiet down.

"..."

Richard, O’Neill, and Shepherd were stunned. Even Miss Heysen, who had been silent up until then, was wide-eyed, staring at him as if he had lost his mind.

"Hahahahaha."

That was until Richard burst out laughing, realizing just how funny it all seemed.