The referee immediately rushed over, signaling for the medic to come onto the pitch.
OāNeill stood on the sidelines, fists clenched, watching intently as the medic knelt beside Ronaldo.
Tension swept through the stadium as fans held their breath, waiting to see if Ronaldo was okay.
Meanwhile, the referee pulled out a yellow card, showing it to the player who had made the reckless challenge. But all eyes remained fixed on the fallen Ronaldo.
Ronaldo slowly rose, wincing with each step. His teammates gathered around him, offering words of encouragement, but it was clear the injury was affecting his movement.
"Iām fine, Iām fine," Ronaldo said, trying to brush off the pain.
He adjusted his boots, gave a brief nod to the referee to signal he was ready to continue, and made a gesture to OāNeill indicating he was okayāprompting a sigh of relief from the coach.
15th Minute:
With just a minute of normal time gone, only five minutes had passed. SolskjƦr was tackled just as he was about to shoot, but the ball rebounded to Ronaldo, who slammed it home through a sea of legs.
"Oh, what a chance! He had the perfect angle, but the ball drifts wide!"
The crowd groaned collectively as the ball rolled harmlessly past the post. Though it seemed like just another missed opportunity, Richard frowned deeply. Why shoot instead of dribbling?
"Ref!!!" OāNeill shouted, his voice cutting through the noise. He stormed to the edge of his technical area, arms flailing in protest. "Thatās a penalty on SolskjƦr! Every day of the week!"
Yet the referee remained unmoved, ignoring OāNeillās pleas and signaling for the match to continue.
28th Minute:
"Ref!!" OāNeillās voice echoed across the technical area as he threw his hands into the air after yet another questionable tackle on Roberto Carlos went unpunished.
"That was a foul!" he shouted, turning to the fourth official. "Are we being punished for something?!"
34th Minute:
City surged forward again. Cafu slipped past two defenders and cut into the box, only to be brought down from behind. The crowd leapt to their feetāsurely this time! But the referee simply signaled for a goal kick.
OāNeill was livid. He stepped out of the technical area, pointing furiously. "Thatās the third one!
Third!
And still no card?! Youāre setting a dangerous tone here!"
43th Minute:
Rotherham United had effectively parked the bus, turning every City attack into a frustrating near-miss.
Their defensive shape unexpectedly was tight, their discipline impressive, and their physicality increasingly noticeableāleaving City with little room to operate. But just as tension gripped the stadium, City surged forward with another promising attack.
"Weāre almost there, just a little bit more!" OāNeill muttered.
Cafu raced down the wing and broke through the defense. He whipped in a cross, aiming for SolskjƦr, who had already raised his hand, signaling for it.
The ball curled wickedly toward the near post. SolskjƦr leapt, twisting mid-air to meet it with a glancing header. The ball zipped goalward, beating the keeperā
"GOAAALLLL!" Maine Road erupted in sheer ecstasy.
"Ole Gunnar SolskjƦr again!!!"
"Well done!" OāNeill shouted, pumping his fist as he watched the ball crash into the back of the net.
PHWEEEE!
The City players were ready to celebrate with the ecstatic SolskjƦr, but just then, the sharp whistle of the referee cut through the air. He stood near the goal area, pointing to the groundāImre VĆ”radi was lying there!
"The goal does
not
count! What a startling turn of events..." the commentator exclaimed. "SolskjƦrās goal has been ruled out. The referee believes that during his jump, he pressed down on Imre VĆ”radi. But honestly... this decision will surely stir some controversy. And waitāwhatās happening now on the sidelines?"
Incensed, OāNeill kicked a water bottle, sending it skidding down the sideline. In his view, it had been a perfectly good goalāone that couldnāt have been betterābut the referee had inexplicably ruled it out.
His outburst quickly drew the attention of the fourth official.
"Mr. OāNeill, youād better restrain yourself," the official warned sternly as he approached. "I donāt want the referee coming over to show you a red cardāand Iām sure you donāt want that either."
At that moment, OāNeill looked ready to explode, but Robertson quickly stepped in and pulled him back.
"Iām sorryāthis wonāt happen again," Robertson said to the fourth official, doing his best to calm the situation and lead OāNeill away.
"Let go of me! That damnā" OāNeill continued to vent his frustration, but this time, Robertson quickly covered his mouth.
"Shut up, Martin! Do you want to get sent off now? The match isnāt over yet!" Robertson, usually obedient and deferential to OāNeill, snapped sharply, his tone cutting through the tension like a knife.
OāNeill froze, momentarily stunned. Then, slowly, he straightened up and scratched his head.
"Youāre right, John... I nearly lost sight of the bigger picture. Thanks for pulling me back."
Regaining his composure, OāNeill marched back to the touchline and cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Donāt let it get to you! Keep pressing forwardāweāre still in this!" he bellowed.
The fourth official heard OāNeillās words, looked distrustfully at him, but he finally found no trouble.
"SolskjƦr looks a little dejected. The first goal he scored for City disappeared just like that. But heās a good ladāa striker with great potential. I believe that, in time, heāll be Norwayās new leading man up front," the commentator said, speaking of the future.
"Bloody moron!" SolskjƦr clenched his fists. He could swear on his future that he hadnāt pressed anyone down.
The first half was a bit of a letdown as a spectacle, with play largely one-sided but no goals to show for it. In the final minutes, neither side was willing to commit too much, leading to a lack of decisive action.
OāNeill gloomily walked toward the locker room, planning to give his players a stern talk when his eyes were drawn to Ronaldo.
The forward was sitting with the team medic, his knees wrapped in ice packs. Just then, the external medic hired from Wythenshawe Hospital approached him, a serious expression on his face.
"Heās in some pain, but itās too early to say how serious it is. Weāll need to run some tests, but for now, the ice should help reduce the swelling."
OāNeill exhaled sharply, rubbing his hand through his hair. "Not now... not when we need him most."
Ronaldo, having seen the medic speaking with OāNeill, felt a surge of anxiety. Without hesitation, he stood up and made his way over to the coach. "No, coach, I can still play."
He wasnāt about to miss the final moments, not when his teammates needed him, and certainly not while sitting on the bench, waiting as they fought alone.
What about the fans?
No, he had promised himself that he would lead the team out, no matter how much pain he had to endure.
OāNeill hesitated. He didnāt answer Ronaldo but instead turned to the medic. "What do you think?"
The medic glanced at Ronaldo, then back at OāNeill. "Heās pushing it, but if he insists, I canāt stop him. But we need to keep an eye on him. He could make it worse."
After all, his role was to advise, not to make the final call. Still, he couldnāt help but give them a warning. "But if he goes out there, itās on himāand you."
OāNeill rubbed his temples, feeling a headache brewing.
Ronaldo was filled with anxiety. He actually wasnāt overly worried about Rotherham, even though City were still goalless, because he knew that, at the end of the day, heād be able to score. He could feel it instinctivelyāhe just needed time. He was so close to breaking their defense wide open.
The pressure was mounting, and it was becoming clear that time was running out.
"Ten minutes. If youāre going back in, then youāve got ten minutes after that. No more," OāNeill finally said, his voice firm.
Then he turned to the medic and gave a single nod.
The medic returned the nod in understanding. He shrugged slightly, then turned to Ronaldo. "Follow me."
Soon, while OāNeill gave his talk during the halftime break, Ronaldo was in another room as the Wythenshawe medic skillfully drained fluid from Ronaldoās knee before the second half and administered a painkiller to alleviate the aching and continual throbbing.
Afterward, the medic watched as Ronaldo took a few small steps, testing his knee. "How does it feel?" the medic asked, observing his movements closely.
Ronaldo gave a slight nod, trying to hide the discomfort, and offered a faint smile. "Itās better, but... still a bit sore. Iāll be fine," he said
If Richard were in the locker room, heād probably tear apart OāNeill because he knew what was at stake. Unfortunately, he couldnāt be there. He had too many guests to entertain, and also his family who came to watch the match.
PHWEEE!!!
The sound of the whistle echoed through the stadium, signaling the start of the second half. Ronaldo jogged back onto the pitch, his knee still a bit stiff, but the painkiller was working as he pushed through the discomfort.
āTen minutes... ten minutes... ten minutes,ā
he chanted to himself.
āOne goal... one goal... one goal.ā
Just like Ronaldo chanted to himself, Richard also repeated the mantra to himself because he knew, one goal.
Only one goal, and he knew Rotherham was done for.
However, he never expected that, what came was a red card, and the one shown the red card was... OāNeill!!!
Richard was left speechless.