Chapter 167: Making Them an Example

For the next forty minutes, City completely dominated possession. They didn’t allow Brentford a moment to breathe.

Cafu and Roberto Carlos terrorized the full-backs, cutting inside, driving at defenders, and forcing mistakes. Brentford looked uncomfortable, pinned in their own half. And then—City struck again.

It was only the 10th minute.

This was pure Ronaldo.

The Brazilian received the ball on the left wing, right by the touchline, with Brentford’s right-back directly in front of him.

The right-back had been struggling all game, trying to contain the dangerous Ronaldo and Roberto Carlos partnership. Now, he found himself in the worst possible situation—one-on-one with City’s most lethal dribbler.

Ronaldo slowed down, taking a few small touches as he approached. He let the ball roll under his sole, sizing up the defender. Brentford’s right-back stayed cautious, not diving in, trying to keep his shape.

Then came the switch.

Ronaldo dropped a quick shoulder to the right, and the defender bit—just for a second. That was all Ronaldo needed. He shifted the ball onto his left and burst inside, skipping past with ease.

The space opened up.

Now he had options.

The other defenders backed off, afraid of another dangerous pass into the box. After all, the first goal was still fresh in their minds—Ronaldo’s assist and Larsson’s finish had already done the damage.

But this time, Ronaldo wasn’t looking to pass. He set the ball onto his right foot, took two steady steps, and then—flawless technique.

A curling shot, struck to perfection, bent toward the top corner.

Brentford’s keeper, Dearden, reacted, diving at full stretch. But it was out of reach.

The ball kissed the inside of the post and dropped into the net.

Brentford 0 – 2 Manchester City.

The away stands erupted instantly.

🎵 "When we get the ball, we’re gonna score, we’re gonna win, we’re gonna roar!" 🎶

🎵 "City, City, City’s on fire, we’re gonna burn the place down!" 🎶

Ronaldo sprinted toward the corner flag, the crowd rising to their feet. As he neared the corner, he dropped into a knee slide, arms crossed over his chest, a calm expression on his face despite the roar around him.

It wasn’t just celebration—it was a statement.

And on the other end of the pitch?

Brentford’s players looked shattered.

Their counter-attacking game plan wasn’t just ineffective—it had completely unraveled. Every attempted break was snuffed out before it could build, and they rarely managed more than a few passes before City won the ball back.

Heads were down. Shoulders sagged.

The early goals had drained not just their energy, but their belief. Ronaldo’s strike, coming so soon after the opener, felt like a gut punch. The midfield was overrun, the full-backs isolated, and their front line stranded.

David Webb barked instructions from the touchline, urging his team to reset, to stay compact—but even he looked concerned. Brentford weren’t just chasing the ball now. They were chasing shadows.

Paul Davis? The ex-Arsenal player?

He was a ghost.

Every time he got the ball, black and red shirts swarmed him.

Every time he tried to turn, van Bommel, with his trademark hard tackles, was there—pressing him into mistakes.

The frustration was building.

This result surprised everyone. By the end of the first half, City were already leading by two goals.

Richard in the stands was delighted, hugging and singing with the fans, but what pleased him most was his team’s permanent possession. They were truly dominating all the time.

Hugging the man he had grabbed earlier, Richard leaned in and asked suddenly, "Hey, do you know him?"

"What?" the man shouted back.

Richard’s voice was barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

Then Richard pointed toward the young man, celebrating and shouting like a madman. "You know him, right? What’s his name? Is he from the Guvnors?"

Only then did the man realize what Richard meant. "Oh, Mark," he said, nodding before continuing, "No, that’s the Blazing Squad, not the Guvnors. Don’t worry, he won’t cause trouble like them. Borran is a good lad."

’Borran? Mark Borran?’

Richard thought, but before he could ask any more questions, the second half kicked off.

Seeing the guy already focused on the match, Richard decided not to disturb him.

The match resumed, and just as the second half got underway, the commentator’s voice crackled to life.

"And there’s a change for Manchester City! Gianluca Zambrotta is coming off, and in his place, it’s Theodoros Zagorakis, making his way onto the field."

Robertson, who was seated on the away coach’s seat, saw O’Neill turn around. He had been busy instructing Zagorakis on what to do in the second half.

"Martin, why did you suddenly substitute Zambrotta just now? I think he didn’t play badly in the first half." he couldn’t help to asked.

O’Neill simply shook his head, "Gian’s problem isn’t that he’s not good enough, but that he’s not yet accustomed to his new role. Didn’t you see? In the first ten minutes, he took six shots, but all were off target. After that, he didn’t take another, even when he had the chance. He lost his confidence to shoot the ball."

Hearing O’Neill’s reason, Robertson was taken aback. "How did you know that?"

Noticing his assistant’s confused look, O’Neill responded, "You just know it naturally when you have the experience. When a player has a chance and doesn’t use it effectively, chooses not to take it because he sees another option, or simply holds back because he lacks confidence... If I force him, there’s a higher chance he will continue to lose confidence in his other skills as well. I’d rather not take that risk."

"His skills are still there, just not being used in the right position. This is probably why Como hasn’t been able to make the most of him. They’ve seen his physical attributes and tried to use his height and strength in aerial duels as a striker—"

He stopped.

"John, you know what? I’ve just had an idea."

"What is it?"

"You know about the Cafu rumor, right?"

"...As Roma?"

O’Neill nodded. "Rather than using him wrongly like Como did, making him scratch his head and make the wrong assessment, let’s try him at right back. Just in case of Cafu—"

He stopped again.

Hearing this, Robertson understood.

"I’ll coordinate with Walford about this."

"Alright, thank you."

With that, they both turned their focus back to the match.

For the rest of the match, it was basically game over for Brentford.

Especially for the ex-Premier League player, Paul Davis—today was truly a nightmare.

By the 65th minute, it boiled over.

Davis received a simple pass, but his first touch was sloppy. Ronaldo pounced instantly, stealing the ball away, and the crowd roared.

Would it repeat like the first half?

But unfortunately, it didn’t.

Davis, already fuming, lunged in late—rash, reckless, desperate. Ronaldo went down under the challenge.

"What the hell! That was an obvious foul! Damn it, a foul!" Richard, from the stands, aflame with indignation, bellowed toward the pitch.

And yes, the referee immediately blew his whistle.

Yellow card.

Davis stood there, breathing heavily, his jaw clenched.

An ex-Premier League player? It didn’t matter! You’re trapped here with us now!

Paul Davis was losing his head.

And Brentford?

They were losing the game, and David Webb was basically scratching his head in frustration. He immediately called someone to substitute Paul Davis.

Originally, he wanted to keep him on for longer because he feared that substituting him while he was struggling would be a blow to his confidence, but now he didn’t have a choice.

However, his late substitution proved costly. As everyone knows, a substitution can only happen once the ball is out of play. That meant the ball at the feet of the City player had to either go out for a goal kick or off the pitch before Paul could exit the field.

But the problem was, Brentford couldn’t breathe.

Every pass? Chased down.

Every touch? Under pressure.

Every attempt to build an attack? Shut down before it even began.

Finally, in the 70th minute, City’s relentless pressing forced a mistake—and they were soon rewarded.

Brentford had managed to push upfield, trying to find a consolation goal.

Then—disaster.

A sloppy pass from Davis.

Intercepted.

Robbie Savage, fresh off the bench, read it perfectly, aiming for Davis’s foot, making him jump before the ball even touched his boot.

"Hey, that’s a foul!" he yelled at the referee, but the official remained firm, showing no intention of stopping play. Meanwhile, the crowd erupted in applause, their excitement palpable.

Luckily, the attempted clearance sent the ball wide to Ronaldo.

Now, with Brentford’s defenders out of position, Ronaldo had all the space he needed.

The Brazilian burst down the left wing, eating up ground with each stride.

Webb screamed from the sideline, urging his players to get back, but Ronaldo was already deep in Brentford’s half.

2 vs. 1.

Ronaldo and Henrik Larsson vs Jamie Bates.

As Bates lunged in, Ronaldo saw Larsson ghosting into the box, signaling for the ball.

Ronaldo gave a quick nod toward Larsson, as if preparing to pass, making Bates believe he was going to lay the ball off. Bates, anticipating the pass, instinctively raised his right foot to block the ball.

But instead of passing, Ronaldo smoothly glided the ball past Bates, who was caught off guard by the feint. With a sudden burst of speed, Ronaldo launched into a blistering run, leaving Bates trailing behind.

One skill.

One touch.

One shot.

One-on-one with the goalkeeper, Ronaldo didn’t break stride.

A low shot into the bottom corner.

No need to break stride. A perfect finish.

Brentford F.C 0 - 3 Manchester City.

Even the ’Jamie Batesy!’ chant stopped, replaced by...

🎵 "City, City, City’s on fire, we’re gonna burn the place down!" 🎶