Chapter 243: Absolute Scenes at Maine Road!

After scoring the goal, David Trezeguet glanced back at the ball nestled in the net—confirmation, satisfaction. Then, without hesitation, he spun around and sprinted toward the technical area. He wasn’t celebrating for the crowd, not yet. He was looking for someone.

That someone was Thierry Henry—his closest friend at Manchester City.

Unlike Henry, who had already carved out his reputation on the big stage, Trezeguet was still finding his feet. He lacked experience, still short of regular minutes in a top league. But it was Henry who had quietly helped him rediscover his confidence—taking him in as a sparring partner during training, encouraging him, pushing him, reminding him of who he could become.

And now, in this moment, that belief had borne fruit.

For a brief second, the usual noise behind the technical area—shouting, instructions, complaints—faded away. The players and coaches on both sides could hear just one thing:

"City! City! Manchester City!!"

A chant, fierce and rhythmic, echoing through Maine Road like a drumbeat of the city’s rebirth.

The old stadium, capable of holding up to 35,000 fans, roared to life once more. With that goal, with that surge of belief, Maine Road wasn’t just a stadium—it was City’s fortress again. The energy that had been missing, the pride, the belonging—it was all coming back.

And for Trezeguet, the journey had just begun.

Richard grabbed his father in celebration and shouted, "Look at this stand, Dad! This is our home ground! Do you see it? These are our fans! Let them hear us! Now back to the field—let’s keep teaching those Peacocks a lesson!"

"Haha, good! Good!" Bryan laughed as he listened to Richard, clearly pleased—especially when he looked over at the Leeds bench and saw George Graham fuming with frustration. That only made Bryan laugh even harder.

"Holy moly, Andy! Manchester City are unstoppable! After Newcastle, are we now seeing Leeds become the next victims? Their spirit is running sky-high—Leeds look absolutely punch-drunk!"

The English commentator was spot on. Leeds were punch-drunk. They hadn’t expected to concede a goal just two minutes into the first half—and certainly not one like that.

The brilliance of the goal was enough to make even the most lethargic City fans leap from their seats in celebration... and enough to make the Leeds supporters bury their heads in despair.

Football could be that magical—a single goal had the power to break the balance on the field and tip the scales of victory.

Trezeguet’s goal didn’t just ignite the passion of the City fans; it fueled the fire within the players as well. They pressed harder, tackled fiercer, and launched forward with even greater urgency.

And thanks to that momentum, just thirteen minutes later, City scored another goal.

It could be said that a football match is a battle of mutual restraint—a constant struggle to break down each other’s technical and tactical systems. The top priority? Preventing the opponent from playing their best.

For the current City side, their tactics were simple—but effective.

Leeds, lining up in a 4-4-2 with three flat midfielders, focused on defense. Their main objective was to disrupt City’s passing rhythm and limit the supply lines. In front of them, Lee Bowyer was tasked with launching counterattacks, feeding quick balls to Ian Rush and Lee Sharpe up top.

So City’s primary challenge was clear: once Bowyer got the ball, they had two options—either charge him down immediately, or cut off Rush and Sharpe like chopping down trees, neutralizing the Leeds counter before it could begin.

With City enjoying the majority of possession—while Leeds remained pinned back in a deep defensive block—their attacking strategy was clear and deliberate: exploit the flanks.

Right side: Zanetti and Okocha

Left side: Finnan and Zambrotta

Unlike the days of Cafu and Roberto Carlos, who could bomb forward alone like unstoppable forces, City’s approach didn’t rely on individual brilliance alone this time. That kind of system, while thrilling, placed too much burden on a single player.

Instead, City’s wide play was built on coordination and structure—a two-man system on each side, offering overlapping runs, quick passing combinations, and constant movement. It wasn’t just more balanced—it was more dangerous.

Leeds United were completely pinned back on the pitch, and George Graham knew it. Lee Sharpe, bought for £4.5 million from Manchester United, now looked somewhat redundant, and veteran Ian Rush lacked movement. At 34 years old, he wouldn’t have been leading the line—had he not arrived on a free transfer from Liverpool.

With his striker offering little up front, and his midfielders and defenders starting to come under serious pressure, Graham began to consider a tactical shift—perhaps switching to a more conservative 5-4-1 formation to weather the storm.

But who?

George Graham’s eyes swept across the substitutes’ bench, frustration tightening in his chest. It was a real headache. He scratched his head, weighing his limited options. Just as he was about to make a decision—

A roar erupted from the stands.

What was going on now?

He snapped his head toward the pitch, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

"What the f—"

The gentleman with the otherwise composed demeanor couldn’t help but let the curse slip.

Number 18—Frank Lampard—was darting through the lines. Not just any run, but a perfectly timed surge, slicing between the midfield and defensive units with fearless intent.

Then it happened.

Pirlo, cool as ever, delivered a perfectly weighted diagonal pass to the right flank. Okocha was already in full stride, hugging the touchline.

With a quick glance, Okocha performed a cheeky outside-foot flick—a trick pass laced with flair and precision. The ball spun gracefully through the narrowest of channels, skipping past two defenders and landing perfectly in the path of the onrushing Lampard.

In that moment, everything fell apart for Leeds.

Just like that, City had broken through their offside trap.

"Manchester City do it again!" Andy Gray’s voice cracked with excitement. "Frank Lampard—the debutant—won’t waste this chance! He shoots... AND IT’S A GOAL!!"

There were 30,000 Cityzens at Maine Road, just as ecstatic as Richard and his family. As one, they rose to their feet, roaring:

"Goooooooal!!! City! Go! Go! Go!"

For everyone watching on television or listening by radio, the familiar voice of Martin Tyler soon echoed through:

"That’s City’s second goal—and what a beauty it is! They’ve been magnificent! Leeds never expected to take such a heavy blow... and not even before the first half is over!"

In the director’s box, Richard could no longer contain his excitement. He leapt into the air, fists clenched, then turned and threw his arms around his father. The two embraced tightly, shaking with joy.

"Son! Son! You’re damn fantastic!" Walker shouted into his ear, voice hoarse with emotion. "You’re teaching that bastard Graham a lesson—I love you!" At that moment, every trace of doubt about his son as acting manager vanished.

"I f*cking love you too, Dad..." Richard choked out, not caring how awkward it sounded. "I f*cking love all of you!"

"We’ve got the whole world in our hands! The world is in our hands! We are the best team in England! We’re invincible, ever victorious! We are fearless! Because we are the best team! Because the world is in our hands!!"

Those proud lyrics... now the fans could finally sing them out loud with confidence.

’Come on, come on! A little more! We’ll never feel sick of it!’

PHWEEEE!

The first half ended with Manchester City leading 2–0.

After the second half began, the fourth official held up the substitution board on the sidelines. The first team to make a change was Manchester City, with Okocha being replaced by Robbie Savage.

At that moment, Robertson pulled Savage aside near the touchline.

"Robbie, mark Bowyer," he said, pointing at the notorious midfielder, who stood nearby with his back turned.

"Don’t worry, boss," Savage replied.

"No, no. I mean in a different way," Robertson continued. "Whenever Bowyer gets the ball, I want you on him—harassing him constantly with little fouls and annoyances. Don’t be afraid to commit a foul if needed, but be smart about it. Don’t cross the line and get sent off. A few well-placed words, a bit of provocation—that’s all. Your job is to make him lose his cool. You know what to do, right?"

Savage looked at Robertson in disbelief. "The boss would never allow this!"

Indeed, if it were O’Neill in charge—strict and disciplined as ever—he would never permit such tactics.

Truthfully, Robertson didn’t like resorting to this either. But he had his reasons.

Lee Bowyer had just joined Leeds, and this was his debut for the club. The problem was that, while no one denied Bowyer was a genius, his character flaws were serious—so much so that the media had publicly started calling him an outright ’scum’

Just after he was signed for £2.8 million—a record for a British teenager—Bowyer was convicted of affray and fined £4,500 following an incident at a McDonald’s restaurant in London. CCTV footage showed him throwing chairs and racially abusing a staff member of Asian origin. In a related case involving the assault of an Asian youth, a final compensation of £170,000 was paid before the charges were eventually dropped.

"Okay, boss. I’ll listen to you," Savage replied.

After City completed their substitution, Leeds soon made one of their own.

Both sides had made changes, and the impact was immediately felt on the pitch. But the most striking development wasn’t the tactical shifts—it was the confrontation between Robbie Savage and Lee Bowyer.

From the stands, Richard was taken aback. "Confrontation" didn’t seem like the right word anymore—"clash" was far more accurate.

Savage carried out his instructions to the letter. For example, just a moment ago, when Bowyer received the ball, Savage rushed in aggressively, engaging in some pushing and pulling. Although the referee blew his whistle and called foul in time, he still got Bowyer all riled up.

Richard carefully observed Bowyer’s changing expressions. Put this young lad on the street with a drink in hand, and he’d look like a typical football hooligan. Bowyer was clearly seething—doing his best to suppress his anger.

Leeds, facing mounting pressure, shifted their offensive focus to Bowyer on the right. They hoped the teenage genius could lift them out of their current slump. But they had chosen the wrong day—and the wrong opponent—to rely on.

Three times in a row!

Savage blocked Bowyer’s advance again, this time with another foul. But the price was minimal: just a verbal warning from the referee.

Bowyer’s face grew uglier.

In a following attack, Bowyer received a pass from Radebe. He should have laid it off to Lee Sharpe, who was in a much better position to carry the attack forward. Instead, after a few strides, he lashed out—sending a reckless, demoralizing boot directly in Savage’s direction, forcing the City player to leap aside to avoid being struck.

"Actually, I think Bowyer was aiming for the roof of Maine Road!" Andy Gray mocked mercilessly over the broadcast.

It was clear the kick was deliberate—and it wasn’t meant for the net.

The Cityzens in the stands quickly picked up on the drama and broke into song, mocking the outburst:

"Lee Bowyer is an American Football player! He kicked the ball straight into the sky—oh yeah!"

Richard burst out laughing. England fans had to be the most creative and ruthless in the world when it came to taunts. He loved every second of it.

However, while everyone’s attention was glued to the fiery showdown between Savage and Bowyer—and even taking bets on which one would be sent off first—no one expected that the real climax of the confrontation wouldn’t involve Savage at all.

It was Lehmann vs. Bowyer.

Yep, Jens freakin’ Lehmann—the eccentric, easily-triggered German goalkeeper—took center stage.

It all started with a Leeds corner kick.

Thuram did his job and headed it away. Crisis averted—kind of. The ball dropped loose near the edge of the box like a bar of soap in a prison brawl. And Bowyer, still seething with frustration, pounced.

Enter Bowyer—eyes blazing with rage, teeth clenched like a man whose controller just disconnected in FIFA. He charged at the ball and swung with all the fury of someone who’d been fouled 38 times in 40 minutes.

With no hesitation—and no regard for anything else—he launched his leg and smashed the ball as hard as he could.

The problem?

It wasn’t just the ball that went flying.

His boot came off.

And it shot like a missile—straight toward Lehmann’s face!

The German keeper, already fired up and fiercely protective of his box, took the boot full on the lip.

A nasty smack. Blood. Shock.

Right on the lips. The German went down like he’d just been slapped by his mother-in-law.

Lehmann spat blood, picked up the boot like it was a cursed relic, marched straight toward Bowyer, and yeeted it back at him. Then came the shove—two hands, full send, no hesitation.

Originally, Robertson’s plan was simple: Savage would provoke Bowyer, Bowyer would snap, Savage would take a theatrical dive, and the ref would respond with a yellow, then a red. Clean, calculated. A man down for Leeds, morale broken, job done.

But the chaos unfolding on the pitch?

This was not part of the plan.

===

It rocketed off his