Chapter 250: Theater of Dreams?

September 16, 1996

By afternoon, the west side of Manchester—once the beating heart of the industrial world—had come alive with traffic and crowds. From above, the flow of people was unmistakable, all moving in one direction: toward a gleaming modern stadium, rising like a monument to the city’s evolving identity.

Dream Theater: Old Trafford!

After the win against Newcastle and the unexpected draw with Leeds United, the players—and everyone around Manchester City—shifted into a fiercely competitive mindset. At least, that was what Richard thought.

He had originally wanted to complain about City’s schedule, which lined up Newcastle, Leeds, Manchester United, and then Liverpool—an undeniably brutal stretch for a team that had just been promoted.

Especially after the referee’s performance against Leeds United.

Before the match against United, Richard had already instructed City solicitor Frank Shepherd to file an appeal against the red card and the referee’s decision regarding two ridiculous offside calls.

No one expected the highest level of competition in English football would turn out like this. Heck, no one expected that City would get screwed by the referee. With that, all they could do now was wait for the FA’s response.

Of course, that sense of injustice had lingered—but Richard believed City had fought back, no matter what. Doubt had given way to determination. If they couldn’t adapt quickly to the challenges of the Premier League, they might find themselves left behind by their relegation rivals. That’s why this match was crucial—

very

crucial—for the team’s spirit.

Manchester United!

As the bus approached the outskirts of Old Trafford, the players and coaching staff—like everyone else on board—found themselves gazing out the window at the grand, stadium rising in the distance.

Outside, crowds swarmed the stadium grounds. Fans in red jerseys laughed, took photos, and chatted casually as they snacked and strolled beneath the afternoon sun. They looked entirely unbothered by the day’s opponent, exuding the calm confidence of a club used to dominance—a confidence laced with quiet disdain for their newly promoted cross-town rivals.

Young players like Pirlo, Buffon, and Henry gazed out at the magnificent stadium, a quiet sense of yearning in their eyes.

Was this really Old Trafford?

The legendary home of the Red Devils. A cathedral of football. The so-called "Theatre of Dreams"—and today, they were walking into it not as fans, but as challengers.

Welcomed by Manchester United officials, the entire City squad stepped off the bus and made their way toward the changing rooms.

With time to spare before kickoff, the players began changing into their training kits, preparing for the pre-match warm-up under the shadow of one of football’s grandest stages.

Richard arrived separately from the team, entering the Old Trafford complex alongside Miss Heysen and Marina Granovskaia.

Naturally, he was treated as a VIP—his status demanded nothing less. So when he first set foot on the premises, flanked by Marina and Miss Heysen, the first to greet him from the United side was none other than Manchester United’s chief executive, David Gill.

"Richard! Good to see you," David said warmly as they approached.

"You too, David," Richard replied, extending his hand with a smile.

The two already knew each other, thanks to the time David Gill personally came to Maine Road to negotiate the transfer of Henrik Larsson, in which Richard openly accepted only United to step back, thanks to Larsson’s outrageous salary.

They shook hands firmly, and Gill took the opportunity to give Richard a quick tour of the club’s facilities.

Richard looked around Old Trafford and could hear the passionate roar of the fans outside. The sound of the club anthem paled in comparison to the cheers of the supporters. Even he admitted—Maine Road was far behind Old Trafford in terms of atmosphere and facilities.

It would be self-deceiving to say he felt no envy.

Teams around the world envied Manchester United like no other, and he didn’t need to pretend that City’s Maine Road was better than their gilded nest. Still, he pulled his gaze away.

As they passed through the corridors of Old Trafford’s executive level—wood-panelled walls, framed photos of past glories, the hum of matchday hospitality—David Gill slowed his pace and turned to Richard.

"We’ve set aside a spot in the directors’ box," David Gill said. "You’re very welcome to join us in the VIP box today. The owner will be there too—I thought it might be a good opportunity."

Ah, Martin Edwards—Manchester United’s unloved emperor.

Richard glanced toward Marina and Miss Heysen. Seeing them both nod in quiet approval, he naturally had no objection. He was just about to accept the invitation when he suddenly remembered—ah yes, today he was supposed to join the City dressing room.

"That’s a very kind offer, David—and I do appreciate it," Richard said. "But I’ve already made plans with a few close friends in our own VIP box, so..."

David Gill gave a knowing nod, the kind that said he understood more than he let on.

"Of course," he replied. "Completely understandable. Another time, then."

"Another time," Richard echoed, and with a brief handshake and a courteous nod, they parted ways—each returning to their own side of Manchester’s divided heart.

After arriving at their VIP box, Richard bid farewell to Miss Heysen and Marina before making his way toward the visitors’ dressing room at Old Trafford.

Just as the warm-up session ended and the team began returning to the changing room, Richard happened to arrive at the door. But as he reached for the handle, he paused—something made him stop.

The pregame rituals.

Inside City’s locker room, silence fell. John Robertson, Steve Walford, and Terry Gennoe stood in front of an empty tactics board. For today, it would remain untouched—useless, even. There would be no elaborate pre-match instructions, no arrows or markers. If changes were needed, they would address them at halftime.

This wasn’t the time for tactics.

This was the time to talk.

The starting eleven had changed into their kits, while the substitutes sat quietly in their jackets, waiting for Robertson’s final instructions before kickoff.

Jens Lehmann, out.Lilian Thuram, out.Robbie Savage, out.

So the current starting eleven:

Goalkeeper: Gianluigi Buffon

Defenders: Javier Zanetti, William Gallas, Rio Ferdinand, Gianluca Zambrotta

Midfielders: Van Bommel, Neil Lennon, Andrea Pirlo, Okocha

Forwards: Ronaldo, Henrik Larsson

Robertson had decided to go with a 4-4-2 formation, abandoning the 4-3-3 setup he had used against Leeds United. That system had collapsed—even if most of it was down to poor refereeing decisions, the result still made him question himself. He began to doubt whether his 4-3-3 truly worked... or worse, whether he was even cut out to be a full-time manager at all.

So for today’s derby match, Robertson made another decision: He would not lead the pre-match talk.

Instead, he quietly pulled out his phone and dialed someone he trusted for motivation—Martin O’Neill.

The line clicked.

A pause—then a familiar voice came through, calm and steady, laced with that sharp Northern Irish edge.

"Where are we?"

The moment the question was asked, Richard’s hand was already gripping the door handle, and he stopped just in time—not wanting to disturb the sacred moment.

The players exchanged glances, and Larsson—clearly happy to hear the old man’s voice—was the first to answer: "Old Trafford."

"That’s right. We are at Old Trafford—and today, we’re facing the most-watched team in all of England: Manchester United. They may not have as many trophies as Liverpool, but make no mistake—in this country, Manchester United is the golden child. Worshipped from royalty to the average fan, everyone watches them. Admires them. Expects them to win. And when you step onto that pitch, look at their faces—serious, confident, full of pride. They walk with a sense of invincibility, especially here at Old Trafford."

The players listened with solemn expressions.

O’Neill then continued, "So tell me—shout it out loud: when we step onto Old Trafford, into the so-called Theatre of Dreams, with Manchester United standing before us—are we just tourists? Just background noise? Will they forget our names by tomorrow?"

"..."

"Bloody hell, why are you all so quiet?! Are you scared of Manchester United?!"

O’Neill’s voice thundered through the phone, echoing in the room like a war cry.

"Henrik, Ronaldo, Neil, Jackie, Mark, William, Gian, Rio—tell me, are you afraid right now? Because if you are, then Robertson—pick another man and change them immediately!"

In the hospital, O’Neill’s face held a grim intensity. His tone was grave, not hysterical—controlled, but laced with a deep, simmering anger.

Sensing the anger in his voice, the entire team reacted instantly.

"No!"

Even the new guys—Buffon, Pirlo, Lampard, Zanetti—though they had never officially met O’Neill in a competitive match, could immediately sense that this was not a man to be taken lightly.

With that grand speech, O’Neill immediately ended the call. But the words didn’t leave the players. The fire he lit stayed with them. In that moment, their mood shifted—no longer relaxed, but charged with a fierce, competitive spirit.

The coaching staff exchanged knowing smiles. They were used to O’Neill’s passionate rallying cries, and every time, it left them inspired—if they could play, they’d give everything for victory. Even Robertson sighed, quietly admitting to himself that he could never replicate this kind of ability his boss had.

Soon, the starting players lined up in the tunnel, waiting silently as they observed Manchester United’s lineup.

Just as O’Neill had described, the United players stood tall—radiating confidence and superiority. It wasn’t arrogance; it was the calm assurance of a team that knew its power. And with the fans roaring like there was no tomorrow, the energy was electric.

It felt as though the players were drawing power directly from the crowd—like warriors charging into battle, fueled by the thunder around them.

Old Trafford had undergone several renovations over its nearly hundred-year history, and during Ferguson’s era, he left a lasting mark on the transformation of this iconic stadium.

Perhaps the most impactful was the relocation of the players’ tunnel to the corner flag—a design that maximized the home advantage.

Whether entering for kickoff or returning at halftime, players, coaches, and referees were all funneled through that same narrow path.

Visiting managers had to walk several meters along the touchline, directly in front of the roaring home fans.

It was no coincidence.

The placement allowed Manchester United supporters to unleash pressure—verbal, emotional, psychological—on the opposition in a way no other stadium could replicate.

Even before the first whistle, the intimidation had begun.