Chapter 256: The Mighty Beckham

As the first half came to a close, the players made their way toward the tunnel.

Both teams maintained an ordinary demeanor, but the City players looked slightly disgruntled. Robertson walked toward the tunnel from the sidelines, while fans in the stands leaned over, gesturing at him in various ways.

Booing, jeering, sarcastic applause, curses, laughter, and even shouts rang out:

"Noisy neighbors, don’t get too excited! We’re Manchester United, and we won’t be easily beaten. So what if you’re two goals ahead? By the time the match is over, you’ll be crying your way back to Eastlands!"

Of course, the fans knew all about City’s grand plan to move to Eastlands—right into the part of town where people dumped their rubbish and stray dogs roamed free. Perfect for a club with their ambitions.

Robertson walked on with a calm expression, unfazed by the jeers from the Manchester United fans. He had long since learned—from O’Neill—that engaging with them was a fool’s game.

Once back in the locker room, he glanced around at the players. They all seemed okay, their spirits intact. Clearly, competing against a powerhouse like Manchester United was the kind of opportunity they relished.

However, he noticed that Ronaldo was breathing noticeably harder than the others. Despite having recently passed physical tests and regained much of his conditioning, the high tempo of a match against United was taking a toll on him. The indulgences of the summer holiday still lingered.

Robertson then picked up a pen and sketched a simple tactical diagram on the board, circling Zanetti’s position. He turned to him and said:

"Good job containing Roy Keane and Giggs. Now, forget the first half. In the second half, keep pushing forward to support the attack—and don’t carry any psychological burden."

Zanetti nodded vigorously. Toward the end of the first half, he had been afraid that another mistake while pressing forward would lead to a goal, so he had played cautiously and stayed deep.

Robertson then turned to Van Bommel.

"Mark, if we find ourselves in the same situation as during the first goal, don’t rush to intercept the counterattack. Drop back—even if it means retreating into the box. Just make sure we’re not outnumbered in the danger zones in front of goal. Compress the space before they get into our box."

Of course, Robertson held back a crucial thought: in truth, he bore part of the blame for the goal they conceded. As the head coach, he knew it was his miscalculation.

His earlier tactical setup had tasked Van Bommel with intercepting counterattacks from the flanks. But it hadn’t worked. The width of the pitch and United’s dual-wing attack made it unrealistic to expect Van Bommel to outrun the ball.

It was a tactical misjudgment on Robertson’s part. When Makelele had gone wide to cover Beckham, it had left the center exposed, allowing Butt to exploit the space and push forward.

"Listen to me," Robertson said calmly. "Mistakes happen to everyone. Errors aren’t the problem. What’s dangerous is refusing to acknowledge them—and failing to learn."

That was the only thing he could say to motivate the players. He was by no means O’Neill—tactics were his strength, not fiery team talks or emotional speeches. In moments like this, he truly missed his Martin.

Soon, Robertson, Walford, and Terry Genoe began reviewing tactical plans for the second half.

Van Bommel would now stay just in front of the center-backs. By having him drop back after a counterattack, even if United managed to get numbers into the box, City’s defensive shape would hold. That structure would allow them to compress vertical space and delay United’s attacking rhythm.

After laying out those specific instructions, Robertson did his best to rally the players one last time—praising their first-half performance and urging them to carry that spirit into the second.

The halftime break ended, and the players made their way back onto the pitch.

Robertson returned to the sidelines, hands in his pockets and chin tilted slightly upward—a stance that gave his players a subtle boost of confidence.

Both Richard, Marina, and Miss Heysen also returned to their VIP box after enjoying snacks and halftime entertainment.

Instinctively, Richard’s gaze shifted toward the United sideline just as Ferguson returned to his post—chewing gum with that familiar, unbothered calm, as if he were right back in the pre-match zone.

Richard’s mouth twitched. He didn’t like this. Something in his gut told him trouble was coming.

PHWEEEEEE!

The referee’s whistle pierced the air, signaling the start of the second half—and Manchester United kicked off with renewed purpose.

Though the score remained level, the urgency was clear. With only 45 minutes left, United were running out of time. Dropping points in the opening match of the league—especially at home, and against a newly promoted side—was simply not an option.

As a result, Manchester United came out with relentless intensity, launching a fierce offensive right from the restart. Caught on the back foot, City had no choice but to drop deep and brace for the storm.

Watching the situation unfold from above, Richard suddenly noticed something unusual about Manchester United’s formation. The number of red shirts on the pitch looked different compared to the first half.

At first, it seemed like a visual trick—his focus had been locked on the midfield, blurring the players at either end of the pitch in his peripheral vision. Most of the time, he’d been watching the interplay between both teams, and the red and blue figures moved in a roughly even rhythm.

But now—something felt off.

United had more players pushing forward.

Who was the extra man?

Richard narrowed his eyes, scanning the formation. Then he spotted it—a player quietly transitioning from defense into attack.

"..."

Left-back. Irwin.

One of United’s weak points in the first half... now charging forward unnoticed.

"Wait a minute...!"

Just then, Richard saw Zambrotta and Gallas closing in to press Giggs, who had just received the ball.

Richard’s heart sank—there was no time to shout a warning.

Giggs slid the ball calmly to his right.

And there—racing into the open space—Irwin burst forward from the flank.

"Watch out—!"

Not to mention, even if Richard or Robertson had heard Aldrich’s warning, it wouldn’t have mattered—in the chaos of the match, no one on the pitch could have picked it up in time, let alone reacted.

Down on the field, Pirlo and Van Bommel, who were marking Butt and Keane, had already sensed the interplay between Giggs and Irwin and instinctively shifted. Zanetti, too, made a split-second decision—abandoning Solskjær in order to close down Irwin before he could break through the gap.

At the same time, Ferdinand dropped back quickly to fill the space left by Zanetti, making sure Solskjær wouldn’t have a free run into the box.

Zanetti accelerated, sprinting to cut off Irwin from the side. With perfect timing, he extended his leg and slid in hard. It was a crunching tackle—clean, forceful, and effective. The ball flew loose.

Irwin and Zanetti crashed to the turf.

Just as Zanetti got back on his feet and prepared to chase the loose ball—

PHWEEEEE~!

The referee halted the match, signaling a foul by Zanetti.

Frustrated and helpless, Zanetti bent down, picked up the ball, and held it tightly before slamming it to the ground in anger.

Another yellow card—this time for him.

Richard was fuming. But in the face of the absurdity, he couldn’t help but laugh bitterly, shaking his head as he mockingly applauded from the VIP box.

"Damn it! If I ever get out of here, I swear I’ll file a complaint to FIFA about you!"

Of course, it was nothing more than an emotional outburst. Robertson hadn’t even finished his own hearing yet, and there was no way the FA would allow any appeal to go through—especially with City still entangled in several unresolved cases of their own.

Well, naturally, nothing was supposed to happen—the free-kick position was neither entirely advantageous nor disadvantageous. It was just outside City’s penalty area, about fifty yards from goal.

The only problem was...

Richard felt a chill run down his spine.

Beckham was the one standing over the ball.

There was little he could do now. From the VIP box, he could only watch—and pray.

He hoped Robertson was sharp enough to stack the wall with bodies, cutting off as much of the near-post angle as possible. And as for Buffon—he could only hope that, in this moment, the keeper would become a man reborn. Not just Buffon the professional... but Buffon the legend. He needed him to summon something borderline miraculous to stop what was coming.

City set up their wall, while other players kept a close eye on United’s attackers lurking inside and around the box.

Calmly, Beckham stood over the ball, eyes fixed on the wall—calculating.

PHWEEEE~!

The referee’s whistle rang out, and Old Trafford fell into a hush.

Under the spotlight, Beckham took his approach—his left foot planting firmly at the take-off point. His left arm swung upward in a graceful arc to maintain balance as his body tilted sharply left. Then, with absolute precision, he struck the ball with the front of his right foot—imparting both spin and power.

The ball soared—spinning violently.

The wall jumped. Ferdinand reached as high as he could—but it wasn’t enough.

At first, it looked like the ball might fly over. But then, just after clearing the wall, it began to dip, following a dramatic arc—a rainbow of red anticipation.

As the wall came down, every City player turned in unison toward the goal.

Buffon stood frozen, his head snapping to the side—only to watch the ball curl past him into the net.

Old Trafford exploded—cheers roaring like a tidal wave of red, shaking the very air.

The Magnus Effect!

By utilizing the Magnus effect—where striking the ball off-center causes it to spin, creating a pressure difference that bends its trajectory—combined with his precise technique of striking the ball with a specific part of his foot, Beckham produced a powerful, curving shot that was nearly impossible for Buffon to anticipate or stop.

"3–2! Manchester United has completed the comeback early in the second half! From a daunting two-goal deficit, they’ve flipped the script entirely! That free kick—pure magic. The curve, the dip, the precision... absolutely sensational!"

"It’s sheer artistry! David Beckham, now firmly establishing himself as a key figure for Manchester United, has delivered when it mattered most."

Beckham beamed with pride, spreading his arms wide toward the roaring stands, soaking in the thunderous applause—radiating triumph, confidence, and the joy of a moment perfectly seized.