Chapter 258: Fergie Time

Manchester United suffered a crushing blow despite seemingly having the match under control—a strike that left them reeling for quite some time. Not only did they lose their grip on the game’s rhythm, but they also conceded an unexpected and demoralizing goal.

After Scholes came on, Solskjær naturally followed as well, positioned as the lone striker tasked with leading the line.

However, in the absence of Cantona, City responded brilliantly. Their midfield orchestrated a series of fluid, well-coordinated combinations, cleverly pulling Manchester United’s players out of position. This created the perfect pocket of space for Lampard to exploit—and he did so brilliantly, turning the opportunity into a sensational equalizing goal.

Manchester City’s attacking momentum surged like a rising tide, putting United’s goal under relentless pressure.

Ferguson could no longer remain seated—he stepped to the edge of the pitch, barking instructions as he urgently directed his players, determined to restore order.

Because before United could regain their composure, City launched a relentless wave of attacks and, against all odds, took the lead once more!

Fueled by the recent goal, City’s morale soared to a thousand percent—completely flipping the momentum. Now, it was United who found themselves under mounting pressure.

Lennon made a darting run to meet Okocha’s pass and quickly relayed it to the retreating forward who had drifted into a pocket of space—Henry.

May and Pallister had their eyes fixed on both Henry and the surging Lampard, who was riding high on momentum. In that brief moment of hesitation, Henry—his back to goal—executed a sublime touch. With a flick of his heel, he threaded the ball perfectly between the two center-backs.

Trezeguet, timing his run to perfection, burst into the box, latched onto the pass, and side-footed it toward the far post.

Even with all his world-class reflexes, Schmeichel couldn’t stretch far enough.

The ball rolled cleanly into the bottom corner.

As Trezeguet released the shot, May barreled into him, sending him tumbling onto the turf. But the French striker quickly scrambled to his feet and let out a roar of triumph—fists clenched—as he turned to embrace Henry, who smiled in satisfaction.

Old Trafford had become a roller coaster of emotions.

"Oh my God! How many goals will this match see?" Andy Gray gasped. "In the seventy-third minute, Manchester City takes the lead again! United’s defense lost focus for just a split second—and they’ve been ruthlessly punished for it!"

"And would you believe it—what a sublime assist from Thierry Henry!" Martin Tyler continued, almost breathless. "With his back to goal, he executed a perfect backheel—threading it right between Pallister and Bruce. Absolute genius!"

Manchester United 3 – 4 Manchester City!

Richard was, of course, thrilled—how could he not be? City had clawed their way back from the brink, turning a 3–2 deficit into a stunning 3–4 lead at Old Trafford!

The roar that erupted through the stadium was deafening—a mix of disbelief, stunned admiration, and thunderous jubilation, even from some neutrals.

But just as Richard stood there, momentarily swept up in the emotion, something tugged at him—his focus wavered. The comeback, as vital as it was, could no longer hold his full attention.

Because right now, he had something far more important to deal with.

Ronaldinho Gaúcho.

The name itself sounded like heaven to Richard’s ears.

Of course, Richard already knew about Ronaldinho’s spectacular story—the legendary futsal match where his team won 23–0, and he scored every single goal himself. It was football folklore.

But what he never expected was that his own father and mother would end up witnessing that exact same iconic performance in person—what a coincidence!

It felt as if fate itself had intervened, as though Ronaldinho had been sent to him directly—a gift from the footballing gods, wrapped in samba rhythm and street magic.

Richard immediately turned to Marina, the excitement still buzzing in his chest.

"Quick—jot this down," he said urgently, handing her his notepad and pen. "Name, futsal club, city—everything. We need to know where this kid plays, who manages him, and how soon we can get someone over there."

Marina, already alert from the sudden shift in tone, nodded and began writing.

The 13-year-old Ronaldinho, of course, couldn’t be officially signed by Manchester City yet—but that didn’t mean establishing contact was prohibited.

In fact, making early connections could prove to be a masterstroke.

Back to the match—Ferguson’s face had turned a deep shade of anger as he barked orders at his players, his piercing gaze and flailing arms leaving no room for confusion: ’

Attack! Get your asses forward!’

Having conceded two goals in the dying minutes, United had once enjoyed a 3–2 lead. But now, with less than ten minutes left and the scoreboard reading 3–4, time was slipping through their fingers. Several players stood frozen, blank expressions on their faces, unsure of what to do next.

Fortunately, Ferguson’s commanding presence on the touchline snapped them out of their stupor. His roar reignited the fire in the Red Devils’ veins—the nightmare was not over yet, and there was still time to wake up.

Meanwhile, City fans erupted in celebration, their songs booming from the stands: "Who dares underestimate us now? What’s happened to Manchester United? The Blues are trampling the Red Devils!"

The situation was now crystal clear: retreat meant death.

City had clawed back to a 4–3 lead, and Robertson knew he couldn’t afford to let his players drop back—not here. This wasn’t Maine Road. This was Old Trafford, the Theatre of Dreams!

And here, the Red Devils’ fighting spirit was not to be taken lightly. They were the monarchs of this fortress. Without the guts to dethrone the king, victory would remain a fantasy.

The tempo of the match ramped up to a breathtaking pace, both teams trading attacks like heavyweight boxers exchanging blows.

Shots came every minute—not because either side neglected defense, but because the speed and fluidity of play left no time to regroup.

After Lennon lost the ball, Scholes launched a precise long pass over the halfway line. Giggs sprinted to meet it, and with defenders trailing, he unleashed a rocket from just outside the penalty area—but Buffon was equal to it, diving full stretch to his right and palming the ball away with a world-class save!

Beckham crossed from the flank, and Solskjær redirected the ball to Keane, who also attempted a long-range shot—this one sailing just over the crossbar.

The teams exchanged breathless attacks, with spectators holding their breath, fearing a goal could come at any moment.

Beckham’s threat from the right wing dwindled, resorting to blind crosses, while Solskjær’s chances to receive the ball in the box were increasingly rare. Even when opportunities arose, he couldn’t effectively challenge the goal.

Of course, City had already anticipated this. In fact, Ferdinand—who was well-acquainted with the "Baby-Faced Assassin"—had been keeping a close eye on Solskjær.

City’s back line adjusted accordingly, keeping their shape compact and disciplined. Every time United tried to force a breakthrough through Solskjær, Ferdinand was already there—reading the play, cutting off the angles, and denying the kind of half-chances Solskjær thrived on.

As the clock on the scoreboard ticked down to 90 minutes, Old Trafford resembled a theater, the climax of a gripping thriller that made Manchester City fans shiver.

The East Stand erupted in cheers as each cityfans linked arms, jumping for joy. This match was undoubtedly worth the ticket price, and all worries were dissipated.

As the clock on the scoreboard ticked down to the 90th minute, Old Trafford resembled a grand theater, reaching the climax of a gripping thriller—so intense it made even Manchester City fans shiver.

The East Stand erupted in cheers as City fans linked arms, jumping for joy. This match was undoubtedly worth the price of admission; all worries had melted away.

However, while fans, coaching staff, and players were already confident of their victory, Richard felt something different—his heart skipped a beat.

Never celebrate before the final whistle blows—especially against Ferguson’s Manchester United.Against them? You never, ever do that.

Throughout the last minute game, Giggs had been locked in a relentless battle with Zanetti, often dropping deeper into midfield. After receiving a pass from Butt, he began another dribbling run.

Zanetti chased Giggs tightly, sticking close and cutting off any path toward the center. Forced toward the byline, Giggs feinted an inside cut, momentarily freezing Zanetti, before slipping the ball to the advancing Keane.

Keane, calm under pressure, took a single touch before sending a precise diagonal pass backward toward the edge of the box.

Giggs—still not done—had continued his run, and he reached the ball just before it went out of play. Though Zanetti had already recovered and was closing in again, Giggs’s quick feet gave him the edge—he whipped in a sharp cross with his left foot.

City’s defenders weren’t overly worried. If it had been Cantona lurking in the box, with his cunning and temperament, maybe they would’ve panicked. But with only Solskjær up front, Ferdinand and Gallas had already doubled up and shut him down.

Then—it happened.

To the shock of every City player, the ball didn’t drop into the penalty box. It soared—perfectly measured—toward heading straight for the top of the box instead.

And there he was. Paul Scholes.

Unmarked. Poised. Perfectly timed.

"Block, block, BLOCK!!!" screamed Buffon from his line.

But it was too late.

Before the ball even hit the ground, Scholes struck it first time—a clean, thunderous volley. It ripped through the air, dipped sharply, and skipped just once on the turf before flying toward the net.

The stadium held its breath.

Buffon dove, arms fully outstretched—but he couldn’t reach it.

The net bulged.

"Scholes! Scholes saves Manchester United! In the ninety-first minute, United equalizes again—it’s 4–4 at Old Trafford! What a match!"

Buffon collapsed on the goal line, painfully striking the ground with his fist; the ball nestled within the net, forcing all City players to helplessly shut their eyes.

The Red Devils had equalized in stoppage time!