Chapter 289: Inside Forward Idea

"And there it is—Ruud Gullit makes way for Craig Burley. A symbolic substitution, really,"Martin Tyler noted. "Gullit, the player-manager, has given everything. But he knows the game is slipping away. Time to inject fresh legs—maybe even a bit of steel in midfield."

Andy Gray, watching from the Stamford Bridge press box, added, "It’s a clear signal that even Gullit recognizes the battle in midfield has been lost. Fresh legs, yes—but also an admission that inspiration alone isn’t enough today."

Yet even with Burley on the pitch, the situation didn’t change much. Chelsea weren’t just tired—they were mentally drained.

On the VIP box, Richard stood calmly, arms folded, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. Chelsea had expected City to crumble in the pressure of Stamford Bridge. But instead...

City broke them first.

Sure, Manchester City were newly promoted.

But what Chelsea failed to understand was simple: City weren’t here to survive. They were here to conquer.

Burley’s arrival sparked a flicker of life though—Chelsea pushed forward with renewed energy, pinging sharp passes, moving with intent.

Di Matteo found space between the lines, linking up neatly with Zola on the right.

But Manchester City didn’t panic.

With the roar from the away end louder than the home crowd, City’s players looked like they’d been injected with adrenaline. They defended with intelligence and discipline.

The midfield trio of Lennon, Pirlo, and Van Bommel stayed compact, cutting off passing lanes.

The back four held strong, absorbing the pressure and forcing Chelsea wide, where crosses could be comfortably dealt with.

What Chelsea didn’t know was that this dominance—this false sense of control—was all part of City’s plan.

Why?

To strike on the counter.

Final ten minutes

Chelsea were camped high up the pitch.

Di Matteo and Wise took command in midfield, distributing the ball from right to left, probing for a breakthrough.

Then it came: Petrescu tried to slip a ball into the box, but Zanetti read it perfectly, intercepting cleanly.

In a flash, he launched a counterattack. With a pinpoint through ball, Zanetti sent it down the right flank into the path of Shevchenko.

On the sideline, Gullit, still recovering from his spell on the pitch, watched with his heart in his throat.

Shevchenko took one touch to steady and from the center, Henry and Ronaldo—both quiet until now—burst into space.

Suddenly, the entire Stamford Bridge crowd rose to its feet.

They could sense it.

Danger was coming.

Leboeuf and Le Saux made a quick sprint to stop Shevchenko, but he had already read their movement. With a clever touch, he dragged both defenders wide—toward the corner flag—before calmly laying the ball back toward Neil Lennon, who didn’t hesitate. He whipped in a first-time cross.

But this time, something unbelievable happened.

Henry, who had been focused on Shevchenko, had already begun his run into the center. Ronaldo, the designated central striker, remained in his usual position—but in a stunning turn of events, he stepped aside.

When he saw Henry’s momentum, Ronaldo yielded!

For the first time all match, he dropped deeper, willingly vacating the prime striker zone to let Henry surge in.

It wasn’t just unselfish—it was instinctive, fluid, intelligent. A glimpse of something bigger.

In the VIP box, Richard stood up immediately, eyes wide with realization. Every idea he had drilled into the coaching staff for the daily training—was finally showing.

The inside forward!

Just like Henry at Arsenal, where his runs from the left worked brilliantly with the likes of Dennis Bergkamp or later Robin van Persie, who would either drop deep or stay central to link up with him.

Exploiting his pace against slower full-backs.

Running into space, rather than being pinned as a central striker.

Creating 1v1 opportunities.

Cutting inside to shoot.

It’s different from a traditional winger, who stays wide near the touchline with the primary focus on crossing and assisting. An inside forward, on the other hand, is built to score goals, not just deliver crosses. It’s similar to an inverted winger, but while most inverted wingers focus on cutting inside to shoot, an inside forward is more involved in both scoring and creating.

Richard had racked his brain day and night to simplify his ideas into something actionable. The question was clear:

how do you fill the left flank at Manchester City under a 4-3-3 formation—if not with Henry?

Was Henry even willing to play as a winger?

He wasn’t a traditional wide man. He wanted space, freedom, and the goal in his sights—not to be stuck hugging the touchline, serving crosses.

In the end, Richard gave a simple example to illustrate his point:

Traditional Winger: Jesús Navas

Inverted Winger: Arjen Robben

Inside Forward: Son Heung-min

Hybrid — Inside Forward / Inverted Winger: Mohamed Salah

Verdict: Tottenham Hotspur, Son Heung-min. Plays on the left but is a direct goal-scoring threat, often linking with Kane like a second striker. Starts wide but drifts inside quickly.

And now, it was working.

Thanks to Ronaldo dropping deeper, Henry now had the freedom to express his creativity. With Le Saux unsure whether to follow Ronaldo or stay in shape, pockets of space opened on the left channel, and Henry immediately drifted into one.

Receiving the ball near the halfway line, Henry didn’t hesitate. He let it roll across his body, then pushed it forward with the outside of his right foot, accelerating down the wing.

Le Saux stepped up, attempting to close him down near the touchline. But Henry was already calculating.

With his trademark body feint—a subtle drop of the shoulder—he sent Le Saux shifting to the outside. Then, in a blink, he cut sharply inside, dragging the ball behind his standing foot with the inside of his boot.

Le Saux stumbled.

Henry was gone.

Now gliding into the final third, Henry approached the edge of the box with one defender left trailing and another arriving late from midfield. He shaped his body to shoot—but delayed the strike for just half a beat, wrong-footing the nearest Michael Durberry.

Henry then unleashed a curling shot with his right foot, aiming for the far post—the same move that had become his signature.

The crowd rose.

The ball curled beautifully, past Grodås’s outstretched fingers...

CLANG!

Off the post!

A gasp erupted from the stands. Grodås spun around, beaten and frozen, but the ball rebounded cruelly back into play instead of into the net.

Henry stared in disbelief as the ball bounced back into play. So close.

"Putain..."

he muttered under his breath, clutching his head in frustration.

It couldn’t be helped—denied by mere inches, a moment of brilliance undone by the cruel edge of the post.

In the VIP box, Richard slammed his hand against the railing as the ball clanged off the post, rattling the frame and his nerves alike.

PHWEEEEEE!

The final whistle echoed through Stamford Bridge.

Ten long minutes had ticked away, and at last, the match between Chelsea and Manchester City came to an end.

Full-time: Chelsea 0 – 1 Manchester City.

On the touchline, Robertson slowly rose from his seat. He took his time walking toward the Chelsea bench, where Ruud Gullit and his assistants stood motionless, their expressions dark, etched with frustration.

Robertson extended his hand.

Gullit looked at it for a second, then took it with a firm grip—brief and wordless.

"Good game," Robertson said simply. "Tough one."

Gullit gave a curt nod, his face unreadable. No excuses. No complaints. But his silence said enough.

Robertson then turned and gave a respectful nod to the assistant coaches, then made his way back toward his bench.

Behind them, in the far corner of Stamford Bridge, the City away section erupted—a chaotic wave of joy.

"We beat you... and we can beat you again."

They had come in small numbers—fewer than two thousand—but they were by far the happiest fans in the stadium. And tonight, they made the most noise.

In the VIP box, Richard exhaled sharply, then slowly straightened in his seat.

And then—he began to applaud.

Not out of frustration, but out of recognition.

Henry’s last chance hadn’t been a goal, but it was everything Richard had been waiting to see—movement, chemistry, belief.

Finally, the system was coming to life.

It was beginning to breathe.

For the next fixture, as expected, Manchester City would face Sunderland—a team languishing at the bottom of the table. On paper, it looked like a straightforward match. A routine victory. An opportunity to fine-tune, not fight.

Richard had already begun compiling his notes, preparing to share his latest development with the coaching staff—a refined idea around the inside forward role, tailored specifically to unlock Henry’s full potential.

But before he could deliver it—

something happened.

Something that would grip the UK, unsettle the country, and cast a shadow over football for weeks to come.

The country has been hit by a virus outbreak!