Chapter 295: Uptown Park

Who doesn’t know about the tension between Robertson and Jamie Redknapp during the previous Liverpool vs Manchester City clash at Anfield?

Even if there was no hard evidence, the rumors swirled endlessly—and of course, it all reached Harry Redknapp’s ears as well.

Thanks to this drama, tonight’s match has captured the attention of East Londoners of all ages. Bars on both sides of the Thames are packed with fans holding cans of beer, eyes glued to overhead TVs, anxiously awaiting kickoff.

On the busy streets, taxi drivers crank up their radios for live commentary. Even white-collar workers stuck in the office over the weekend put on headphones to catch the game. In forgotten corners of the city—dingy pubs, abandoned parking lots, even rundown parks—hundreds of die-hard fans from both clubs are already throwing punches.

These aren’t your average scuffles. No weapons, just fists—pure, brutal bare-knuckle fights in true hooligan tradition. Carrying a knife would suggest the intent to kill. That’s not what this is about. It’s about venting—anger, loyalty, pride. Sure, someone might carry a fruit knife "just in case," but in the heat of the moment, who’s to say where the line is drawn?

When someone dies, even these street soldiers pause. They’re not murderers. They’re warriors of the terraces. But if everyone carried blades? The fatality rate would rival a war zone.

"Who let this City **** in?"

"Oi, get your *** back to Manchester!"

"Should’ve stayed in the **** Academy!"

Upton Park is deafening. Every word that cuts through the noise is foul, venomous, and meant to sting.

Even Richard, watching from the VIP box, is taken aback.

"What’s going on with the West Ham fans today?"

He had no idea about the incident where Robertson confronted Jamie Redknapp and brought up his father’s name. No wonder he couldn’t understand the source of the animosity echoing from the stands. But this is football. Not a gentleman’s sport. Don’t expect anyone here to act like they’re at the ballet.

As the players walk out onto the pitch, Robertson stands tall on the touchline—chest out, eyes hard, unfazed by the chaos around him. Behind him, in the dugout, O’Neill sits quietly, watching the match unfold with measured focus.

In contrast, City’s coaching staff and substitutes look visibly rattled. The West Ham fans are relentless. The police finally identify the hooligan behind the worst of the abuse and drag him out, warning that if this continues, they’ll clear out the five rows nearest the away bench.

That threat, at least for now, tempers the Iron faithful’s fury.

Even Andy Gray and Martin Tyler on

Sky Sports

are visibly shaken.

"It’s been a long while since we’ve seen such an electric atmosphere at Upton Park," Andy Gray says. "West Ham vs Manchester City may not be a traditional rivalry, but tonight it feels like one. The boos started from the warm-up—and they’ve only gotten louder."

"Andy, there’s definitely a point to prove here. There have been rumors swirling between Manchester City and West Ham fans, but I won’t delve too much into that. Still, judging by the chants echoing around the ground, you don’t have to look hard to see how badly the Hammers want to bring them down a peg."

On the sideline, Robertson glances across the pitch toward Redknapp, standing just meters away in club colors. Both know what’s at stake. This isn’t just about league standings.

The league table?

Who the hell cares!

This match’s outcome is about the dignity of the fans.

"Manchester City’s starting lineup today is quite surprising; it looks like they’ve rolled out a new names. Let’s take a look: the starting goalkeeper is Jens Lehmann. Defenders: Javier Zanetti, Rio Ferdinand, William Gallas, and Joan Capdevila. Midfielders: Augustine Okocha, Hidetoshi Nakata, Robbie Savage, and Neil Lennon. Forwards: Ronaldo and Thierry Henry. We’re seeing a name that rarely makes the starting lineup—Hidetoshi Nakata."

"West Ham’s setup sticks with the traditional 4-4-2. Goalkeeper: Luděk Mikloško. Defenders: Tim Breaker, Julian Dicks, Marc Rieper, and Slaven Bilić. Midfielders: Stan Lazaridis, Ian Bishop, Hugo Porfirio, and Michael Hughes. Forwards: Iain Dowie and Paul Kitson. Compared to City’s unpredictable approach, West Ham’s strategy seems straightforward—though it’s unclear whether Redknapp might still throw in a tactical surprise at home."

Richard looked toward West Ham’s starting lineup and noticed something they had in common with Manchester City: a growing reliance on foreign players.

During the inaugural Premier League season in 1992, there were only 12 foreign players across the starting lineups of all 22 teams. That count even included players from Ireland and Wales—who, in the eyes of many English fans, were not considered "foreign" to English football.

From the very beginning, West Ham United already had several foreign players in their ranks. As the Premier League evolved, English clubs gradually recovered from the financial strain caused by their ban from European competitions and the heavy expenses of building or renovating stadiums. With that recovery came a surge in the recruitment of foreign talent across all clubs.

PHWEEEEEE~

From the very first whistle, the match took on a surprisingly sluggish pace.

Manchester, typically known for their slick ground passes and sharp attacking combinations, seemed to abandon their trademark rhythm. Instead, the game resembled a gladiatorial clash—every inch of turf was fought over with raw physicality.

The ball was secondary; it was brute strength, grit, and willpower that dictated the early moments.

Robertson silently cursed under his breath, eyes scanning the rough, uneven pitch.

’Bloody disgrace,’

he muttered. He half-hoped West Ham’s players would pay for it—twist an ankle here, pull a hamstring there.

Then came Robbie Savage.

Already agitated by a string of rough tackles and jeers from the home crowd, he chased down a long ball that skidded out of bounds near the dugout. He turned to the sideline, hand up, signaling for a quick throw from the ball boy.

But instead of tossing it back professionally, the ball boy grinned and lobbed it lazily—way over Savage’s head.

The crowd roared with laughter.

Mocking chants echoed through the stands, and someone near the front yelled,

"Even the ball boy’s got you, Savage!"

Red-faced and fuming, Savage turned on the kid. "You think that’s funny?! Just do your bloody job!"

The fourth official immediately stepped in, gently pulling Savage back while the ball boy raised both hands innocently, still smirking.

The crowd only got louder.

Robertson shook his head from the technical area before cupping his hands and barking toward the pitch.

"Neil! Over here!"

Neil Lennon jogged over, wiping sweat from his brow, his expression furrowed as he approached the touchline. He didn’t say a word. He just nodded once—sharp and knowing—then turned back to the pitch, eyes already scanning for the next flashpoint.

His tactical setup today is quite simple: brute strength in midfield, no flair in attack—no dribbling, no intricate breakthroughs. This terrible pitch can’t sustain a proper game. Players instinctively protect themselves, constantly watching their footing and dodging potholes before daring to sprint. How can you play real football like that?

Unlike Pirlo, who reads the game like a chessboard, Nakata and Savage are tasked solely with breaking up plays, while Lennon and Okocha take control of the midfield attack. Zanetti and Capdevila patrol the flanks, striking a careful balance between defense and offense.

When it’s time to surge forward, the midfield advances like a fleet of tanks—no finesse, just overwhelming force, pressing and pounding until the defense buckles.

Let’s see if the flesh and blood of the raging Lions can withstand the hammers raining down from West Ham!

In the stands, the war of words and chants between fans raged on, louder and more vicious with each passing minute. On the pitch, however, the match remained locked in a gritty stalemate.

Then came the seventh minute.

Gallas surged forward, cutting through West Ham’s midfield line before slipping a sharp pass to Robbie Savage. But just as the ball reached him, Michael Hughes came flying in with a reckless challenge—his boot slamming into Savage’s ankle with a crunching thud.

PHWEEEEEEE~

The referee’s whistle pierced through the noise, halting the game instantly.

As Savage rolled on the turf, clutching his foot, Hughes stood over him and mockingly waved his hand, gesturing for him to stop the theatrics and get up.

But the referee wasn’t buying it.

The FA was keenly aware of the dangers of such provocations and always hoped for a "safe" conclusion to every match. Deliberate provocation of this kind was unacceptable. Therefore, referees were instructed to control foul play as soon as any warning signs appeared, in order to prevent situations from escalating.

This yellow card establishes a measure for the intensity of fouls.

Without hesitation, he marched over and flashed a yellow card in Hughes’ face. The West Ham midfielder tried to plead his case, arms outstretched in protest, but the official shut him down with a stern warning.

The Hammers faithful erupted in fury from the stands, raining down boos and jeers in defense of their man—every foul, every whistle now fueling the storm inside Upton Park.

In the VIP box above, Richard’s heart skipped a beat.

’Why on earth would you provoke Robbie?’

He leaned forward, eyes wide with concern.

"That guy’s one tantrum away from being the next Eric Cantona."

A heavy sense of dread settled in his chest. Whatever was about to happen, it wasn’t going to be pretty.