Chapter 305: The El Tractor

F*ck!

The posts at White Hart Lane truly carry the spirit of Tottenham—glorious, stubborn, and cruel.

The shot crashes against the upright with a sickening thud that echoes through the stadium. A collective gasp rises from the stands. For a split second, time freezes.

But it’s not over—far from it.

The ball ricochets wildly off the post and drops into the six-yard box like a rogue pinball, plunging the area into utter chaos.

Tottenham’s Colin Calderwood scrambles back, attempting to clear, but misjudges the bounce. He stumbles awkwardly, crashing into his teammate Kerslake, who collapses beside him like a felled tree.

The ball bounces twice—once, twice—right along the goal line.

Neil Lennon reacts first.

He pounces, launching a low-driven shot toward goal!

Ian Walker saves it again!

He dives—not with his hands this time—but just manages to get his thigh in the way, blocking what should’ve been a certain goal.

White Hart Lane holds its breath. Fans are gasping, clutching their scarves, wide-eyed with disbelief.

The ball spins out of the chaos, rising gently through the air in a high, slow arc—a shimmering rainbow gliding across the dusk sky.

It falls outside the box, and just as the Tottenham defenders rush forward to regroup, they see him—a blur charging in.

Zanetti.

With perfect timing and a calm fury, he meets the falling ball and unleashes a thunderous volley.

Bang!

The net ripples.

Goal!

Top left corner. Unstoppable.

"One shot, two shots, three, four—and finally, Zanetti!" the commentator roars. "He scores his first goal for Manchester City! Andy, that was their fifteenth attempt of the half—and they’ve finally broken through! This match is wild!"

"Absolutely, Martin," Andy replies, laughing. "They’ve played beautiful football all half—sharp, intricate, dominant—and missed every chance. And in the end? It’s brute force that does the trick. That’s football for you."

"Still, no surprise that City takes the lead. They’ve earned it. Tottenham’s been holding on by a thread."

Zanetti sprints to the corner flag, arms wide, fists clenched, roaring with joy. His teammates rush to him, swarming him in celebration. Relief floods their faces—they’re finally on the scoreboard.

On the touchline, O’Neill and Robertson hug tightly, finally letting out the tension that’s been building all half.

After so many missed opportunities, after trying to unlock the door with patience and finesse—they found out sometimes, you just have to kick it down.

The stands at White Hart Lane fell into a stunned silence.

That kind of fierce, relentless attacking style—that used to be our football.

When did it become something a newly promoted side like Manchester City could pull off?

After Zanetti’s goal sent the away end into a frenzy, one figure stood out in the chaos—Carl Morran, a die-hard City fan and a member of the UK garage group Blazin’ Squad.

Stationed right at the front of the away section, Carl erupted with such raw emotion that he tore off his shirt without hesitation. It was only early March—the air was still bitterly cold—but he didn’t care.

Veins pumping with adrenaline and pride, he spun his shirt above his head like a helicopter, his chest red from both the chill and sheer passion. Around him, City fans bounced, roared, and chanted in unison.

Then Carl, voice hoarse and fists clenched, led the charge:

"El Tractor! El Tractor! El Tractor!"

The chant echoed through the away end.

In a club bursting with rising legends and cult heroes, Richard understood the power of nicknames—not just for the fans, but for shaping the players’ identities and building myth.

Ronaldo had already captured imaginations as "The Alien"—a player whose talent seemed otherworldly.

Henrik Larsson was dubbed "The King of Kings"—a moniker fit for his elegance, leadership, and regal presence in front of goal.

And for Javier Zanetti, Richard gave him a title that fit perfectly: "El Tractor."

Not flashy, but always there—charging up and down the pitch, covering more ground than anyone else. Cleaning up in defense, providing width in attack, closing down threats, and bringing calm under pressure.

After the Olympics, Zanetti had completely won over all of Manchester City’s supporters—not just through his performances, but through his unmatched professionalism. Even many neutral fans came to admire him as a role model.

He perfectly embodied the kind of footballer English fans cherish most: hard-working, humble, relentless—a true reflection of the working-class spirit.

This season, the number of Manchester City fans had surged dramatically. It wasn’t just due to their aesthetically pleasing style of play—their lightning-fast counterattacks and fluid passing drew attention. The frequent live broadcasts of City’s matches added to their exposure, and many of the squad’s rising stars had become fan favorites across the country.

But at that moment, Spurs manager Gerry Francis was having a headache. He saw exactly where the problem lay.

Tottenham’s defense had been fixated on Ronaldo, which weakened their control of the flanks and gave Pirlo—the unheralded Italian youngster—space to dictate the game.

Before the second half kicked off, Francis urged his players to clamp down on Pirlo.

In the final seven minutes of the first half, Spurs narrowed their midfield shape and tightened the space around Pirlo, which led to three consecutive errors from the 17-year-old. Thankfully, Van Bommel had been there to cover him, sparing City from conceding.

PHWEEEEEE~

The first half ended with Manchester City leading 1–0, heading into the dressing rooms.

In the locker room, O’Neill took a moment to talk to Capdevila, preparing him mentally. Pirlo had enjoyed too much freedom early on—unmarked, playing passes and launching attacks like it was a training session.

But once Spurs adjusted, he started to falter. When the pressure came, he panicked.

He was still young, and O’Neill didn’t expect him to become a master overnight. This was all part of the process. At this stage, the mental game was more important than technical skill.

Many talented players had been crushed under the weight of competitive football—often not because of a lack of skill, but due to psychological strain.

As the second half began, Spurs believed they’d cracked the code—press Pirlo aggressively and disrupt City’s rhythm.

But the rabbit was awake now.

Pirlo began to toy with Spurs’ midfielders, dancing through their traps. He no longer held the ball long; instead, he sprayed quick passes, always moving, always just out of reach. Van Bommel offered support behind him, while the pressure on Neil Lennon eased—giving him more space to attack.

With a crisp touch, Pirlo fed the ball to Okocha, who drove forward. The four-man City attack shifted into motion, moving like clockwork.

Spurs’ commitment to closing Pirlo left gaps—and he exploited them with surgical precision.

Francis, seeing the breakdown unfold in real-time, leapt to his feet in fury.

Lennon feinted a shot, then slipped a perfectly timed through-ball into the penalty area—a move City had rehearsed countless times.

Pires darted behind the defenders.

He wasn’t the fastest, but his timing and positioning were flawless. He connected at a tight angle and with a graceful touch, curled the ball toward the far corner.

The ball curved beautifully, almost as if it would miss—until it dipped just inside the post.

Walker lunged, fingers outstretched—but it was too late.

Goal.

With a two-goal advantage, the match was effectively over.

And to make it even more special, Zanetti had just recorded his first-ever goal for Manchester City—a moment that capped off a dominant display and solidified his place in the hearts of the fans.