Chapter 353: Send them to Hell!

The team sets up in a 4-4-2 formation, with Pirlo starting in midfield, protected by Makélélé behind him.

O’Neill gives him a simple task: focus on maintaining possession and connecting play, staying in the defensive half without pushing forward too much—essentially acting as a pivotal link between defense and attack. Thus, City’s midfield shape transforms into a three-man setup, with Zidane in a central role just behind Henry and Trezeguet.

It may seem like fewer attackers compared to before, but when the two full-backs push forward, City effectively fields five attackers. The wingers cut into the box, forming a dangerous and dynamic front line.

Meanwhile, Tottenham’s coach, Gary Francis, stands on the sidelines with a furrowed brow, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. He watches as his team’s situation deteriorates and senses the growing tension of an impending crisis.

In their recent match, Tottenham had managed to narrowly escape with a point—almost stealing it—mainly by neutralizing Ronaldo, but they forgot about Zidane. Today at White Hart Lane, they try to replicate that tactic, this time focusing on Zidane, attempting to restrict his space and time on the ball. However, they soon realize they’ve gotten their assignments wrong.

With Sheringham having moved to Manchester United, Tottenham’s strength has declined. The current Les Ferdianand and Chris Armstrong still struggles to hold the frontline alone, and Tottenham’s attack fails to flow smoothly, often breaking down in midfield under City’s pressure.

Now, while their primary defensive goal is to mark Zidane, the ball unexpectedly begins moving through Pirlo’s feet.

Pirlo, with all his laid-back grace, seems to glide across the pitch—his movements relaxed, his challenges almost nonchalant. No matter how hard Tottenham try to press or dispossess him, he remains composed and unshaken—safely shielded by the ever-reliable Makélélé behind him.

Thanks to that cover, even when Pirlo initiates attacks, there’s no sense of urgency or panic. His free-flowing style calmly guides the ball into safer zones, often distributing it toward the flanks. When Zidane finds himself tightly marked, Pirlo gently advances, linking up in quick one-twos with the wide midfielders before quietly retreating to his deeper role—always in control, always dictating the tempo.

Whenever Pirlo executes these understated actions, City’s wing-based attacks begin to flourish. The full-backs surge forward, linking with the wide wingers. After establishing numerical superiority on the flanks, they either send in dangerous crosses or thread through balls for the wingers to cut inside—maintaining relentless pressure.

City begins to turn the tide, constantly threatening in front of Tottenham’s goal.

Zanetti cuts inside twice, but both shots fly well off target. Moments later, Capdevila sets up Ronaldo.

With 19 league goals to his name, Ronaldo finds himself one-on-one with the keeper—but his close-range strike is blocked by Ian Walker’s body.

Then Zidane charges into the box, meeting a cross with a powerful header—only to see the ball crash off the post.

On the touchline, O’Neill watches helplessly as the attacking sequences rise and fall like a roller coaster—his emotions swaying with every missed chance.

He walks back to the bench—dry, parched, and weary—and grabs a bottle of mineral water, gulping it down in silence. Feeling a creeping sense of frustration, he turns to Mourinho and asks quietly,

"Did you see many players like Capdevila when you were at Barcelona?"

Mourinho, momentarily pulled from his notes, looks over at O’Neill. He hears the worry behind the question.

Capdevila has unique traits. His pace is electric, his teamwork first-class. While his crossing lacks pinpoint accuracy, his success rate in the Premier League ranks among the best. But there’s a glaring flaw that worries O’Neill: for a technically gifted full-back, Capdevila’s shooting in live play is shockingly poor.

Those two recent chances?

Half-chances, yes—but both wildly off target. They rattled the goalkeeper, but for Richard, each miss chipped away at his belief.

Mourinho smirks.

"It’s all about positioning. You can’t judge players purely by technique. There are plenty like that. Think of the rising star—’The Little Flying Man.’ Put him in the box, and even he doesn’t always glide past defenders or finish the job. That’s just football."

O’Neill nods slowly, still digesting the missed opportunities. As a coach, he knows well: performance is shaped by position.

Wingers only need to scan one side and forward when receiving the ball. Midfielders, by contrast, must read the entire pitch—visualizing patterns, pressure, space.

Capdevila, operating down the left flank, often sees only what’s ahead and beside him. But when he cuts into the box, his field of vision shrinks, pressure mounts, and his composure fades.

O’Neill silently resolves: he’ll speak to Capdevila after the match. But before he can sit, Manchester City launches another devastating attack.

Thuram charges forward, linking up once again with Capdevila. This time, Tottenham’s defense has adjusted. Neil Lennon pulls defenders away, creating a pocket of space.

Thuram seizes the moment—takes a touch—and unleashes a ferocious shot from a 45-degree angle just outside the box.

A rocket.

The ball slices through the air with no spin—straight as an arrow—heading for the top-right corner.

Ian Walker, sharp and battle-tested, dives full stretch and punches the ball away at full force.

A wave of relief rolls through White Hart Lane.

The ball rockets across to the far side of the penalty area. Tottenham’s backline is in shambles, scrambling to reorganize, desperate to hold the line.

But Pires is already there—waiting.

He tracks the descending ball with calm, deadly focus.

He strikes it cleanly, a stunning mid-air volley—

BANG!

The shot explodes off his boot.

O’Neill throws his hands to his head on the sideline, his voice lost in the roar.

"F*!"**

The ball slams against the post with a violent clang.

Gasps echo through the stadium. The sound of ball meeting metal cuts through the noise like a gunshot.

But the chaos is far from over.

The rebound fires back into the six-yard box. Tottenham’s defenders scramble, but the scene descends into pure mayhem.

Vice-captain Cauldwood lunges desperately to clear, but mistimes his step and stumbles—clattering into teammate Gary Mabbutt.

They both hit the turf.

The ball bounces once—then twice—hovering maddeningly on the goal line, as if daring someone to end it.

Out of nowhere, Makélélé arrives.

A ghost in the penalty area. "Where did he come from?!" Gary Francis is screaming from the touchline, eyes wide, mouth agape.

Makélélé lashes a low shot toward goal—driven with surgical intent—

BANG!

But Walker saves it!

Not with his gloves. Not even with his hands. He throws his body across the goal, and somehow—with his thigh—deflects the shot wide.

The crowd erupts. Screams. Cheers. Disbelief.

Tottenham fans are on their feet, gasping for breath. Their hearts thunder in their chests like war drums, echoing the chaos on the pitch.

The ball ricochets upward—rising in a soft, perfect arc—like a rainbow slicing through the clouds above White Hart Lane.

But even beauty carries danger.

Tottenham’s defenders surge forward, chasing the clearance—

—but they’re too late.

A blur of white and blue surges forward from midfield like a bolt of lightning. There’s no hesitation. Zidane times the drop perfectly.

One touch.

BOOM.

A left-footed thunderbolt. The ball screams through the air and rips into the top-left corner of the net.

No deflection. No chance. Just pure, unstoppable power.

"One shot, two shots, three, four—Zidane scores!"

"Andy, that’s Manchester City’s fifteenth shot of the first half—and they’ve finally found the net! This game is absolutely bizarre!"

"You’re not wrong, Martin," Andy replies, shaking his head. "City have played smart this time. Before, they created everything but finished nothing. And in the end, it’s brute force—not brilliance—that finally breaks through. It’s wild. But the lead is fully earned. This goal... it’s been coming since the first whistle."

"That’s right. And now, with only 14 minutes left on the clock, if Tottenham can’t close the gap..." Martin Tyler pauses, glancing at his co-commentator before continuing,"...then expect Tottenham to drop into 19th place."

Very close to the relegation zone!

Manchester City may have just sent Tottenham into the relegation zone—if they hold on and win this match.

Zidane wheels away, running toward the corner flag with fire in his eyes and fists clenched in triumph.

His teammates flood around him, leaping, shouting, embracing—the dam has finally broken.

On the bench, O’Neill exhales hard, almost laughing from the sheer tension. He leans back, hands on his knees, soaking in the release.

After wave after wave of build-up, near-misses, and heartache...

...City have found the goal—not through craft, but through sheer will.

"That’s it."

Richard stood from his seat, already certain of the outcome of the match.

With City dominating possession at every turn, Tottenham’s chances of equalising had all but vanished.

RING~

Just as he was about to sit back down, his phone rang. It was Stuart—CEO of Maddox Construction and Property Management.

Stuart was currently swamped with work, constantly moving between London and Manchester to resolve two major issues: a gas tank replacement at the hotel site, and the final shipment of sea containers for Manchester City’s new hospitality wing—the very location where Richard was currently staying.

It was all part of an ambitious program: upgrading their hotel from four stars to five.

Richard assumed the call was about their pending re-inspection request with a recognised rating body—perhaps the AA, RAC, or the Tourist Board.

But unexpectedly, it was something entirely different.

"Richard," Stuart said, his tone calm but purposeful, "my contact has responded. We can meet with their representatives next week."

Richard’s eyes lit up.

Finally. The opportunity they had been waiting for had arrived.

Apple is here.