The referee imdiately rushed over, signaling for the dic to co onto the pitch.
O’Neill stood on the sidelines, fists clenched, watching intently as the dic knelt beside Ronaldo.
Tension swept through the stadium as fans held their breath, waiting to see if Ronaldo was okay.
anwhile, the referee pulled out a yellow card, showing it to the player who had made the reckless challenge. But all eyes remained fixed on the fallen Ronaldo.
Ronaldo slowly rose, wincing with each step. His teammates gathered around him, offering words of encouragent, but it was clear the injury was affecting his movent.
"I’m fine, I’m fine," Ronaldo said, trying to brush off the pain.
He adjusted his boots, gave a brief nod to the referee to signal he was ready to continue, and made a gesture to O’Neill indicating he was okay—prompting a sigh of relief from the coach.
15th Minute:
With just a minute of normal ti gone, only five minutes had passed. Solskjær was tackled just as he was about to shoot, but the ball rebounded to Ronaldo, who slamd it ho through a sea of legs.
"Oh, what a chance! He had the perfect angle, but the ball drifts wide!"
The crowd groaned collectively as the ball rolled harmlessly past the post. Though it seed like just another missed opportunity, Richard frowned deeply. Why shoot instead of dribbling?
"Ref!!!" O’Neill shouted, his voice cutting through the noise. He stord to the edge of his technical area, arms flailing in protest. "That’s a penalty on Solskjær! Every day of the week!"
Yet the referee remained unmoved, ignoring O’Neill’s pleas and signaling for the match to continue.
28th Minute:
"Ref!!" O’Neill’s voice echoed across the technical area as he threw his hands into the air after yet another questionable tackle on Roberto Carlos went unpunished.
"That was a foul!" he shouted, turning to the fourth official. "Are we being punished for sothing?!"
34th Minute:
City surged forward again. Cafu slipped past two defenders and cut into the box, only to be brought down from behind. The crowd leapt to their feet—surely this ti! But the referee simply signaled for a goal kick.
O’Neill was livid. He stepped out of the technical area, pointing furiously. "That’s the third one! Third! And still no card?! You’re setting a dangerous tone here!"
43th Minute:
Rotherham United had effectively parked the bus, turning every City attack into a frustrating near-miss.
Their defensive shape unexpectedly was tight, their discipline impressive, and their physicality increasingly noticeable—leaving City with little room to operate. But just as tension gripped the stadium, City surged forward with another promising attack.
"We’re almost there, just a little bit more!" O’Neill muttered.
Cafu raced down the wing and broke through the defense. He whipped in a cross, aiming for Solskjær, who had already raised his hand, signaling for it.
The ball curled wickedly toward the near post. Solskjær leapt, twisting mid-air to et it with a glancing header. The ball zipped goalward, beating the keeper—
"GOAAALLLL!" Maine Road erupted in sheer ecstasy.
"Ole Gunnar Solskjær again!!!"
"Well done!" O’Neill shouted, pumping his fist as he watched the ball crash into the back of the net.
PHWEEEE!
The City players were ready to celebrate with the ecstatic Solskjær, but just then, the sharp whistle of the referee cut through the air. He stood near the goal area, pointing to the ground—Imre Váradi was lying there!
"The goal does not count! What a startling turn of events..." the comntator exclaid. "Solskjær’s goal has been ruled out. The referee believes that during his jump, he pressed down on Imre Váradi. But honestly... this decision will surely stir so controversy. And wait—what’s happening now on the sidelines?"
Incensed, O’Neill kicked a water bottle, sending it skidding down the sideline. In his view, it had been a perfectly good goal—one that couldn’t have been better—but the referee had inexplicably ruled it out.
His outburst quickly drew the attention of the fourth official.
"Mr. O’Neill, you’d better restrain yourself," the official warned sternly as he approached. "I don’t want the referee coming over to show you a red card—and I’m sure you don’t want that either."
At that mont, O’Neill looked ready to explode, but Robertson quickly stepped in and pulled him back.
"I’m sorry—this won’t happen again," Robertson said to the fourth official, doing his best to calm the situation and lead O’Neill away.
"Let go of ! That damn—" O’Neill continued to vent his frustration, but this ti, Robertson quickly covered his mouth.
"Shut up, Martin! Do you want to get sent off now? The match isn’t over yet!" Robertson, usually obedient and deferential to O’Neill, snapped sharply, his tone cutting through the tension like a knife.
O’Neill froze, montarily stunned. Then, slowly, he straightened up and scratched his head.
"You’re right, John... I nearly lost sight of the bigger picture. Thanks for pulling back."
Regaining his composure, O’Neill marched back to the touchline and cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Don’t let it get to you! Keep pressing forward—we’re still in this!" he bellowed.
The fourth official heard O’Neill’s words, looked distrustfully at him, but he finally found no trouble.
"Solskjær looks a little dejected. The first goal he scored for City disappeared just like that. But he’s a good lad—a striker with great potential. I believe that, in ti, he’ll be Norway’s new leading man up front," the comntator said, speaking of the future.
"Bloody moron!" Solskjær clenched his fists. He could swear on his future that he hadn’t pressed anyone down.
The first half was a bit of a letdown as a spectacle, with play largely one-sided but no goals to show for it. In the final minutes, neither side was willing to commit too much, leading to a lack of decisive action.
O’Neill gloomily walked toward the locker room, planning to give his players a stern talk when his eyes were drawn to Ronaldo.
The forward was sitting with the team dic, his knees wrapped in ice packs. Just then, the external dic hired from Wythenshawe Hospital approached him, a serious expression on his face.
"He’s in so pain, but it’s too early to say how serious it is. We’ll need to run so tests, but for now, the ice should help reduce the swelling."
O’Neill exhaled sharply, rubbing his hand through his hair. "Not now... not when we need him most."
Ronaldo, having seen the dic speaking with O’Neill, felt a surge of anxiety. Without hesitation, he stood up and made his way over to the coach. "No, coach, I can still play."
He wasn’t about to miss the final monts, not when his teammates needed him, and certainly not while sitting on the bench, waiting as they fought alone.
What about the fans?
No, he had promised himself that he would lead the team out, no matter how much pain he had to endure.
O’Neill hesitated. He didn’t answer Ronaldo but instead turned to the dic. "What do you think?"
The dic glanced at Ronaldo, then back at O’Neill. "He’s pushing it, but if he insists, I can’t stop him. But we need to keep an eye on him. He could make it worse."
After all, his role was to advise, not to make the final call. Still, he couldn’t help but give them a warning. "But if he goes out there, it’s on him—and you."
O’Neill rubbed his temples, feeling a headache brewing.
Ronaldo was filled with anxiety. He actually wasn’t overly worried about Rotherham, even though City were still goalless, because he knew that, at the end of the day, he’d be able to score. He could feel it instinctively—he just needed ti. He was so close to breaking their defense wide open.
The pressure was mounting, and it was becoming clear that ti was running out.
"Ten minutes. If you’re going back in, then you’ve got ten minutes after that. No more," O’Neill finally said, his voice firm.
Then he turned to the dic and gave a single nod.
The dic returned the nod in understanding. He shrugged slightly, then turned to Ronaldo. "Follow ."
Soon, while O’Neill gave his talk during the halfti break, Ronaldo was in another room as the Wythenshawe dic skillfully drained fluid from Ronaldo’s knee before the second half and administered a painkiller to alleviate the aching and continual throbbing.
Afterward, the dic watched as Ronaldo took a few small steps, testing his knee. "How does it feel?" the dic asked, observing his movents closely.
Ronaldo gave a slight nod, trying to hide the discomfort, and offered a faint smile. "It’s better, but... still a bit sore. I’ll be fine," he said
If Richard were in the locker room, he’d probably tear apart O’Neill because he knew what was at stake. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be there. He had too many guests to entertain, and also his family who ca to watch the match.
PHWEEE!!!
The sound of the whistle echoed through the stadium, signaling the start of the second half. Ronaldo jogged back onto the pitch, his knee still a bit stiff, but the painkiller was working as he pushed through the discomfort.
’Ten minutes... ten minutes... ten minutes,’ he chanted to himself.
’One goal... one goal... one goal.’ Just like Ronaldo chanted to himself, Richard also repeated the mantra to himself because he knew, one goal.
Only one goal, and he knew Rotherham was done for.
However, he never expected that, what ca was a red card, and the one shown the red card was... O’Neill!!!
Richard was left speechless.
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