Thirty minutes earlier...
John Robertson rembered Walford’s words and went straight from the players’ corridor to the press conference room. There weren’t many people inside, except for the caras already set up in the small space.
The host looked sowhat surprised that the City caretaker had arrived so early.
Robertson noticed the odd expression in his eyes and asked, "Am I too early?"
"Yes. Most people are still interviewing the players in the mixed zone at this ti."
He glanced at the table and sat down in the seat marked with his na. "Then I’ll just wait here."
The press officer and the few journalists present didn’t object. Robertson took the opportunity to quietly observe the press conference setup. He knew he’d have to make regular appearances here for at least the next four months before O’Neill returned.
Ah, what a wonderful thing it was — to deliver a passionate speech in front of the dia, and then watch reporters turn his words into print. But now, Robertson wasn’t in the mood to think about that. He was still brooding over his team’s loss — all thanks to an embarrassing decision by the referee.
Yes, a loss. How embarrassing is it for his team to get a coback pulled on them by a side that struggles just to park the bus?
He was so deep in thought, he didn’t even notice the growing noise or that more people had begun to enter the room. By the ti he looked up, most of the reporters had already arrived, though few were seated — instead, they stood around chatting in groups.
But the visiting manager’s seat next to his remained empty. Robertson’s heart welled up with anger.
’Graham, you bastard... you already got help from the referee, and now you’re making wait for you? Arrogant jerk.’
He knocked on the microphone, the knocking sound was amplified through the speakers, the reporters on the scene turned to look at him.
"I hereby declare that the press conference has officially started, whatever you wish to ask, you can do so quickly, now." Robertson completely cast the press official aside and took on the additional duty.
The reporters did not expect the manager to be so impatient, so they looked to the press officer. The press officer also felt that it was okay for him to be interviewed first, so he shrugged, "We can begin."
Soon, the exchange of questions and answers began — until it reached its climax.
At that mont, soone raised his hand. "Wait, coach! I’m Pierce Brosnan, a reporter for the Manchester Evening News. In the second half, your team had two goals disallowed. I’d like to hear your opinion on that," said a fair-skinned young man with gold-rimd glasses, standing up.
The question reminded Robertson of the bitter draw, and he grumpily shot back, "What do you want to hear? I made the most appropriate tactical arrangents. I brought on the best players. I thought we could secure a beautiful victory. But when you realize that no matter how hard you try, you can’t fight against certain ’biases’ — then maybe you’ll understand how I feel right now."
A buzz swept through the room.
Robertson continued, "You ask what I think? My opinion is this: we were raped by the referee."
A stunned murmur rippled across the press room. Then soone at the back asked, half in disbelief, "Coach... did you say raped?"
Robertson nodded firmly. "Yes. Raped. Not offended, not violated, not insulted. Raped. Three ridiculous red cards and two perfectly legitimate goals — all taken away for nothing. If that’s not what this is, then what is it?"
The press officer leaned in and whispered a warning: "Hmm, I think you know what the consequences will be for you..."
Robertson shot him a look. "Whatever." Then he pointed at the excited reporters and said, "You write it exactly as I said it — not a single word changed. I don’t care! Good day, gentlen!"
Crazy.
This caretaker manager is absolutely crazy!
Robertson ignored the noisy press conference behind him and the astonished press officer still standing there. He was in a foul mood now. The first thing he needed to do was call O’Neill and report what had just happened.
The two had been together since Shepshed Charterhouse and then Wycombe Wanderers. They were definitely of one mind in this kind of situation.
And sure enough, the mont Robertson explained everything that had happened, the response was: "Don’t take this matter to heart. You’ve done well."
"Losing this match made everyone unhappy... there’s no other way around it," O’Neill said over the phone on the other end, likely shrugging as he spoke. "What’s done is done. The match is lost, no matter what the result. Looking miserable won’t make that damned referee change the score. What’s most important now is stabilizing the team internally."
"I understand," Robertson replied — just as he’d expected. O’Neill was on the sa page as him.
Robertson didn’t care about the noisy press conference or the astonished dia behind him. He was in a bad mood. When he returned to the locker room with his head down, he found everyone waiting for him. As he stood at the door, he scanned the room — everyone looked just as miserable as he did.
Naturally, the players were in somber moods. They had led by two goals, only to be pegged back — and in an unfair way. Of course, no one was going to feel good about that.
The solution, according to O’Neill in this kind of situation, was simple: start with the simplest one—get the players together for a drink, so ti to relax and rebuild team spirit. Since most of the players enjoyed drinking, it made sense to loosen up once in a while and have one.
’Yes, so let’s follow Martin’s advice,’ Robertson thought to himself.
When he snapped out of it, he suddenly noticed that two people were missing from the locker room — Robbie Savage and Lilian Thuram.
The two... basically the ones involved in the incident. "Wait, what?"
From what he knew about Lilian Thuram, he was soone with a strong sense of discipline. There was no way a guy like him would just disappear after a match without saying anything. It was unlike him not to show up by now.
As for Robbie Savage... Robertson instantly had a bad feeling about this. He imdiately decided to go look for them first.
The current City team’s locker room at Maine Road was small and outdated — that much could be said. Since expansion was impossible, they had no choice but to keep using it. So, with just a few people missing, it wasn’t imdiately obvious.
As for the culprits—both Savage and Thuram—well, they were still locked in the bathroom, caught up in their own personal confrontation, thanks to the red cards.
First, it was because of Savage that the innocent Thuram was sent off. And second... the N-word. While Radebe chose to let it slide, not wanting to stir up more trouble, that silence didn’t an Thuram—also a Black man—would simply stand by and do the sa.
Thuram leaned against the wall, facing his teammate in silence. Savage, on the other hand, looked furious, glaring at the other man with his fists clenched.
The two n stared at each other for a long ti before Savage finally gave in first, "You told to stay behind so that we can gawk at each other? If it’s okay, I’m leaving first."
He had just turned around when Thuram suddenly rushed forward and shoved him hard.
"What did you just say out there on the pitch?"
As soone closest to him at the ti, Thuram had clearly heard it.
Savage replied with a calm expression, "Sorry... I don’t think I understand what you’re talking about."
"Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know!" Thuram snapped. "I know exactly what’s on your mind."
Savage looked away, scoffing under his breath. "I said I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"You think just because it’s the heat of the ga you get a pass?" Thuram’s voice was low now, controlled, but with an edge that could cut steel. "You think people like haven’t heard that word enough already?"
Savage remained silent in the face of Thuram’s towering fury.
Thuram finished venting his anger, only to find that Savage was as unresponsive as a dead man.
This suddenly left him unsure of what to say next.
"Fuck."
He let out a heavy sigh, released his grip on Savage’s collar, and then lowered his head as he turned to leave. However, just as he was walking out of the bathroom, he saw the caretaker manager and a few City players eavesdropping.
"..."
’Good grief, what kind of team have I just joined? First racism, and now eavesdropping?!’
He was startled and was about to say, ’What are you doing here?’ but Robertson was quick, covering his mouth with one hand. Then he pointed toward the locker room and gestured for him to look.
Thuram turned around. The two of them, peering through the half-open door, saw Savage bending down to pick up a blue scarf from under the cabinet inside the locker room. Thuram looked back at Robertson with a puzzled expression, but Robertson said nothing—he simply signaled him to keep watching
"That blue scarf was the first gift he ever received when we were still playing in the First Division. He used to boast about it nearly every day—a kid had given it to him."
Thuram glanced at Robertson with a confused expression. ’What is he trying to tell ?’
They watched as Savage picked up the scarf and carefully brushed the dust off. Then he held it up to the light, studying it closely. The words Manchester City stitched across the fabric glowed faintly under the dim lights.
Robertson gently patted Thuram on the shoulder.
"Look, I don’t know exactly what happened out there that made you so angry with Robbie. But what I do want to say is this—when you’re on the pitch, emotions run high. People yell, they lash out, they say things they might not even an. It’s not an excuse, but it’s reality."
He paused, watching Thuram’s jaw tighten.
"I’m not asking you to forget it—or even forgive him right away. But sotis we need to look at a man not just by what he says in one heated mont, but by what he does when the heat is gone."
Thuram said nothing, but his gaze remained locked on Savage and the old scarf in his hands.
Robertson gave Thuram one last pat on the shoulder.
"You’re playing in the highest league in English football. Eyes are on you every single day—fans, press, teammates, rivals. Like I said, I’m not asking you to forgive him. But please... think about this like a professional."
He paused for a mont, then continued, his voice quieter.
"If you can’t be friends with him, that’s fine. No one’s asking you to pretend. But at least... keep things steady in the dressing room. We need unity, not silence or division. Especially now. This is bigger than either of you. It’s the club, it’s the season... and it’s the example we set."
"..."
Seeing Thuram’s gaze remain fixed on Savage, Robertson sighed. "Co on, co with to Ric’s Bar after this—my
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