Not only Beckham, but Ferguson was also smiling—applauding his players’ performance. Everything seed to be falling back into place, returning to the familiar rhythm of the Red Devils, Manchester United.
Just monts into the second half, United had scored, overturning a disastrous two-goal deficit. With nearly forty minutes left to play, Ferguson made the first substitution.
Cantona, who had been largely invisible in the first half, was taken off for Scholes. Watching from the touchline, Robertson noticed Ferguson giving Scholes detailed tactical instructions. He understood imdiately—Ferguson was looking to stabilize the tempo of the ga.
Now that United held the lead, it was City who would be feeling the pressure. Bringing on Scholes added control in midfield, and with United’s defense reinforced, Scholes could also serve as a lethal outlet for quick counterattacks.
At that ti, Scholes didn’t have a fixed role in the midfield. He frequently drifted close to the penalty area, taking up advanced positions. In fact, in the two years that followed—before the arrival of Yorke, who would go on to form a deadly partnership up front—many fans were already calling for Scholes to replace the inconsistent Andy Cole as a striker.
A team that goes from leading by two to trailing by one... how ntally devastating must it be to concede three unanswered goals?
Naturally, City needed fresh legs to respond.
Ronaldo, whose stamina was failing to keep up with the match’s tempo, was replaced by Henry. Then Larsson, who had made little impact throughout the ga, was taken off for Lampard. Finally, Trezeguet ca on to wreak havoc in United’s penalty area—replacing Van Boml to sharpen City’s attacking threat.
Robertson patted each of them on the shoulder with a smile as he handed them their jackets. "Good job—now take a rest."
With these changes, Robertson deployed his strongest formation: a 4-3-3, featuring Henry, Trezeguet, and Okocha up front. In midfield, he placed Lampard, Pirlo, and Neil Lennon—a mix of creativity, control, and grit.
In the stands, Manchester United fans began to sing loudly, their voices echoing across the stadium like rolling thunder.
anwhile, City fans in the East Stand sat in stunned silence—bewildered by how their two-goal lead had slipped away.
But not for long.
Blazing Squad’s Carl Morran suddenly rose to his feet. Glancing around, he clenched his fists and began to chant at the top of his lungs: "We shall not, we shall not be moved! We shall not, we shall not be moved! Cause we’re the team that’s gonna paint it red! We shall not, we shall not be moved!"
He looked left and right, repeating the chant with unwavering spirit. Slowly but surely, the East Stand erupted in a unified chorus, their collective voice growing louder, prouder, defiant.
Richard felt deeply gratified by the sight. After investing in various initiatives, it was clear his efforts hadn’t been in vain. These young mbers of the Blazing Squad could very well beco the crucial twelfth man in Manchester City’s most important matches.
Still, even though there were no disturbances between the fans in the stands, behind the calm facade lay Manchester United fans’ scorn for their cross-town rivals.
They saw themselves as affluent magnates, while City fans appeared to them as street beggars—so why should they pay any heed to those asking for alms? Wouldn’t that only sully their own eyes, dirty their hands, and degrade their reputation?
After Scholes ca on, it beca clear that Manchester United were trying to toy with City—passing the ball around confidently in midfield to assert control.
City, however, responded with a frantic yet coordinated press, refusing to let United dictate the tempo for even a mont.
Scholes had the ball at his feet and intended to play it back to Keane, but the fresh-legged Lampard intervened with a quick interception, poking the ball toward the right flank.
Beckham barely managed to get it under control before Zambrotta ca sliding in with a perfectly tid tackle, stealing the ball cleanly and leaving Beckham wobbling, unable to regain balance—let alone recover defensively.
"Run!!!" Richard roared from the VIP box as he leapt to his feet.
This was it—City’s chance!
Zambrotta surged forward, and every City player pushed up with him in unison.
Butt tracked Lennon closely, while Keane sprinted across to help cover the flank. After a slick one-two with Henry, Zambrotta cut inside, taking two touches toward the left edge of the penalty area.
Gary Neville adjusted his position to keep an eye on Henry, who was drifting toward the box.
City had focused most of their first-half attacks down the left, forcing United’s defense to habitually shift to that side. From Neville’s view, only Zambrotta and Henry were active threats at that mont.
Bruce May and Gary Pallister tightly marked Trezeguet and Okocha, who both made sharp, coordinated runs toward the center, aiming to overload the heart of United’s defense. The movent drew the defenders inward, opening the field wider for what was to co.
Just as Zambrotta found himself running out of space to carry the ball, he opted to pass it to the nearest option—Neil Lennon.
Lennon stepped up, but instead of continuing the attack directly, he stunned everyone by threading a low pass across the middle. Shock rippled through United’s defense.
Was that a through ball?
Even Nicky Butt, who had been trailing behind Lennon, was caught off guard by the move.
Turning to look, the defenders realized that neither Henry nor Trezeguet had advanced—they had only feinted forward to draw the attention of Pallister and Bruce May.
However, as the ball rolled toward the center, a City player burst forward to et it.
Who was it?
Lampard!
Fresh legs, full of energy.
Lampard, making a late run into the box, had surprisingly positioned himself right at the edge of the penalty area—completely unmarked!
With United’s defense tilting to the right, their attention had been drawn away by the two forwards, whose movent cleverly occupied the center-backs. This left the box wide open for Lampard, and no one picked up his run. The defensive support arrived too late.
As the ball rolled toward him, Lampard vividly recalled his personal training sessions when he first arrived at City.
Tactically, the coach had stressed the importance of perfectly timing his forward runs—had they seen this mont coming?
Now, he had tid it to perfection. This was exactly what he had trained for. Known for arriving late and finishing clinically, Lampard was in the ideal position to seize the chance.
Lampard’s father—himself a forr assistant coach at West Ham—imdiately stood up in the stands the mont he saw his son’s opportunity unfolding on the pitch.
Targeting Manchester United’s vulnerable left side had been City’s tactical focus in the first half. But now, as United shifted to reinforce their right flank, Lampard found himself with greater freedom to drift centrally and exploit the space
Arriving at the edge of the box, Lampard had two options—make a pass or take the shot himself. Whatever he chose, there was one rule: no hesitation.
As he spotted the gaping hole in United’s defense, his eyes sharpened with determination. He had been tracking the play all along, noticing how Trezeguet and Henry’s runs had dragged defenders to the left.
Now, as the ball rolled to him on the right, Gary Pallister suddenly abandoned his mark and lunged toward him—there was no ti to think.
Was a pass the better choice... or—?
No, there was too little space.
So Lampard made a decisive choice: a long-range shot. He knew full well that his dribbling or penetration couldn’t match the others—but what he lacked in flair and experience, he made up for with sheer willpower and a burning desire to prove he was ready for a starting spot.
’Keep your eyes open... and watch this!’
As the ball reached him, Lampard had already adjusted his footing. He drew his right leg back and unleashed a fierce strike!
His body arched in perfect form—a snapshot of raw power and defiance.
Deep inside, Lampard roared: ’Get in that goal, damn it! I don’t care if it’s Manchester United—those arrogant fans have had it coming!’
BANG!
The ball rocketed forward like a cannon shell, completely spinless, slicing through the air toward the top-left corner of the United goal.
Schichel sprang into action, fully outstretched—but the angle was too sharp.
Then—a sharp, echoing thud. The stadium held its breath.
The ball had struck the underside of the crossbar—and bounced down over the line into the net!
Lampard’s eyes lit up. Gritting his teeth with a look of fierce triumph, he clenched both fists, then turned and sprinted toward the coaching staff with arms wide open, roaring in celebration.
Old Trafford fell into stunned silence—the roar of the Red Devils faithful replaced by sheer disbelief.
What? 3–3? Just like that?
That goal was flawless—beyond reproach, simply unforgettable! A strike to be envied by even the best.
In the East Stand, City fans exploded in celebration, a wall of blue erupting with thunderous cheers and waving arms, their voices forming a roaring tide of noise.
"What a screar! A sensational long-range strike—pure class! The Three Lions have unearthed another gem bound for the world stage. His na? Frank Lampard! Bloody brilliant—he’s just marked his debut against Manchester United with a goal for the ages!"
"GOA--"
Richard was ecstatic. He had already leapt up from his seat, celebrating wildly with the Cityzens around him—fists in the air and a wide grin stretched across his face.
RING~
Just as he was about to continue the celebration, his phone suddenly rang.
Thankfully, he had left it on the table rather than in his pocket, so the first person to notice wasn’t him—it was Marina, seated beside him. She nudged him to take a look at his phone.
Richard snapped out of his euphoric trance, blinked, and glanced down at the screen.
It was his father.
Just as Richard picked up the phone, the person on the other end imdiately pulled back from the receiver—his booming voice cutting through the line before Richard could even say hello.
"Where are you, son? Why is it so damn loud over there!?"
Richard pressed a finger to his ear, trying to block out the roaring crowd around him. "Oh, I’m at Old Trafford," he replied, grinning. "City just equalized against Manchester United. With this goal, they might actually walk away with a point."
Originally, Richard had wanted to invite his father and mother to watch the match at Old Trafford. But both of them had gone off sowhere on vacation—he didn’t even know where. So in the end, all he could do was give them his blessing and enjoy the match on his own.
"Oh..." his father finally said. "So that explains all the chaos I’m hearing. But guess what, son—try and guess where your mother and I are right now. Go on, I bet you’ll be surprised."
"Where? Greece again?" Richard asked, half-joking.
"No, Brazil!" the other party exclaid. "We’re in Porto Alegre—watching a local futsal match right this mont."
Richard blinked in disbelief. "Brazil? Seriously?"
What could you possibly be doing there on vacation?
His father didn’t miss a beat. "Son, listen to —there’s a kid here. Unbelievable talent. You have to sign him, no matter what. He just destroyed the opposition—scored all 23 goals in a 23–0 win! I swear, it was like watching a young Pelé locked in a cage."
Richard paused, stunned. "You’re joking."
"I’m dead serious. This kid’s the real deal. Lightning fast, fearless, and it’s not just flair—he’s got real football IQ. You need to send soone down here imdiately."
Originally, Richard was only caught off guard by the number—23 goals? That was absurd. But then he rembered—this was Brazil. He exhaled slowly and calmly shook his head. If it was futsal, it was probably Falcão or one of those other well-known indoor talents. Impressive, sure—but not what he was looking for. He wasn’t interested.
But then... he heard the na.
And in an instant, Richard’s expression changed.
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