Tuesday, September 17th, was a bustling day for Manchester City chairman Richard Maddox.
The first order of business: reviewing the club’s last three matches.
One win, one draw, and one loss.
Just four points out of a possible nine—and for now, City were sitting in 13th place in the league standings.
Richard lifted his head toward the man seated across from him.
O’Neill was back.
However, he wasn’t yet fit to return to the touchline. Following his recent hip replacent surgery, the doctors had strongly advised against full involvent. For now, light participation in training sessions was the most they would allow.
"Are you sure you’re okay?" Richard asked, concern evident in his voice.
O’Neill gave a wry smile. "What choice do I have?"
Back at the Maine Road training ground, Robertson was approached by Miss Heysen.
"The Chairman wants to see you," she said. "Right now—in his office."
Robertson’s heart sank. He already had a feeling what this was about.
"Did he say anything else?" he asked cautiously.
She shook her head. As Robertson turned to leave, she added, "But... he looked grim."
Ba-dum. His heart thumped. That confird it. It had to be about that post-match comnt—the one where he’d said, "We were raped by the referee."
Without wasting another second, Robertson hurried toward Richard Maddox’s office—located just above the manager’s office.
He knocked while pushing the door open—and froze.
Seated behind the large desk was Chairman Richard Maddox.
But it wasn’t just him.
Also in the room, seated comfortably as if he’d never left, was none other than Martin O’Neill.
Robertson hadn’t expected to see O’Neill there too. He was caught off guard for a mont—but quickly recovered and offered a warm smile.
"Martin! Since when?!"
After exchanging greetings with Richard, Robertson imdiately stepped forward and embraced O’Neill without hesitation. It was a brief mont of genuine joy between colleagues and friends.
But the small talk was cut short when Richard stood up from behind his desk, holding a sheet of paper in his hand. He walked toward Robertson with a serious expression.
Seeing the paper in Richard’s hand, Robertson’s stomach dropped. A dozen worst-case scenarios flashed through his mind, instantly making him forget all about the disciplinary hearing.
Was this a dismissal letter? A formal warning?
He hadn’t exactly been producing stellar results lately—not after all the money City had invested and the expectations raised by their dominant First Division campaign last season.
But Richard’s calm voice pulled him out of the spiral.
"This is a fax from the Football Association," he said. "They’ve summoned you to London tomorrow for a disciplinary hearing."
Only then did Robertson find his voice.
"...Is this about what I said after the match?"
Richard nodded.
Though it wasn’t a letter of dismissal, Robertson’s mood didn’t improve. He had caused unnecessary trouble for the club, and only now did he realize just how much he had let his emotions get the better of him during the previous match against Leeds.
But then, Richard’s next words lifted a weight off Robertson’s shoulders and made the world seem just a little brighter.
"The club will be fully supporting you," he said firmly. "We’ve already gone over everything together and submitted an official appeal to the FA."
He looked up at Richard again. The young chairman smiled and said, "Get yourself ready—you’ll be going to London with tomorrow. But before that, I need you to et soone."
Robertson nodded at this, and Richard patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Don’t worry, the club has hired a lawyer for you. Let him handle everything."
The lawyer Richard had brought in, of course, was Adam Lewis—his current external legal advisor for both Manchester City and the Maddox Group.
Lewis took a stack of docunts out of his briefcase and placed them on the table. "Mr. Robertson, I hope you don’t mind saying this, but your final comnt during the September 15th post-match press conference was... a little unwise."
Robertson imdiately recalled it. "Which part? Was it about the "rape" thing?"
Lewis looked up at him and nodded. "Yes."
He then continued, "If you had only voiced your doubts or frustrations about the referee’s performance, that would’ve been viewed as normal post-match complaints—nothing out of the ordinary for a manager who’d just suffered a tough loss. But it was the remark you added at the end that changed everything."
Robertson frowned slightly as Lewis continued.
"You didn’t just criticize the referee—you implied a deeper distrust. Not just of that one official, but of the transparency and integrity of the entire English Football Association. And for the FA, that’s a red line. That single comnt is what escalated this issue."
"..."
The room fell into a tense silence before Richard finally spoke. "Is there any way out of this?"
Lewis leaned back slightly. "Based on my experience, the FA will likely ask you to clarify your remark at the hearing. If you want to avoid a harsher punishnt, you’ll need to convince them that your comnts weren’t aid at the FA itself."
Robertson let out a quiet sigh. "Honestly, I was never against the FA. It was just that referee..."
"There’s no point in saying that to ," Lewis replied calmly. "You need to make them believe that. And that won’t be easy."
He paused, then added, "Let give you so context. When Keith Wiseman succeeded Sir Bert Millichip as chairman of the FA, he promised to clean up English football—no more scandals, no tolerance for misconduct. He’s been working to rebuild the FA’s reputation. And your comnt, whether intended or not, suggested that the FA isn’t as clean as it claims to be."
"But—"
"Save your words for the FA. Whether you ant it or not, after the dia blew it out of proportion, everyone now believes you did." O’Neill, the experienced one, chid in.
Robertson understood all too well the power of the English dia. Grabbing his head with both hands, he groaned softly, "Those bloody dia bastards..."
In other words, this whole ss had been dragged out because of them.
Seeing his reaction, Lewis simply shrugged. "Only realizing that now? But there are pros and cons to using your current status in how we handle this."
"My status?" Robertson asked, confused.
Lewis glanced at Edwards before turning back to Robertson. "Manchester City isn’t the sa old club just surviving in the Premier League. Yes, you’ve just been promoted, and the derby against United brought a lot of attention—but at the end of the day, you still lost. In other words, City’s influence in English football is still relatively small."
"And what does that an for ?"
"It ans the FA might not take you seriously—and that could work in your favor. They might let it slide with a warning, thinking it’s just frustration from a lower-profile club. Or," Lewis paused, "they could use this as an opportunity to make an example out of you. Wiseman wants to send a ssage, and you might be the one to carry it."
The room went quiet. Everyone understood the implication. If this were Manchester United—or if Robertson were soone with Ferguson’s stature—the FA might tread more carefully, weighing the political and dia consequences. But for City? And for a manager still building his na? They were easy targets.
Lewis let the silence settle before continuing. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick docunt, placing it on the table with a soft thud.
"So, here’s what you’re going to do," he said calmly. "This is a script—a guide, really. It covers the possible questions the FA might throw at you, along with the recomnded responses. You’ll need to study this carefully before we leave for London."
Robertson stared at the thick file as if it had just handed him a death sentence.
For a mont, the weight of it all made him feel like giving up. But eventually, with a long sigh, he nodded and picked up the docunt.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let’s do this."
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