The remainder of the first half went relatively smoothly for Manchester City.
McManaman and Fowler made individual efforts, but with Materazzi’s aggression and Gallas’s composure at the back, they were unable to significantly influence the ga or alter City’s overall tactical control.
As the whistle blew for halfti, the away side — Manchester City — held a temporary one-goal lead over Liverpool.
Fans in the stands began to disperse, making full use of the 15-minute break to grab refreshnts or visit the bathroom, preparing themselves for the battle that awaited in the second half.
Robertson also decided to return to the changing room to arrange the team’s tactics for the second half. After observing the first half, he more or less had an idea of what he wanted to do. However, before he left, he needed to assign a task to the two n beside him. He couldn’t just let them follow him back to the dressing room.
"Gentlen," he began, casually brushing imaginary dust from his coat. "Don’t you think the atmosphere here during the first half was... less than ideal?"
The two officials exchanged a glance, puzzled.
Seeing their confusion, Robertson elaborated. "These fans — they’re loud, passionate, and likely well-lubricated from a few pints before the match. Right now, their team is trailing. That doesn’t exactly put them in a friendly mood. Add more alcohol during the break, and if Liverpool doesn’t turn things around in the second half, their frustration will only intensify."
He paused, letting the implication hang in the air.
"Now, imagine if they noticed three spectators in their section who weren’t cheering for the ho team. What do you suppose might happen?"
Both n imdiately raised their hands in protest.
"I’m not a Liverpool fan," one stamred. "I actually support Manchester United."
"I’m an Arsenal man," said the other.
"That’s irrelevant. Even if you announced it over the stadium PA, it wouldn’t matter. Angry fans aren’t known for their rational thinking. Shall we test the theory?"
One of them quickly shook his head. "No need! I agree — it’s probably not wise for us to be sitting here."
"Exactly," Robertson said, tone smooth as ever. "You should raise this with Liverpool’s staff. Request a move to a more neutral section — maybe near the City fans."
That suggestion made them wary. They eyed him with suspicion.
Robertson raised an eyebrow. "Relax. Don’t tell you honestly think I’d pull sothing reckless? I’m not looking to repeat the ’Rapegate comntary’ fiasco. I’ve learned my lesson."
The ntion of that infamous scandal gave them pause. He knew what he’d done, and he wasn’t trying to pretend otherwise. That awareness seed to disarm them.
They exchanged a look, then nodded. "Alright. We’ll speak to the Liverpool staff."
"Much appreciated. You’ve made the right choice," Robertson said with a polite nod. Then he turned toward the tunnel.
Just before disappearing, he called back over his shoulder, "By the way — does the FA have any rules about entering my team’s changing room at halfti?"
"There’s nothing in the guidelines against it," one replied. "Go ahead."
"Excellent. You’ll find outside the dressing room in fifteen minutes. Until then." With a quick wave, Robertson vanished down the passageway.
Inside the stadium was a spacious lounge that sold a variety of food and drinks. Fans could relax for a while, grab a soft drink or a can of beer, enjoy so grilled sausages, or chat with their friends.
Robertson kept his head down and moved through quickly. He didn’t want to be recognized — not while his team was leading and the Liverpool fans were already in a foul mood.
The two representatives from the FA found mbers of Liverpool’s staff, and upon stating their identities, the issue with the seating was resolved quickly, as it concerned personal safety.
Having completed their task and seeing that there was still ti before the second half, the two decided to wait at the entrance of the visitors’ locker room.
"...If they can’t turn things around within the first 15 minutes of the second half, then everything will rest on Fowler and McManaman," Robertson said, his gaze sharp as he pointed toward the players. "But rember this—always: 1–0 is the most dangerous scoreline in football. A one-goal lead gives your opponents hope—dangerous, reckless hope. It fuels their dreams and their desperation.
"If you really want to kill their montum, don’t stop at one. Score more. More and more goals. That’s the only way to bury them.
"For the second half, we’ll sit deep, draw them out, and hit them on the counter. Make them overcommit, then punish them. That’s all I have to say. Let’s make sure that 45 minutes from now, we’re walking away with all three points."
With that, Robertson gave the team a final nod and exited the dressing room. Outside, the two FA officials were waiting for him.
As they began walking, he noticed they weren’t heading back the way they ca.
"They agreed to our seat change?" Robertson asked, eyebrows raised.
"Yes," one of them replied. "We’ll be in the Centenary Stand."
Anfield’s Centenary Stand — towered with two levels, housing nearly 12,000 supporters. It wasn’t just a sea of fans; it was ho to the executive boxes, the banquet lounge, the stadium’s PA and TV control rooms, the police operations center, and, most importantly for them, the designated seating for visiting club officials.
PHWEEEEEE~!
The second half kicked off with an all-out assault from the ho side.
Liverpool ca out of the tunnel blazing. Almost imdiately, Stig Inge took a powerful shot from outside the box—but Materazzi threw his body in the way, blocking it with a crunching thud that echoed across the pitch.
Van Boml was the quickest to react, intercepting the rebound and swiftly turning defense into attack. With a clean pass down the left flank, he found Roaldo, who took two slick touches to beat his marker before cutting inside.
Ronaldo spotted Larsson breaking into space through the middle and delivered the ball perfectly into his stride.
Larsson, reading the flow of play, sprinted forward and released a sharp pass to Neil Lennon. Lennon surged past the halfway line with intensity before looping the ball back toward Ronaldo.
Facing a retreating defense and the imposing figure of Liverpool’s Mark Wright, Ronaldo lowered his center of gravity, shifting his weight from left to right, keeping Wright guessing.
The mont Wright hesitated and turned his hips, Ronaldo struck—exploding forward, slipping past him with a burst of acceleration. He barely needed to look up. After a subtle adjustnt of his stride, he sent a precise, delicate through ball skimming along the grass toward the byline.
Suddenly—like a bullet—
Joan Capdevila!
Wearing Manchester City’s sky-blue shirt, he ca tearing down the left side, leaving Babb in the dust. Babb couldn’t even get a touch—Capdevila was already gone, blistering past him with raw pace.
As he reached the ball just before it crossed the line, Capdevila lifted his head, scanned the box in one sweeping glance, and with perfect timing, whipped in a low, driven cross.
Larsson had already ghosted into the penalty area, perfectly timing his run. Positioned just in front of Dominic Matteo, he looked to be in the ideal spot to et Capdevila’s cross. The ball curled in low and fast, just beginning to rise near the six-yard box.
From the stands, it looked inevitable. Larsson straightened his body, subtly shifting his weight backward, as if preparing to leap. Matteo, reading the body language, reacted instantly. The Liverpool defender launched himself into the air, committing fully to what he believed was a crucial interception.
But he was wrong.
At the very last mont—Larsson didn’t jump. In fact, he never left the ground.
Surprisingly, Larsson’s face showed a flicker of pain—but without a word, he lowered his head and began jogging out of the penalty area. No one noticed the way his jaw clenched, or how he was secretly grinding his teeth, as if silently enduring so hidden discomfort.
Richard had placed high hopes on that attack. From back to front, City’s buildup had been seamless—each pass sharp, each movent purposeful. It was the kind of play that demanded a finish.
Larsson had found himself in the perfect position for a header. Had Matteo shoved him at the last mont—or had he attempted a jump and been brought down—it might even have drawn a penalty.
But Larsson didn’t jump. He didn’t even try. He simply stood there—watching—as the ball sailed past him.
To the eyes of the crowd, it looked as though he had done absolutely nothing.
Richard was left dumbfounded in the VIP box. And it wasn’t just him—Walford and the other staff, who had all leaned forward to watch the promising play unfold, slumped back into their seats, dejected. One by one, they shook their heads, each gesture echoing the sa silent ssage: What the hell just happened?!
It didn’t make sense that Larsson would shrink away—especially at Anfield!
Everyone on the sidelines wore deepening frowns. What on earth was Larsson doing? That was a 90-percent goal—why did he give up?!
As Richard’s gaze remained locked on Larsson in disbelief, Liverpool struck back with a classic wing attack.
McManaman surged down the flank and delivered a precise 45-degree cross. The ball curled dangerously toward City’s far post—part pass, part shot, and all threat.
Buffon rushed out to claim it—but misjudged the trajectory entirely. Under the stunned eyes of City’s traveling support, the ball dropped cleanly at the far post, where Robbie Fowler arrived like a predator. He t it with a sharp header, almost scraping the post, then twisted his body midair to avoid slamming into it.
"Goal! Robbie Fowler—Liverpool’s golden boy—levels the score! A textbook combination with McManaman: a dangerous cross from the wing, and a poacher’s finish at the far post. City’s goalkeeper Buffon misread the flight and missed his chance to intercept. That mistake opened the door wide—and Fowler made no mistake! It’s 1–1 at Anfield!"
The stadium erupted. Red scarves flew into the air, fans leapt to their feet, and Anfield roared with life as Fowler ran toward the corner flag, arms spread wide in triumph.
Liverpool 1 - 1 Manchester City!
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