At Maine Road, the Reds’ fans were stunned into disbelief after their team conceded. A thunderous roar from the ho supporters drowned out the silence of the traveling Kop.
Manchester City 2 – 1 Liverpool.
"Just 90 seconds left! Just 90 seconds!" Mourinho shouted from the touchline, his voice almost breaking as he urged his players to hold their ground.
Cannavaro barked instructions at the back, arms outstretched to keep the line tight. Makélélé dropped even deeper, sweeping up every loose ball like a man possessed. Nakata, still burning with the fire of his wonder goal, kept pointing to the flanks, telling Henry and Pires to retreat.
The Liverpool bench, anwhile, was chaos. Roy Evans scread for urgency, urging his midfield to push forward. Steve McManaman and Michael Owen lurked dangerously, sniffing for one last chance.
With all other matches almost concluded, only the lengthy stoppage ti of Fixture 23 remained. Comntator Martin Tyler was howling frantically in the studio.
"Blackburn have fallen 2–4 at ho to Leicester City. Middlesbrough were held to a 1–1 draw by Leeds. Everton slipped to a 1–2 defeat against Chelsea, while Manchester United were frustrated in a draw with West Ham—making their title chase even more difficult. And at White Hart Lane, Coventry ca from behind to stun Spurs 2–1!"
"Barnsley boost their survival hopes with a 1–0 ho win over Arsenal! Ninety seconds left here at Maine Road, and if Arsenal lose, then—looking at this Manchester City performance—Highbury will need little short of a miracle to see the Premier League trophy!"
"Indeed, Martin. What a day this is turning out to be. Barnsley, rock-bottom just weeks ago, have thrown themselves a lifeline. Everton and Tottenham Hotspur join Palace in the bottom three, but at the top? At the top it all cos down to this. If Manchester City can hold on here, the destiny of the title tilts dramatically."
Back on the pitch, every player was running on fus, but adrenaline kept their legs moving. Liverpool threw n forward recklessly—Owen darting into spaces and McManaman desperately driving down the flank.
Liverpool quickly restarted play, hoofing a desperate long ball forward as nearly every red shirt charged after it, leaving their own half completely exposed. Materazzi froze for a split second, stunned at the sight of this furious stampede, before realizing the ball was dropping right beside him.
With every Liverpool eye locked onto him, he chose not to take any chances—one composed swing of his boot sent the ball soaring back into the opposite half, where it bounced harmlessly out of play.
PHWEEEEEEE—!
The referee’s whistle pierced through the chaos.
Liverpool players sank to the turf, so burying their faces in the grass, others staring blankly at the night sky in disbelief. Their hopes had evaporated in the dying seconds.
Most of the Reds fans in the stands were distraught. "One ti, two tis, three tis—damn it!" one supporter bellowed, his voice cracking with anger. "How many tis are we going to lose to Manchester City? How many tis!?"
On the other side, Manchester City players erupted in celebration—arms raised, fists clenched, so collapsing to their knees in sheer exhaustion and joy.
Manchester City had done it.
The damage was done; there was no need to pour salt on Liverpool’s wounds.
Two days later, the mood at Manchester City’s new dormitory was lively. O’Neill, Mourinho, and several mbers of the coaching staff—so of whom usually stayed outside—had decided to spend the night together at the facility.
With Liverpool gone from Maine Road, the focus had already shifted to Europe. Their next destination was clear: Barcelona.
That evening, after a hearty buffet dinner, the group gathered in the common lounge with a few beers in hand, ready to watch El Clásico!
Just before the broadcast began, however, a fax arrived from Miss Heysen, containing updates on the club’s situation in the Premier League. Curious, O’Neill and Mourinho decided to catch a recap of the dostic season on British television first.
"Do we really need to review this too?" Mourinho asked in confusion.
Isn’t this usually a matter for non-football managent? Why do we even need to go through it? No, in the first place, why was this sent to us?!
"Because I need to know how much money we’ve made. Only then can I estimate how much of a transfer budget we’ll have for next season." O’Neill explained.
Mourinho leaned back on the sofa, still unconvinced. "So we’re accountants now?"
Because when he was at Barcelona, his role was strictly football-related—opposition scouting, tactics, and match preparation. He had no involvent in the financial or administrative matters of the club.
Barcelona was a massive club with a clear division of responsibilities: the football staff focused only on football, while finances were handled by the executives and the board, including budgets, transfers, and wages. Even Robson or probably only knew the basics, enough to have so influence in suggesting transfers.
"No," O’Neill replied calmly, his eyes still scanning the figures. "But if we don’t understand the financial picture, we can’t plan the squad properly. Transfers, wages, bonuses—it all starts here. Trust ," he added with a grin, "this will matter just as much when we’re in the transfer market."
Mourinho could only nod, lost in deep thought about it.
Unsurprisingly, the coverage focused on the league’s giants: Manchester United, Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool—and, to the surprise of many, the upstarts from Maine Road.
Manchester City’s teoric rise had dominated headlines all year.
With the fewest goals conceded in the league and the second-highest number of goals scored—only behind Chelsea—Manchester City had established themselves as both the most disciplined defense and one of the most dangerous attacks in England.
The statistics were staggering.
They had secured almost double victories over the traditional "big three," set a record of 23 matches unbeaten, and put together a 23-ga winning streak—one of the longest in any of Europe’s top leagues.
Ronaldo stood at the heart of it all, scoring 29 league goals, with Henrik Larsson close behind on 15. Zidane contributed 13 assists, and together with Henry, Trezeguet, and Shevchenko, City’s attacking unit delivered a total of 44 goals!
Not to ntion Robert Pirès, who was on the rise in his last three appearances, as well as Okocha, Pirlo, and Makelele, who had beco the team’s wall in front of the center-backs. By the ti January was drawing to a close, all of them often went out of their way to create opportunities for Ronaldo—even passing up one-on-one chances so he could score. Even Zanetti had managed to notch three goals, while every penalty was entrusted to him as a mark of respect. The gesture moved him deeply.
Across all competitions, Ronaldo had scored against almost every opponent City faced, making him one of Europe’s most feared strikers.
What made him truly valuable, however, was his attitude—never arrogant, always humble, and a constant source of joy for the squad. It reflected the bond and unity within the camp. If only he could tone down his nightlife habits, he would be the perfect professional.
In reviews of other teams, Manchester United’s season stood out for its turbulence. Following the loss of captain Roy Keane and the sudden retirent announcent of Eric Cantona, their campaign seed destined to end in disastrous fashion.
On top of that, they were eliminated by league strugglers Barnsley in the FA Cup Fifth Round. To make matters worse, despite entering February still in contention for a League and European double after once opening up a 12-point gap, the reality was far less comfortable—nearest challengers Leicester were only a point behind, while Chelsea still had two gas in hand.
As for the other mbers of the so-called "Big Six," let’s not forget Tottenham, who could be said to be facing their worst crisis—flirting with relegation. anwhile, across North London, Arsenal’s playing style had changed sowhat under Wenger, but the results were minimal. His coaching thods would need ti to prove their worth.
It was much the sa story as the recent Liverpool side, who were defeated by City. Liverpool had a squad capable of rivaling any team, yet they constantly faltered. Evans’ team carried high hopes but often failed to deliver.
Still, this was only the beginning for Liverpool. Fowler’s injury opened the door for Michael Owen, who instantly beca a reliable source of goals.
Without doubt, Evans would place his trust in Owen to lead the Liverpool attack.
"Hey, it’s starting now!"
"¡Bienvenidos al Camp Nou! The atmosphere is electric tonight—Barcelona hosting Real Madrid in a match that could define the season!"
The cara panned across a sea of blaugrana flags waving furiously, the roar of the crowd almost shaking the cafeteria speakers.
"Just listen to that noise," Zidane muttered, shaking his head in quiet admiration. "It’s not just a ga here—it’s a battlefield."
Larsson leaned back, grinning as he sipped his beer. "Feels like a warzone even through the TV. Imagine being on the pitch..."
The voice rang out, drawing O’Neill and Mourinho’s attention toward the cafeteria, where players and staff had gathered around a newly installed television.
"Let’s go," O’Neill said as he rose from his seat and made his way to the cafeteria.
When he arrived, he glanced at the screen, taking in the starting lineups and the current league table. Just then, Ronaldo leaned forward, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Barcelona still has a chance at the league title? They’re five points behind Madrid! Sure, there are plenty of gas left, but..."
It’s Real Madrid after all. His tone carried both doubt and curiosity.
"Don’t underestimate it. In Spain, a five-point gap is nothing if you know how volatile the Clásico can be. One win here, and suddenly the montum shifts. The whole city changes mood overnight. And rember—this is Camp Nou. Against Madrid, ninety minutes here can feel like a war. If Barcelona win tonight, they won’t just cut the gap; they’ll send Madrid into panic."
Just then, the comntator’s voice climbed higher.
"Barcelona line up tonight with Rivaldo leading the line, supported by Figo and Luis Enrique. Real Madrid counter with Suker, Mijatović, and Raúl—it’s a clash of titans!"
At the ntion of Rivaldo’s na, City’s Zambrotta leaned back with a smirk, eyes fixed on the screen. "Ah, mamma mia... let’s see what he’s got in his locker tonight."
Zambrotta joined City alongside Rivaldo, before the Brazilian moved to PSV, and naturally kept a close eye on him.
"I heard he’s currently the second-highest scorer in their league?" Zanetti asked curiously.
La Liga Top Scorers (1997–98):
Italy – Christian Vieri (Atlético Madrid) – 17 goals
Brazil – Rivaldo (Barcelona) – 16 goals
Spain – Luis Enrique (Barcelona) – 13 goals
Rivaldo’s first season at Barcelona had been nothing short of fantastic. His move to Barça was decisive—coming in a transfer deal worth 4 billion pesetas (around $26 million). Sir Bobby Robson had convinced the club to sign Rivaldo ahead of Steve McManaman, arguing that Rivaldo would guarantee goals. His gamble had paid off.
"Kickoff at Camp Nou!" the comntator roared. "El Clásico is underway!"
The cafeteria erupted with claps and whistles from the players, as if they themselves were about to take the field.
O’Neill chuckled, shaking his head as he turned to Mourinho.
"You’ve been with Barcelona for a year. You should know better than any of us what this match ans."
Mourinho gave a faint smile—the kind of knowing look only soone who had lived through the intensity of El Clásico could give.
"Catalonia is a nation without a state; Barcelona is their army. There’s no room for half-asures in any Clásico. Believe , when I was there under Mister Robson, you could feel it everywhere—the tension in the streets, the press breathing down your neck, the board demanding results. It’s not just football—it’s identity, pride, politics. A single defeat can shake the whole club for weeks."
He paused, then tapped the table with a finger for emphasis.
"El Clásico doesn’t just decide three points—it decides who controls the narrative for the rest of the season. You win, the city breathes. You lose, and suddenly everything you do—every substitution, every missed pass—becos a weapon for your critics."
The room went quiet for a mont, the younger players absorbing the gravity of his words, before the noise of the match comntary filled the silence again.
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