Cardiff City were two goals down at ho.
Alan Cork was starting to panic, and the players on the pitch were losing their heads in their desperation to drag the scoreline back. They threw more n forward and launched wave after wave of attacks.
Straight from the restart, they went back to the aerial route, but it ca to nothing. Jason Bowen's cross from the flank was headed clear by Albrechtsen, and the ball dropped at Jas Cook's feet out wide. Cook imdiately pushed it forward and drove upfield.
The path ahead of him was wide open. Gareth Whalley had gone forward to join the attack and could no longer cover the flank. He was sprinting back, but he was already too late. Kavanagh, wary of Cromwell bursting through the middle, did not dare drift out wide too early.
Full-back Croft kept retreating, afraid that if he stepped up too soon, Cook and Nielsen would play a quick one-two around him and slice open the defence. He needed to make sure the space behind him was not too obvious before committing to the challenge.
Cook carried the ball into the attacking third with confidence and poise. A forty-five-degree cross was almost second nature to him now, and he had developed a real feel for those diagonal deliveries into the space behind the defensive line.
He did not give Croft a chance to close him down. He simply whipped the ball in.
Once again, the delivery curved behind the back line, inviting the forward to attack it on the run and take the shot in stride.
This ti, Zlatan started toward the near post—
And stopped again.
He could only watch as the ball flashed across the face of goal.
On the touchline, Lynn stared in his direction with an icy expression, spreading his hands in disbelief.
Why?
Why had he stopped again?
Zlatan was burning with rage.
His backside was still stinging.
Just now, Rhys Weston had jabbed him from behind with his finger, hard and vicious, in a place no player should ever be touching another man.
It had happened in a split second, hidden from everyone else.
The ball rolled out for a throw on the far side, and Zlatan was close to snapping.
He rounded on Weston and roared, "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
Weston ignored him completely, glancing at him as if he were looking at a mad dog before calmly getting on with the ga.
Zlatan was livid. He had already been in a foul mood coming into the match.
He had wanted leave before Christmas, only for Lynn to tell him he could not go until after this ga. In Zlatan's mind, he was the top dog in the squad. Other teammates had been allowed ti off before or during Christmas, yet he had to wait until after Christmas had already passed. It felt unfair.
He had brought that resentnt onto the pitch, and now he had to deal with Weston's filthy little tricks as well. How could he not be furious? How could he not lose his mind?
This Boxing Day had turned into a nightmare, and the anger blazing inside Zlatan felt as though it could burn the whole world down.
Cardiff nearly created a golden chance just before half-ti.
Maxwell attacked down the left before cutting inside. Nielsen failed to get across in ti, and Maxwell slid a through ball into the Swansea penalty area for Alan Lee.
Lee went shoulder to shoulder with Albrechtsen, then suddenly went down inside the box. Albrechtsen had won the position cleanly and, after taking control of the ball, passed it out to right-back Danny Gabbidon.
Lee stayed on the turf, appealing to the referee and claiming he had been fouled.
The Cardiff supporters inside Ninian Park whistled and jeered, trying to pressure the referee into giving a penalty.
But the referee was unmoved.
Albrechtsen, having seen Swansea bring the ball under control, turned and started walking toward Lee, clearly intending to have words with him. Friedrich stepped in front of him and sneered at Lee instead.
"No need to waste ti on a thief. Trying to steal a penalty from us? Is that all Cardiff have left?"
Lee knew he had no case. Worse, he was on his own, facing two tall Swansea centre-backs who were clearly united. He wisely got to his feet and walked away.
On the sideline, Lynn glanced at his watch. The first half was about to move into stoppage ti.
Swansea had the ga under control. Even if they stopped attacking entirely, they could still take their 2–0 lead into the dressing room.
Everything was in hand.
Just when Lynn thought the half had gone smoothly apart from Pedretti's injury, disaster struck.
After a few simple passes, Swansea worked the ball to the left. Grosso lifted a cross into the box.
The ball floated toward the far post.
Zlatan jumped for it. He got there, but sent his header flying wildly off target. To everyone watching, he looked completely out of sorts today. Inside the box, he did not resemble a striker at all. He looked more like one of Cardiff's defenders.
Then, the mont he landed, the referee's whistle blew.
The referee sprinted into the Cardiff penalty area, went straight to Zlatan, and pulled out a red card without hesitation.
Zlatan turned his head and looked down at Rhys Weston, the Cardiff centre-back he had known for less than an hour yet already hated to the bone.
Weston was lying on the ground clutching his nose. Blood poured between his fingers.
Zlatan looked at his own left elbow.
There was blood on it.
"Swansea striker Zlatan Ibrahimović has been sent off! Cardiff centre-back Rhys Weston is down holding his nose, and there is a lot of blood! What exactly happened? Let's see if the replay can tell us.
"There it is. As Ibrahimović jumped for the header, his elbow struck Weston across the nose.
"That may well be a broken nose.
"My goodness, that was blatant. There is no way that was accidental.
"The red card is absolutely justified!"
Ninian Park erupted into furious abuse.
Zlatan looked once more at Weston on the ground. His anger had vanished, but he did not regret it.
If this had happened off the pitch, if any man had dared grab him there or jab him like that from behind, unless it had been a woman flirting with him—and even then, that backside nonsense would be unacceptable—he would have beaten the man until he could not stand.
Scott Young charged toward him.
Zlatan, irritated beyond words, shoved him away with one hand. Young went tumbling to the grass as well.
More Cardiff players rushed over, and the referee blew sharply again to stop the situation from exploding. Cromwell and Villa imdiately ca to Zlatan's side, putting themselves between him and the Cardiff players while trying to calm everyone down.
On the touchline, Lynn stood in silence, his face cold as ice.
When Zlatan ca off and reached the sideline, he seed ready to explain himself, but Lynn cut him off with a sharp, freezing reprimand.
"You were a pile of shit today. You wanted your holiday that badly? Fine. You can go celebrate Christmas now."
Zlatan was one of Lynn's favourites. Lynn had invested enormous effort in him and knew exactly how valuable he was, but he would not tolerate a player's awful performance.
He was the manager, not a babysitter.
After everything he had poured into Zlatan, he expected sothing back.
What had Zlatan given him today?
Missed chances, one after another, and a stupid, low-level red card.
Hearing Lynn's words, Zlatan's anger flared all over again. He wanted to argue. He believed Lynn had no idea what had gone on between him and Weston.
Assistant coach Emlyn Hughes quickly ca over, putting a hand on Zlatan's back and pushing him toward the tunnel.
As Zlatan disappeared into the players' tunnel, he kept shouting, "You don't know what happened! Why are you blaming ? Why?"
The commotion left the Swansea bench uneasy. Coaches and substitutes alike looked shaken. They had never seen anything like this inside the squad before. It seed as though a crack had opened between Lynn and Swansea's fiercest weapon.
Lynn ignored Zlatan's shouting.
He knew this squad was full of talented players.
But talent ca with flaws. These young n all had their own problems, their own rough edges. Zlatan's problem was arrogance—his wild, untamable pride.
Could Lynn back down?
Absolutely not.
If he did, what was the point of being the manager?
If the players got to dictate everything, he might as well beco a training coach instead of the head coach.
Alan Cork, anwhile, hated Swansea even more now.
Cardiff had already forced Pedretti off injured, and now, before half-ti had even arrived, Rhys Weston had taken an elbow from Zlatan and, according to the dical staff's first check, had a broken nose.
He could not continue.
Swansea were down to ten n, while Cork had to send on nineteen-year-old centre-back Chris Barker, a player he did not fully trust.
Perhaps it was the sight of one of their own bleeding that stirred sothing savage in the Cardiff players.
Stoppage ti should have been over, but the referee allowed a little more because of the injury.
Tony Vidmar pushed forward from the back and played a one-two with Jason Bowen down the flank, breaking past Tobias Rau's defensive line. Swansea's defence imdiately sounded the alarm.
Vidmar drove a low cross into the box from near the byline.
Friedrich missed it at the near post. Goalkeeper Glendower ca out and dived low, managing to get one hand to the ball, but it was travelling too quickly for him to gather cleanly.
In the chaos, Robert Earnshaw reacted first and lashed a shot toward goal. The ball struck Albrechtsen's shin, changed direction, and still flew into the net.
"Earnshaw scores! The eighteen-year-old Welsh prodigy has seized his chance in the Swansea penalty area and hamred the ball into the net!
"Swansea concede almost imdiately after going down to ten n!
"Is this match about to swing the other way?
"This Welsh derby is overflowing with bad blood. Neither set of players looks capable of staying calm now.
"Fortunately, half-ti is monts away. Hopefully, the break will allow both teams to clear their heads.
"Two-one.
"Swansea still lead away from ho, but only by a single goal."
Alan Cork leapt in celebration, roaring with excitent, his voice swallowed by the thunderous surge of noise inside Ninian Park.
The Cardiff fans had been holding it in for too long. At last, their team had scored.
The first half was almost over, but there were still forty-five minutes to play.
And Swansea had ten n.
Like Alan Cork, they all believed the sa thing.
Cardiff could turn this around in the second half.
After the goal, the referee blew the whistle for half-ti.
Lynn turned without expression and strode quickly down the tunnel.
When he was the first to enter the dressing room, he saw Zlatan sitting in front of his locker. Emlyn Hughes appeared to be trying to calm him down, but Zlatan did not react.
The mont Lynn saw him, he questioned him coldly.
"If you didn't want to play today, you should have told before the match. Not gone out there, left ten Swansea players to fight, and removed yourself from the battle."
Zlatan shot to his feet and roared back, "It was accidental! Why are you questioning my desire?"
No matter what, Zlatan would never admit that part of him had wanted the holiday more than the match.
No professional player would admit sothing like that. Players were supposed to be full of fight, fearless, ready to step onto the pitch and go to war whenever called upon.
Lynn did not spare him.
"Don't lie. Don't lie to . I know you. I know you better than you know yourself.
"When you jump for a header, do you normally swing your arm that high? Do you have any idea how awkward that movent looked?
"You had a choice. Head the ball and extend our lead, or hurt the man marking you. You chose the second option. The shaful option.
"You chose that instead of turning your teammates' work into a goal.
"You wasted one chance. Then another. Then another. Forget God—if you watched the footage calmly, even you wouldn't forgive yourself for that many misses.
"You would say exactly what I'm saying now.
"Swansea's number nine, the tallest man on the pitch, played like shit today.
"A steaming pile of shit."
Zlatan could not refute him.
He had wanted Weston to pay. So he kicked the locker beside him and shouted at Lynn.
"You have no idea how disgusting that bastard with the broken nose really is! He was bumping from behind the whole ga, grabbing my junk, poking in the arse! What the hell was I supposed to do? Just take it? Would you take it? Tell ! Would you?"
Lynn looked at the furious Zlatan and gave a silent, cold laugh.
Then he said in a hard voice, "Zlatan, this is football. It isn't golf. It isn't table tennis. It sure as hell isn't badminton.
"You're nineteen years old. Don't tell you still think football is so gentleman's sport where everyone just runs, passes, shoots, and tackles politely.
"Don't ask what I would do. You are the one on the pitch. You are the one who wants to beco the greatest striker in the world.
"Go ask Maradona. Ask Lineker. Ask Beckenbauer. Ask every great player what they went through on the pitch.
"Rhys Weston, that poor kid whose nose you broke—did you ever really look at him calmly?
"Did you?
"He isn't as tall as you. He isn't as strong as you. And yet he was the centre-back assigned to mark you.
"If he couldn't stop you, you could have torn Cardiff's goal to pieces.
"So he used dirty little tricks you couldn't stand. He irritated you. Distracted you. Led you into a trap.
"And God help us, it worked.
"I didn't think you would be that easy to provoke.
"His little sche succeeded.
"He got Swansea's most dangerous forward sent off, and you walked off like a fool under a storm of boos and abuse.
"Zlatan, don't co to with complaints. They an nothing.
"You know what football is. Nobody walks smoothly from ordinary to successful, then from successful to great. Nobody.
"If you need to understand you, comfort you, and soothe your hurt feelings every ti sothing like this happens, then I'm sorry—you will never beco a great player.
"Because this will happen again.
"And again.
"And again.
"And every ti, you'll be turned into a clown on the pitch.
"You'll drag the team down with you.
"And you forgot sothing else today.
"You are the vice-captain.
"The truth is, you wanted your holiday. I didn't let you go right away, so you were unhappy.
"Oh, poor Zlatan was unhappy, so Zlatan could forget everything.
"He could forget he was the vice-captain.
"He could forget that Cromwell, two years younger than him, was still out there fighting.
"He could forget that Villa, who has contributed just as much as him, has been giving everything for the team without complaint.
"Zlatan, open your eyes and look at your teammates.
"They are the real warriors.
"Your performance today was shaful.
"And you need to understand that yourself.
"Don't forget your dream.
"Don't forget you are this team's vice-captain.
"Don't forget you are an important part of this squad.
"And don't forget what your teammates have given for you!"
As Lynn roared that final line at Zlatan, the rest of the players had already entered the dressing room.
They stood frozen in place, watching Lynn and Zlatan face each other less than two tres apart, not daring to make a sound.
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