Football Dynasty

Dressed in a black coat, Richard arrived at the Marine Road training ground, his first stop being to observe the first-team squad in training. Not long after, O'Neill joined him, quietly taking his place at Richard's side as they watched the session unfold.

"You're not joining them?"

"I want to. But right now—let alone running—just standing for more than fifteen minutes is already too much. Rather than make a joke of myself out there, I'd rather stay here and watch."

Richard nodded. He didn't say anything.

"..."

The two of them watched in silence as the training session unfolded before them—simple, steady, purposeful—until O'Neill suddenly broke the quiet.

"You know, ever since I was admitted to the hospital, I've been observing different football cultures across the continent and storing them in my mind," he said. "To be honest, I'm not a tactics junkie. I don't spend all my time figuring out how to make players execute complex patterns on a whiteboard. Have you ever heard of Laconic thinking?"

"..."

Laconia, a region in ancient Greece, had its most famous city in Sparta. The term "laconic" comes from Laconia and refers to the Spartans' famously concise, blunt, and direct way of speaking.

Richard was taken aback by the sudden question, but out of respect, he responded honestly. He shook his head.

"The thinking behind Laconia is about simplifying the thought process. Simplicity is the real richness—because when details are limited, the mind has more space to grow. The simplest ideas often lead to the widest development and the most creative expression."

He paused, his eyes following the rhythm of the players on the field.

"In training, I encourage players to pass simply and quickly. That builds movement, connection, teamwork. And as those instincts develop, they begin to carry that fluency onto the pitch. Defending works the same way. I teach them basic principles, and from there... it's up to them to make it their own."

Richard wasn't sure where the conversation was heading, but he remained quiet, waiting for O'Neill to finish his thoughts.

"Every tactical framework is simple," O'Neill said, his gaze steady. "The real difference lies in how well players can execute it. Every Premier League team knows Manchester United rely on wing play—yet they still get exposed on the flanks. That's not because the tactics are mysterious, but because of the quality of the players executing them."

He shifted slightly, eyes scanning the pitch.

"The strength of individual matchups shapes the flow of the game. You can flood the flanks with numbers to defend, but you'll create weaknesses somewhere else. Take long-ball football, for instance—if United went back to that primitive style, it wouldn't necessarily be a disaster. If your long passes are accurate, and you have elite forwards to finish those chances, you'll still be effective.

Originally, his tactical approach when building a team in his 4-4-2 system required a powerful striker—and Larsson was a perfect fit. He also needed a creative presence in midfield, and Neil Lennon was his ideal choice. As for the defenders, aerial dominance was crucial, making players like Ferdinand, Gallas, or Thuram ideal candidates.

However, tactical counter-relationships were most apparent in matches between top teams; in games with wide disparities in strength, even the best tactics from weaker sides rarely led to upsets.

"Same tactics, different teams—completely different outcomes. That's the point. Tactical revolutions in football? They've happened less than ten times in the past hundred years. These days, with every match broadcast and analyzed to death, there are no secrets left. The real key is aligning the right players with the right system."

At this point, Richard let out a quiet sigh of agreement. "You're right," he said. "It all comes down to whether the players' qualities align with the system. When you put the right players in the right roles, everything clicks. But when there's a mismatch, it all starts to fall apart."

"..."

O'Neill then turned toward Richard. "You still remember you owe me a favor, right?"

"A favor?"

Indeed, when City played against Brentford, Richard had promised that if City won, he would grant O'Neill one request—as long as it was reasonable.

Only then Richard remembered now, so he looked at O'Neill carefully. "You already know what you're going to ask?"

As a man of his word, Richard would never break a promise. He thought O'Neill might ask for a player or something along those lines, but unexpectedly, the other man simply shook his head.

"Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you haven't forgotten."

"..."

What the hell was that?

Just as he was about to speak, he caught sight of Miss Heysen out of the corner of his eye, making her way toward them.

"What's wrong?" Richard asked, instinctively knowing she was definitely looking for him.

Miss Heysen didn't answer immediately. Instead, she handed him a folded document, slightly creased from urgency. "It's from the national FA," she said. "A formal request for our players to join the Olympic squad."

"Olympics?"

Richard and O'Neill exchanged glances before he picked up the document and read it carefully.

The 1996 Summer Olympics, held in Atlanta, USA, featured a men's football tournament played by U-23 national teams, with a few overage players allowed. A total of 16 countries participated.

"Nigeria, Argentina, Japan, and France have already sent letters," Miss Heysen added, watching Richard's eyes scan the paper. "They're asking for Okocha, Zanetti, Nakata, Trezeguet, and Henry."

Richard read carefully about the Olympic format—each cycle brought with it a familiar set of complications.

In the Olympics, the men's football tournament had shifted to an Under-23 format, but there were no mandatory release obligations for clubs. Unlike FIFA-sanctioned tournaments like the World Cup or continental championships, the Olympics fell outside the official FIFA calendar.

That meant clubs could refuse to release players, and many often did—especially when domestic seasons or European qualifiers were underway. That's why most federations sent formal letters to clubs requesting cooperation, just like what's happening now.

"How long will the tournament last?" O'Neill asked, casually but with clear interest.

"The tournament runs for 15 days—from the group stage through to the final," Miss Heysen replied, stepping in helpfully. "Olympic football follows a tight schedule since it shares the spotlight with many other sports."

O'Neill nodded thoughtfully, and Richard handed him the document. It was the manager's call now—not his.

Then O'Neill scanned the letter in silence. After a moment, he looked up.

"This is actually a good opportunity," he said.

He knew the dynamics of the Olympics well. For countries with serious Olympic ambitions, it wasn't unusual for federations to negotiate directly with club managers—offering promises of limited minutes, managed playing time, or even priority medical oversight in return for releasing players.

He glanced back at the squad list, then turned to Richard.

"Some of our players still haven't been getting regular minutes," he continued. "This could be the ideal platform for them. High-level competition, international exposure—and they'll come back sharper, both mentally and physically."

Indeed, some players—like Nakata, Capdevila, and even Henry and Trezeguet—had yet to see significant minutes on the pitch, largely because, for the current City side, the partnership of Ronaldo and Larsson was still irreplaceable.

"Then isn't it better to hand this over to John first?" Richard asked, half-smirking. "Unless you're ready to step onto the pitch right now."

Hearing that, O'Neill's brow twitched slightly. He didn't answer immediately.

To be honest, as much as he hated being injured, he had quietly welcomed the break. For once, he didn't have to chase after tactics, media briefings, or training schedules. The injury had unintentionally become a kind of forced vacation—a chance to breathe, to observe from a distance, and reflect without the daily weight of managerial pressure.

At the training ground, the morning session was relatively light. The players who had featured in the last match were put through recovery drills, while the coaching staff shifted their focus to preparations for the upcoming fixture at Anfield.

Upon Richard and O'Neill's arrival, Robertson handed the session over to Walford and joined them.

When he heard the reason for their visit, he couldn't help but frown. "We can't afford to lose those players right now," he said.

Richard chose not to interfere. He stepped back and let the two coaches deliberate, standing a short distance away as their conversation grew—part tactical, part philosophical. It wasn't just about selection anymore; it was about perspective.

But if you were to ask him whether he would release players for their national teams, he would almost always say yes—especially for someone like Zanetti.

Argentina is known for its fierce nationalism, and nowhere is that more evident than in football. Argentine players are often deeply proud to represent their country; wearing the national shirt isn't just a career milestone—it's a sacred duty. For many Argentinians, national pride and football are inseparable, woven tightly into the fabric of their identity.

One voiced concerns about squad rotation, injury risks, and the danger of disrupting momentum midway through the season and the other calm and deliberate, responded like a man who'd had time to think beyond the weekly fixture list—someone who'd stepped away from the noise long enough to see the bigger picture.

"You don't develop depth by keeping players on the bench," O'Neill said quietly. "You develop it by giving them moments that matter."

Eventually, Robertson gave a slow nod—not full agreement, but understanding.

Richard took that as enough. He stepped forward, gave a brief clap on both their shoulders, and said simply:

"Sort out the list tonight. I want us aligned before the letters go back out."

And with that, he turned and walked away, the morning sun casting long shadows behind him.