Football Dynasty

In the third round of the Premier League, Arsenal suffered a defeat at St. James' Park against Newcastle, while Liverpool had already fallen to Leeds United away. With that, it could be said that among the heavyweights, only the reigning champions, Manchester United, remained with a perfect record—topping the table with three consecutive victories over Tottenham, Everton, and Manchester City.

With a League Cup match against Grimsby the following week, Richard naturally placed great importance on the upcoming match at Anfield.

The next day, a brand-new Rolls-Royce Silver Spur, Springfield Edition glided smoothly along the road as the driver made his way toward Liverpool.

Richard had learned his lesson when it came to picking cars. Take his McLaren F1 GTR, for example—a masterpiece of engineering, no doubt, but one he deeply regretted buying. As thrilling as it was, the reality was simple: it was impractical. At the end of the day, he couldn't use it for daily errands or regular travel. It became more of a display piece than a functioning part of his life.

More importantly, given his current status, driving himself had become increasingly impractical—if not outright risky. Most nights, he stayed up late reviewing documents, handling correspondence, and overseeing operations. Driving in that condition wasn't just inefficient—it was dangerous.

So when Richard stopped by for an inspection the day before—during Robertson's disciplinary hearing—Harry had quietly arranged for the Rolls-Royce to be delivered, complete with a professional driver.

"So you don't have to drag that Porsche around anymore," Harry had said with a half-smile, referring to the sleek but far less comfortable 911 Richard used to insist on driving himself.

Now, sitting in the back seat of the Rolls, cocooned in silence and leather, Richard realized he didn't miss the steering wheel at all.

It didn't take an hour to travel from Manchester to Liverpool. Though the two cities lay close together on the map, everything else about them—culture, religion, politics, economy, and especially football—stood in stark contrast.

Leaning back in his seat, Richard cast his gaze out the car window, momentarily setting aside his worries. As the landscape shifted, so too did the atmosphere. Even from behind the glass, he could sense the distinct cultural energy of each city, shaped by history and time.

Manchester, once hailed as the "world's factory," had long been a symbol of industrial might. But that glory had faded.

In the aftermath of World War II, its industries declined, and over the last thirty years, manufacturing jobs had vanished at an unforgiving pace.

The city now leaned heavily into a service-based economy, but the transformation left deep scars. A quiet melancholy lingered in its streets—a nostalgia for a past that could never return.

Liverpool, by contrast, had always been different. As a major port city, it was outward-looking, diverse, and culturally vibrant. Its history pulsed with rhythm and reinvention—the birthplace of The Beatles, and a long-standing gateway between Britain and the wider world.

By the 1990s, Liverpool had begun to shed its post-industrial gloom. In recent years, its economy had rebounded with surprising vigor—at times even outpacing London's growth. With its artistic spirit and creative soul, Liverpool had reemerged as a symbol of modern British renewal.

Two Cities, Strikingly Different. This port city had a charm all its own—but Richard had no time to admire it.

As the car neared Anfield, he heard it.

"Through the wind and the rain, your dreams may be shattered, but move on with hope in your heart...You'll never walk alone, You'll never walk alone..."

The words floated through the air, carried by thousands of voices in unison. The stands were a sea of red. "You'll Never Walk Alone"—more than a song, it was a declaration of loyalty, a shared heartbeat between club and city.

Richard sat still for a moment, taking it in. The sound, the passion—it was impossible to ignore.

Despite the notorious reputation of football hooliganism in England, it's undeniable that supporters around the world continue to emulate the passion of English fans.

Here, loyalty is not just spoken—it's lived. In every chant, every journey to an away ground, and every unwavering show of support, English fans embody a devotion that transcends results.

Even during the darker days of English football's decline, there have always been those who live and breathe for their clubs—fans who remain faithful, win or lose, until the end.

And tt Anfield, the stands were awash with a sea of red as fans waved Liverpool scarves above their heads, singing loudly together the anthem "You'll Never Walk Alone."

Richard made his way toward the VIP box, accompanied by Marina and Miss Heysen. There was no flashy entourage, just the quiet professionalism that followed them wherever they went.

A steward in a club blazer led the way up the old stairwell, past concrete walls lined with fading posters and muffled chants rumbling from below.

"This is crazy," Marina murmured under her breath as she eased into her seat, eyes wide with quiet awe.

Miss Heysen stood near the window, flipping through the folded fixture notes she had brought along, but even she couldn't resist pausing to take it all in.

Anfield stretched out in full—a wall of red scarves, with chants rolling like thunder, unified and unwavering, echoing through every corner of the historic ground.

Robertson led the first team into the tunnel, boots echoing against the concrete floor. Just before descending the stairs, he came to a stop in front of the sign mounted on the wall—faded but unmistakable, bearing the iconic Liverpool crest.

He turned and faced his starting eleven, his voice calm but deliberate.

"Guys... what does it say up there?"

The players followed his gaze, eyes drifting to the sign above. For a moment, no one spoke. Some looked puzzled, others hesitant—thinking, You're asking us? You don't know?

But it was Javier Zanetti who broke the silence, speaking with his usual composure, as if reciting from a textbook.

"This is Anfield," he said flatly.

Robertson nodded slowly.

"Indeed. This is Anfield. A great stadium... a legacy left behind by the legendary Bill Shankly. They've lifted the European Cup four times here. They hold the record for the most top-flight titles in England."

He paused, letting that weight settle over them.

"So tell me—what do you think it would feel like to walk out of here with a win?"

Silence.

The players exchanged glances—fleeting, intense, thoughtful. No words were spoken, but their expressions said enough.

"Indescribable!" Robertson suddenly burst into laughter, his voice echoing through the tunnel."And I'm going to make it just that—indescribable! Just like at Old Trafford, remember that? Can't you feel it?"

He turned to his players, eyes gleaming with energy.

"In ninety minutes, we're going to take that feeling home with us. This is Anfield—and I love this place. Thanks to Liverpool for building this stage, because we're about to own it."

He stepped forward, his voice rising.

"Now tell me—what are we going to do?"

A beat of silence. Then one voice, then several, rose in unison—"We're gonna win it!"

With the motivational talk done, Robertson took a deep breath and led the team forward. As they stepped into the tunnel, they came face-to-face with the Liverpool players—already lined up and waiting, donned in their iconic red kits.

Watching them, a flicker of memory pulled him back—back to when he was still a rookie, newly recruited by O'Neill to be a coach. He had been young, eager, and full of fire—perhaps a bit too much. He and a few of the younger lads were notorious for their trash talk, tossing jabs during training sessions and matches alike, often with more mouth than sense.

So, gathering his courage, he walked over to the line of Liverpool players. As he passed the stunned group, he gave Jamie Redknapp a friendly pat on the shoulder and, with a sly grin, leaned in and whispered:

"Jamie, send my regards to your father. After this, it's West Ham's turn."

Jamie Redknapp stood there, dumbfounded and unsure of how to respond. His father, of course, was Harry Redknapp, currently managing West Ham United—a club with its own ambitions and headaches.

The Liverpool and City players, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected exchange, quickly refocused as the referee signaled the final countdown.

Robertson rejoined the City side, the grin still lingering on his face. However, just as he was about to step onto the pitch, he was unexpectedly stopped.

A man in a dark suit—stern face, FA badge gleaming—stepped forward from the edge of the tunnel.

"Mr. John Robertson, you are not permitted to enter the pitch," he said, calmly but firmly.

"Pffft—" a stifled laugh came from the end of the Liverpool line.

It was young Robbie Fowler, the last in the row, who had seen the whole thing unfold. He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, and muttered just loud enough for his teammates to hear: "Blimey... forgot he's banned from his own match."

Only then did it hit Robertson like a cold slap—the two-match suspension from the FA. How could he have forgotten?