Football Dynasty

The prodigy Michael Owen made his mark against Manchester City, catching them completely off guard.

Did Liverpool ever lack talent compared to other teams?

Definitely not.

They were seen as favourites for the Premier League, but their problem was consistency—they often dropped crucial points, especially against higher-ranked sides. To be honest, Liverpool played exciting, attacking football, but their defence, along with goalkeeper David James, was error-prone.

Roy Evans was respected for keeping harmony in the squad and encouraging attacking play, but some argued he lacked the ruthless tactical edge needed to push Liverpool over the line.

Take Owen's goal as an example.

Phil Babb was the only one left at the back, while the rest of the team had pushed forward into City's box, neglecting their defensive shape. Thanks to this, Owen spotted the opening and exploited the gap, running onto the ball behind the defence with his trademark blistering acceleration.

"Keep the shape! Don't panic—hold the line!" O'Neill waved his arms frantically on the touchline, stabbing his finger toward his back four.

In stark contrast, Mourinho stood calmly on the sideline with his hands in his pockets, showing no signs of impatience. In his eyes, the situation on the field wasn't nearly as lopsided as it appeared.

Liverpool played a traditional 4-4-2 formation, the same as City, initiating their attacks from midfield and defense, often sending long balls forward to find their strikers. Originally, they paired Karl-Heinz Riedle with Robbie Fowler—a duo strong in the air, intelligent in their movement, and extremely dangerous inside the box.

This approach was one of the most common tactics in English football, and coincidentally, most teams employed the same strategy.

But now, with Owen leading the line, everything was bound to change. Mourinho believed that Owen's youth and inexperience could be a double-edged sword—a potential boomerang Liverpool might struggle to control, and one that City could exploit if they were clever enough.

Mourinho rose from his seat, expression unreadable, and strode toward O'Neill.

"I think we need a substitution," he said quietly but firmly.

O'Neill blinked, caught off guard. He glanced at his watch, the first half nearing its end. "Second half, then?" he asked, almost stalling.

Mourinho's lips curved into a thin smile as he gave a measured nod."Yes. At the break."

"Who are you thinking of?"

"Lucio off," Mourinho said without hesitation. "Bring on Thuram. We can't afford another rash challenge like that in the box. Thuram will stabilize the backline." He barely paused before continuing, his voice quick and sharp. "Van Bommel off for Makélélé. We need control in midfield—someone to screen the defense and keep possession simple."

O'Neill folded his arms, watching the game as if searching for an argument. But Mourinho pressed on.

"And Shevchenko for Trezeguet," Mourinho finished, his eyes flicking toward Henry up front. "Henry's pace and dribbling need balance. Trezeguet's strength, his hold-up play—he'll pin Liverpool's center-backs and give Henry the space he needs to run at them. Alone, Henry is too isolated. Together, they complement each other."

For a moment, O'Neill said nothing, weighing the decision. Then he exhaled, long and sharp.

"Alright. At the break, we make the switch."

Mourinho simply adjusted his coat, as if the matter had already been settled.

After Owen's goal, neither Manchester City nor Liverpool launched into an immediate offensive. The ball moved mostly back and forth within their own halves, and the pace of the game was slow, suggesting it wouldn't turn into a particularly thrilling contest.

City probed, while Liverpool immediately dropped into all-out defense.

A few minutes later, Mourinho frowned slightly. City's attempts to organize attacks were consistently thwarted by Liverpool's backline, which enjoyed a clear advantage in numbers. The Reds were playing conservatively, protecting their lead at all costs.

He couldn't help but put himself in Roy Evans's shoes.

With the cards he had, facing a team like Manchester City—renowned for their powerful attack—even if they eventually conceded, securing a draw would still be a satisfactory outcome, especially given the strength of City's defense.

But relying solely on the previous tactic of attacking down the flanks now seemed problematic against Liverpool.

Even if Pires or Okocha managed to beat the full-backs and whip in a cross, the experienced Phil Babb and Rob Jones could still close down Henry and Shevchenko. On top of that, Paul Ince's arrival had added much-needed steel to a side otherwise creatively centered around playmaker Steve McManaman.

PHWEEEEEE~

The referee's whistle pierced through the noise, signaling the end of the first half.

The Liverpool fans roared in celebration of their slim lead, while the City supporters booed in frustration, believing their side should have created more.

Roy Evans clapped his hands firmly on the sideline, urging his men off the pitch—focus, no complacency. His assistant, Phil Thompson, buzzed beside him, gesticulating wildly, still replaying Owen's goal in his mind.

On the opposite touchline, O'Neill strode toward the tunnel with stiff shoulders. Mourinho followed a step behind, coat neatly adjusted, his eyes fixed on the pitch like a chess player already calculating the second half.

Inside the Anfield dressing room, the atmosphere was buzzing.

Roy Evans quickly cut through the noise. He clapped his hands sharply."Alright, settle down. Good work so far, but don't get carried away. One goal doesn't win us the game. City will come at us harder in the second half—expect it."

Phil Thompson paced at the front, stabbing his finger toward the chalkboard as he explained the tactics for the second half.

Meanwhile, in the away dressing room, the mood was starkly different.

"We've been second best. Not good enough. Where's the bite?" O'Neill's voice echoed against the tiled walls. "Liverpool are sitting on us, and we're letting them dictate."

Before he could continue, Mourinho stepped forward, his tone cooler, controlled."We change the balance. We need stability in midfield, someone to clean up and recycle the ball. And we need strength up front. They think they've got us where they want us. But one mistake—just one—and we'll turn this match on its head."

After that, O'Neill came up to Mourinho, muttering something under his breath, before Mourinho helplessly nodded.

The players straightened, tension giving way to focus. The second half awaited.

PHWEEEEE~

The referee's whistle cut through the noise. But sometimes, reality doesn't unfold the way you expect.

McManaman picked up the ball deep, head up, hair flying as he glided forward with his trademark weaving run. With those long, loping strides, he shifted the ball from one foot to the other.

Steve Finnan stepped in to block his path, but McManaman dropped his shoulder and slipped past with ease, leaving the full-back stumbling in his wake. Space opened up, and in one smooth motion he threaded a perfectly weighted pass into the channel toward Owen.

Owen was already on the move, his acceleration electric. He burst between the center-backs, eyes locked on the ball, the crowd rising in anticipation. For a heartbeat, it looked like another chance was about to open—

CRASH!

Lucio slid in with brutal timing, meeting Owen with a crunching tackle that sent both ball and striker spinning. Gasps erupted from the stands—half in outrage, half in awe at the sheer force of the challenge.

PHWEEEEE~

The referee's whistle was halfway to his lips when furious shouts rang out from the Liverpool bench.

"The hell is that?! Are you trying to injure him? Can you even play football?! That's the second time already!"

Owen clutched his shin, grimacing, while Lucio scrambled up quickly, raising his hands as if to say, "All ball, no foul."

"Damn it!" Mourinho snapped, straightening immediately as he saw the referee march toward Lúcio.

He watched as the official and Lúcio, flanked by other City players, exchanged heated words. Then, when the referee reached into his pocket for the card…

RED CARD!!!

"Fuck!" Mourinho bellowed, spinning toward O'Neill. "I told you! That's exactly why at the break we made the substitutions! Now look at what's happened!"

He jabbed a finger toward the pitch, his eyes blazing with a mixture of frustration and vindication. Now, scanning the City bench in a helpless moment, he called out sharply,

"Fabio!"

Cannavaro, who had already made it clear he wouldn't be playing in this match, froze, caught off guard by the urgency in Mourinho's tone.

Without missing a beat, Mourinho strode over to Thuram, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Lilian, I am sorry, but this is urgent," he said, his voice low but commanding.

Thuram' face remained unreadable, a mask of calm, but he simply nodded and rose from his seat, moving toward the touchline without a word.

The weight of the situation was clear—Mourinho needed immediate action, and his players knew there was no room for hesitation.

Lucio's face was a storm of conflicting emotions as he trudged off the pitch after the red card—anger, frustration, and disbelief flickering across his features. He shot a sharp, accusatory glance toward the referee, then passed by his teammates, a few of whom awkwardly patted him on the back.

As he reached the tunnel, his pace slowed and his head dropped slightly. He muttered something under his breath, the words lost in the stadium noise.

O'Neill gave a reassuring pat on his shoulder before Lucio continued, disappearing into the tunnel, leaving a tense silence in his wake.

On the other side, Mourinho calmly approached the fourth official, speaking quietly but firmly, making sure the substitution paperwork and signals were correct.

PHWEEEE~

"The referee has confirmed the changes," Andy Gray's voice rang out over the stadium PA. "City have made a double switch: Lucio is off with a red card, and they're bringing on Fabio Cannavaro in place of William Gallas, along with Makélélé to stabilize the defense. Up front, Shevchenko replaces David Trezeguet."

Gallas, standing in front of Buffon while waiting for the game to continue, looked around in disbelief, pointing at himself as if asking, "Me?"

"Look at that reaction! Gallas can't quite believe he's being called into action."

Mourinho also couldn't help himself. With the game now 10 vs 11, thanks to Lucio's red card, the situation had shifted dramatically in Liverpool's favor. He quickly recalculated his options, knowing that maintaining a solid defense was paramount.

The best he could do was to position his most reliable defenders where they could command the backline efficiently. Cannavaro would marshal the central defense, bringing discipline and experience, while Makélélé would sit in front of them, acting as a shield and recycling possession.

Before Cannavaro, Makélélé, and Trezeguet entered, Mourinho quietly gave them some instructions, and they nodded in understanding.

Seeing this, Roy Evans felt a pang of worry, but he quickly steadied himself. Assessing the 10 vs 11 situation and holding onto Liverpool's 1-0 lead, a sense of cautious satisfaction washed over him.

The match then continued as usual, a constant exchange of attacks, much like any typical game.

PHWEEE~

Taking advantage of the throw-in, O'Neill shouted instructions to his players. Seeing them glance back, he gestured emphatically—two fingers pointing forward, followed by a wide, separating motion, and finishing with clenched fists.

The four midfielders and two forwards up front nodded in acknowledgment, signaling that they understood exactly what to do next.

Roy Evans, standing on the home team's bench, wore a slightly puzzled expression. Something told him that a decisive moment was about to unfold.

After the throw-in, City held a slight advantage, though not by much, as the ball was clearly spending more time at their feet.

The two forwards, Henry and Trezeguet, dropped deeper into midfield. After a quick combination with Okocha in the center, they made diagonal runs toward the flanks of the penalty area, drawing Liverpool's Paul Ince back to help the center-backs shadow them closely.

"Wait! Don't go there, fall back! Fall back!" Evans shouted, his heart sinking.

It was clear that only one central defender, Rob Jones, remained in the center of the penalty area—Baab had been pulled out by Henry and Trezeguet.

At that moment, City suddenly took a risk.

Okocha and Zambrotta combined on one side, while Pires and Steve Finnan worked the other. Jamie Redknapp hesitated between blocking Okocha's run and dropping back, while Pires dribbled inside, forcing Stig Inge Bjørnebye to step forward to block. Pires then slid a sideways pass.

"Fuck, there!"

Liverpool goalkeeper David James's eyes widened as he saw an unexpected figure approaching the penalty area: Hidetoshi Nakata!

Just as no one noticed him, Pires chipped the ball toward the penalty spot. Baap, sweating profusely, saw it sail over his head and could only catch a glimpse of a deep blue figure darting past him.

"Bloody hell!" he muttered under his breath.

For the first time, the Japanese midfielder had stepped out of his comfortable zone and surged forward to join the attack. The two wingers, Okocha and Pires, had combined in the middle, congesting the central area—unintentionally giving Nakata the space to slip through unnoticed.

Now, he was nearly one-on-one with the goalkeeper.

Nakata twisted his body mid-run, turning his back to David James to track where the ball would land. In that instant, he realized how tight the space was—David James was closing in behind him, while Baap hovered right in front.

"Damn it!" Nakata hissed. The defenders were too close, forcing him to hesitate just a fraction. But the ball was already almost on him.

Reacting instinctively, Nakata met the ball with the back of his head, flicking it just enough to deceive both David James and Baap.

The ball spun awkwardly, bouncing unpredictably in front of the goal. David James lunged, but the spin and misdirection forced him to misjudge it. Baap lunged as well, only to see the ball glance off Nakata's head and skid past him.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze—the ball wobbling, teasing the line—but Nakata was already preparing for the next move, eyes sharp, ready to capitalize on the chaos he had created.