Football Dynasty

Hearing O'Neill's verbal sparring with the reporters, Richard chuckled knowingly. He had no desire for his club manager or head coach to resort to cheap shots. Each of them had their own viewpoints to express, of course, but he knew how easily those words could be twisted by careless—or even irresponsible—reporting in the media.

After the press conference, Richard immediately left and headed toward the VIP room he had already booked

"Hmmm..." Richard rubbed his chin, sinking back into deep thought.

Thinking about that verbal spat about Ronaldo and Rivaldo, he suddenly remembered something.

To be honest, the fact that Manchester City had managed to squeeze their way into this year's Champions League troubled him.

Because, in his mind, 1997 wasn't the start of Serie A's decline—but its very peak before the fall in the early 2000s, meaning there was a three-year gap before the collapse began, triggered by the Parmalat (hurting Parma) and Cirio (hurting Lazio).

Italy was still the center of the footballing universe.

Milan, Juventus, Inter, Parma, and Lazio weren't just strong domestically; they were giants competing for European trophies. They have the best players in the world—Baggio, Maldini, Batistuta—were all playing under the lights of Serie A.

But when Richard looked at the competition now, he couldn't help but ask: 'Where are the Serie A clubs today?'

Supposedly, it was Juventus who managed to break through to the knockout stages. They would even go on to contest the Champions League final that very year. Yet, with the sudden absence of any real Italian powerhouses in the present day, a nagging unease crept into Richard's mind.

If one were to consider the butterfly effect, then—thanks to the absence of superstars like Ronaldo, Zidane, or Cannavaro, who were successfully secured elsewhere before Serie A—things might have turned out very differently.

Wait… Serie A?

One of the biggest factors behind Serie A's eventual downfall—besides the infamous scandals—was financial.

Clubs in the 1990s had overspent recklessly, chasing glory without regard for sustainability. Huge television deals and the bottomless wallets of wealthy owners—Berlusconi at Milan, Moratti at Inter, Cragnotti at Lazio, Tanzi at Parma—fueled an arms race of extravagant transfers and inflated wages.

It worked for a while. Serie A shone brighter than any other league. But beneath the glitter, the foundation was cracking. When scandals struck and the money dried up, the empire collapsed.

And the fact that Berlusconi had already attempted to lure City's players...

"Phew…" Richard exhaled deeply.

He needed to prepare.

This year probably wasn't one of glory for Italian clubs, but it could serve as a bridge between two great eras. At least before entering the early 2000s, Italian clubs were still competitive—strong overall in terms of finances, global reach, and superstar players.

'It seems I'll have to protect a few key players here,' he thought.

"I need to tell this to Marina when she arrives here," he muttered under his breath.

"What?"

Hearing Richard's low murmur, Stuart, who was leading the way to the VIP room, glanced back curiously.

"Nothing," Richard shook his head.

PHWEEEEE~

Suddenly, they heard a loud whistle pierce the air.

"The match… it's already starting? And we're still not there?" Richard was momentarily speechless.

Just how big is Camp Nou?!

Well, compared to Maine Road, which held around 32,000, Camp Nou's capacity of approximately 115,000 spectators made it one of the largest stadiums in Europe and the biggest in Spain. The stadium featured three main tiers—lower, middle, and upper—with a steep upper tier that made the stands appear even taller and more intimidating.

Walking into Camp Nou would feel like entering a fortress of red and blue.

In the VIP box, Richard was soon engrossed in the action unfolding on the pitch.

With Manchester City's core players refreshed after nearly a week of rest, they entered the match bursting with energy and enthusiasm. From the opening whistle, the team quickly settled into rhythm—running tirelessly, playing with focus, and making decisive choices.

Pirlo dictated the tempo in midfield, as always. Every time he received the ball, three teammates immediately offered themselves as passing options. Under pressure from De la Peña, he remained calm and precise, distributing the ball with confidence.

On the flank, Zanetti carried the ball forward, only to be pressed by Guardiola. He quickly shifted it across to Zidane, who controlled it effortlessly before surging forward, catching Barcelona off guard. For a moment, it seemed as though City might lose possession, but Pirlo and Makélélé had already ensured composure and discipline in midfield. Their positioning guaranteed the ball would be recovered and delivered back to Zidane as soon as possible.

The core of City's strategy was clear: the moment they regained possession, they had to escape Barcelona's pressing with composure, move the ball forward carefully, and avoid needless back-passes that would kill momentum and allow Barcelona to push higher.

This was why the week of rest worked in City's favor. They entered the match with greater stamina and sharper focus than Barcelona, who had only just endured the draining intensity of El Clásico three days earlier.

In training, City had honed not just their technical ability, but also the precision of their timing. Their passing combinations weren't about flashy tricks or needless showmanship—they were designed to unsettle Barcelona's defenders, playing with their nerves and clouding their judgment

Most of Barça's central defenders—Miguel Ángel Nadal, Fernando Couto, and Abelardo Fernández—were strong and aggressive, but they lacked pace. Against quick strikers who thrived on movement, they were often caught out.

Perhaps the only real outlet was Sergi Barjuán at left-back. He had an excellent engine and was attack-minded, constantly pushing forward. But even with that energy, Sergi's surges upfield frequently left dangerous space behind him.

The real weakness lay in unbalanced protection. Robson's midfield was built to attack—Celades, Figo, Luis Enrique, and De la Peña all pushed high up the pitch, leaving the defense exposed. Pep Guardiola, when fit, acted as the shield in front of the backline, but his injuries that season meant Barça often lacked that vital anchor.

As a result, Barcelona's defense often survived more on last-ditch tackles or goalkeeping heroics than on genuine collective solidity.

The cracks showed clearly: they conceded 12 goals in 9 consecutive matches, bringing their total for the season to 33 goals by the midway point—compared to Real Madrid's 16—a gap that underlined their defensive vulnerability despite their attacking brilliance.

For instance, just moments ago, when Celades hesitated and stepped forward to challenge for the ball, he miscalculated. Zanetti pounced, stealing possession cleanly, and with one swift pass slipped the ball to Zidane, who ghosted past Barcelona's defensive line.

Facing Abelardo, Zidane calmly crossed to Neil Lennon on the right. Without even taking a touch, Lennon flicked it into the box. Larsson charged forward, breaking free on goal. He struck a volley—

Hesp was caught off guard.

BANG!

The ball cannoned off the outside of the post and went out for a goal kick.

"FUCK!!!" Richard nearly lost his mind as he saw the chance slip away.

The movement had been breathtaking—Barcelona's defenders couldn't even lay a foot on the ball. The neutral fans in the stands erupted, awed by the kind of football they had only ever seen through television screens.

Manchester City's counterattack, built from deep, had sliced through Barcelona's defense with a perfect blend of wing play and central combination.

Applause echoed across the stadium, but Larsson dropped to his knees, punching the turf in frustration.

Zidane simply clapped his hands, expressionless, jogging back into position to mark Celades just two meters away. On the flanks, Lennon and Pires also tracked back, squeezing Figo and Enrique for space.

In midfield, Pirlo and Makelele boxed in De la Peña. If he drifted deeper, Makelele held his ground while Pirlo dropped back to shield the defense against Rivaldo and Anderson, tightening City's block.

It was the kind of detail TV cameras couldn't capture—but those in the stands and on the touchline could see it clearly.

Robson frowned, his face hardening as he watched.

City's organization was unmistakable: every player's movement was purposeful, every line of defense connected and compact. They didn't waste energy chasing Barcelona's defenders; instead, they compressed space, forcing Barça to play where City wanted them.

Fatigue was creeping into the Catalan side. After the bruising clásico just three days earlier, Barcelona still hadn't rediscovered their rhythm. When Celades received the ball in midfield, he shifted it to the retreating De la Peña.

The young Spaniard, confident in his technique but lacking pace, decided to turn and take on Pirlo—only for the Italian to read him easily, nicking the ball away with composure.

The loose ball broke left, Larsson wrestled it away from Enrique, and quickly recycled it back inside to Makelele.

De la Peña closed in, but Makelele coolly nudged it across to Pirlo, who, without hesitation, launched a perfectly weighted long pass toward the opposition half.

Another counter in the span of five minutes!

Ronaldo and Larsson timed his run perfectly, pressing against Barcelona's last defender, Fernando Couto.

Barcelona's attack collapsed in midfield, leaving their players scrambling. Pirlo spotted the opening and launched a long pass. The defenders, caught flat-footed as they pushed up, suddenly had to retreat in panic. Couto turned frantically, sprinting back toward his goal.

Hesp reacted instantly, charging off his line.

Larsson rose to meet the ball just past the halfway line, nodding it forward. Hesp stretched out, fingertips brushing the ball to deflect it wide.

Larsson grimaced, shaking his head in frustration, then glanced at Ronaldo with a quick apologetic gesture before jogging back to help defend.

The loose ball rolled into Abelardo's path, and with no time to think, he booted it clear.

On the flank, Figo collected the pass. He turned sharply, scanning for options, but none presented themselves.

Choosing to take matters into his own hands, he surged forward with the ball at his feet.

Waiting for him was Capdevila, recently returned from injury. Unlike reckless defenders who dive in, Capdevila stayed disciplined, positioning himself smartly to block the inside lane.

Figo tried to drive toward the byline, dazzling with his trademark close control. His game wasn't built on sheer pace—it was his mastery of the ball, the feints and subtle touches that unbalanced opponents. Yet Capdevila matched him step for step, refusing to be drawn out.

But once again, it was Figo they were talking about.

When it comes to Figo, it's never about pace or acceleration.

Figo executed a clever feint on the byline, momentarily fooling Capdevila.

The defender bit for an instant, only to realize too late it was a ruse. With a swift pullback, Figo created space and whipped in a curling cross.

Inside the box, Cannavaro rose above Anderson with impeccable timing, his leap commanding the air as he powered the ball clear. The Barcelona striker could only glance up in frustration as the danger was swept away.

Rivaldo, who had anticipated a loose ball, halted his run in frustration also.

Just outside the penalty area, Makelele was already a step ahead of everyone else, anticipating the second ball.

Calm under pressure, he cushioned the header to the left flank, not simply clearing, but turning defense into the first spark of another counterattack

Capdevila received the ball calmly before slotting a sharp diagonal pass into the middle, where Zidane was already waiting.

The French midfielder turned instantly, and in the blink of an eye, Manchester City's lightning-fast counterattack was surging toward Barcelona's goal once again.

The moment City broke forward, the entire stadium let out a collective "Woah!"—a wave of awe sweeping through the stands. The exchange of passes in this counterattack was blisteringly fast, each touch precise, as if the ball itself refused to stop moving.

This was how football should be—raw, breathtaking, and full of adrenaline!