Football Dynasty

Barely twenty minutes into the match, Barcelona's attack became predictable.

With the midfield struggling to provide support, individual dribbles down the wings became their only hope, yet Manchester City's defense held firm. They only passed the ball around and were never able to break through

Barcelona's offense struggled heavily, and their midfield found itself entirely on the back foot. Enrique and Figo, the linchpins of the attack, saw their touches dwindle as Zanetti and Capdevilla, supported by Makelele, sandwiched them and rendered them liabilities to their teammates.

These were merely the normal ups and downs of football; not every good chance translates into a goal. Luckily for them, the match had not yet fully embraced Manchester City's winning rhythm

As for the central midfield, as long as they could contain Iván de la Peña, everything was going smoothly.

De la Peña was recruited by Barcelona as a youth player and made his debut for the B-team. He then went on to play 37 games for them, before first-team manager Johan Cruyff handed him his official main-squad debut, coming on as a substitute and scoring in a 2–0 away win against Real Valladolid.

At just 19, he was initially regarded as the natural successor to Pep Guardiola. However, he gradually fell out of favour with Cruyff and found himself dropped, although he still achieved a career-best seven league goals in that rookie season.

With the arrival of Bobby Robson in 1996, de la Peña was given a second chance to establish himself in the team. He subsequently developed a partnership with Stoichkov and became a prominent member of the squad. In fact, he was voted the best young player by El País, making him dangerous enough to warrant constant attention.

In the lead-up to the match, every British media outlet advised Manchester City on how to limit Barcelona's threat: Rivaldo and Anderson. But Mourinho, who advised O'Neill, had a different plan.

For him, the real key to Barcelona's attack lay in Iván de la Peña, Luís Figo, and Enrique. As long as those three were contained and their passing lanes cut off, Barcelona's entire system would break down—even if Rivaldo and Anderson were left relatively unchecked.

The defensive strategy, therefore, did not hinge on Rivaldo and Anderson as the main attackers; rather, it focused on their supporting cast.

Rivaldo was a top-tier player—skillful, creative, and known for his dribbling, feints, balance, and close ball control—but he was not omnipotent. He needed teammates to create chances, pull defenders away, and maintain a strong collective structure.

As for Anderson, he had fared well in La Liga, scoring ten times, but most of his success came from service—usually through assists from Rivaldo or Figo. On his own, he posed far less of a threat.

Whether at club level or with his national team, the narrative remained the same.

When Rivaldo finally received the ball, he was a danger; but without it—what was left? It echoed Cruyff's philosophy on possession: one part for attack, the other for defense.

The first step was to limit Rivaldo's access to the ball and close down his space, ensuring that even if he did get it, he would not be in a dangerous position.

Gradually, Barcelona's defenders pushed higher, desperate to create more passing options.

Noticing this shift, O'Neill's cold eyes gleamed with restrained enthusiasm—a flicker of fighting spirit beneath his calm exterior.

By holding his ground and disrupting Figo's rhythm, Capdevila bought his teammates precious seconds to recover and close the gaps, forcing Barcelona to play within tighter, more suffocating spaces.

And the result was the way the current City launched their counterattack—starting with Capdevila, then moving through Zidane.

O'Neill's philosophy had always been about harnessing effort, clarity, and discipline. He did not seek endless improvisation but rather clear roles and sharp edges. Mourinho layered upon this the ruthless lesson he would later perfect at Porto, Chelsea, and Inter: absorb pressure, then strike like a blade in the dark.

Capdevila did not dwell. He never did.

One touch to control, the second to push it forward. His eyes lifted, not to admire the space he had carved open, but to seek the orchestra's conductor. Zidane was already drifting into the channel between Celades's deep midfield shadow and Nadal's clumsy recovery line.

Zidane received it with the grace of a matador handling a charging bull. He let the ball roll across his body, drawing Sergi ever so slightly out of position, then snapped his ankle to shield it.

Enrique was retreating, late to cover, and Figo glanced over, already sensing disaster. Zidane did not rush—his poise was infuriating. With a subtle feint of the shoulders, he dragged Bogarde and Sergi Escudé toward him before releasing the ball diagonally into space.

And then came Ronaldo.

The Brazilian did not so much run as explode, as he always did. He tore through the channel between Abelardo and Ferrer, his acceleration absurd, his thighs pumping like pistons. The pass was perfect—weighted not to feed his feet, but his hunger.

Ronaldo's first touch carried him forward, not sideways, as though the pitch itself tilted in his favor. Ferrer reached for his shirt, the gesture desperate and almost pathetic, but Ronaldo shrugged it off with the ease of brushing away an insect.

Barcelona's defensive line fractured.

The crowd roared—half in dread, half in awe.

Ronaldo slowed at the edge of the box, not from fatigue but from calculation. His right foot caressed the ball, dragging Abelardo with him. He looked up, and there—ghosting at the far post—was Neil Lennon.

It was not Lennon's natural place inside the penalty box. O'Neill had drilled him for years in pragmatism, in covering zones, in doing the dirty work others avoided. But Mourinho had added another layer, whispering in training: arrive late, arrive unseen.

And here he was, sprinting into the blind spot of a Barcelona defense still reeling, still scrambling, still failing to comprehend how quickly the trap had closed around them.

The move had unfolded in mere seconds—seven, perhaps eight.

Capdevila's interception. Zidane's orchestration. Ronaldo's devastation. Lennon's timing and invisible arrival.

The Irishman, all grit and lungs, smashed the ball home with the force of inevitability.

However, just as the ball was about to be struck, Giovanni—sprinting at full force from behind—launched into a tackle.

It was a scissor motion, his legs snapping around the opponent like iron gates slamming shut. One limb caught the turf, the other sliced through the narrow gap, boot clipping the ball just as it was about to be struck.

The timing was insane. The logic—nonexistent.

The ball spun away, deflected awkwardly toward the touchline.

Neil Lennon went down in a heap, rolling across the grass, clutching his ankle, screaming more in shock than in pain.

The stadium gasped as one. Half the stands erupted in fury, whistles and jeers raining down, while the other half roared in approval, their voices rising like thunder.

"REEF!!!" Zanetti bellowed, his cry splitting the night as Cannavaro, Thuram, Zidane, Larsson, and the others surged forward in protest.

"No, no—he hit the ball first!" On the other side, Figo, Enrique, Hesp, and the Barcelona players charged toward the referee, their voices overlapping in a wall of fury.

The referee froze. His whistle hovered near his lips, his instincts colliding with the laws of the game as they were enforced then.

'If the defender clearly got the ball first, the challenge was allowed—even if the opponent was taken out afterward.'

In 1997, the Laws of the Game (by IFAB) were already close to what we know today, but interpretations were looser. The culture of football was more permissive: strong, crunching tackles were part of the sport. Unless it was two-footed, from behind, or reckless with no contact on the ball, referees often let play continue.

And Giovanni had, undeniably, made contact with the ball first. Wild though it looked, it was not automatically a foul.

"But he tackled from behind first!" From the technical area, the furious voices of Mourinho and O'Neill rang out as they berated the fourth official, their debate nearly boiling into a brawl.

The referee's jaw clenched. For a heartbeat he wavered, caught between instinct and law, pressure and principle. Then, with a sweeping gesture of his arms, he made his choice.

"Play on!" he barked, his voice sharp, as if cutting through his own hesitation.

The stadium detonated. Half the crowd roared in relief and delight, the other half in rage.

"What the fuck?!" City's players howled, disbelief spilling from their throats, the chaos threatening to consume the pitch as the referee's refusal to stop play.

The game burned hotter now, every tackle sparking fire, every whistle swallowed by the storm.

And then—unexpectedly—the ball dropped awkwardly, falling at the feet of Ronaldo, who had been too late to join the protests.

For a heartbeat, he froze, taken aback. His eyes flicked left, right, forward, back—searching for angles, for threats, for opportunity.

And then he saw it: the Barcelona goal.

Rudolfus Hubertus Hesp, usually composed, had been swept away by emotion. He had charged forward to confront the referee, his protests leaving him stranded hopelessly out of position. In his fury, he had exposed Barcelona to the cruelest punishment football could deliver.

Hesp had joined Barcelona after three strong seasons at Roda JC. Robson, unable to secure Edwin van der Sar—who remained loyal to Ajax—or Ed de Goey, who had gone to Chelsea, turned instead to Hesp. The Dutchman beat out Vítor Baía and quickly claimed the No. 1 shirt. Yet in this single moment, the weight of the shirt betrayed him.

Ronaldo's mind, sharper than steel, whirred into motion. Instinct overrode hesitation. With one swift motion, he unleashed his shot—low, powerful, merciless.

The ball skidded forward, slicing past the last of Barcelona's defenders with insulting ease, cutting across the turf like a blade of fate.

Hesp had just breathed a sigh of relief. The referee's shout—"Play on!"—meant there would be no foul, no penalty, no free-kick and no catastrophe. For a split second, he even allowed himself gratitude, his shoulders easing.

But then his eyes widened.

Rolling free, untouched, unclaimed, the ball drifted toward his empty goal.

"What the fuck—?!"

Panic surged through his chest as he turned and sprinted, legs pumping, arms flailing, every stride heavier than the last. The roar of the crowd blurred into a single, merciless sound in his ears.

The net rippled. Barcelona's punishment was complete.

Hesp collapsed to the ground, his face buried in the grass, as if wishing the earth would swallow him whole.

Around him, defenders screamed, arms raised at the referee, at each other, at the cruelty of the game itself.

"..."

Silence. Absolute silence.

Every City player froze, mouths half-open, their protests turned to ash.

Even O'Neill and Mourinho, perpetual fires on the touchline, stood dumbstruck, their words swallowed by the sight of the ball nestling in Barcelona's net.

The stadium erupted—half in thunderous celebration, half in stunned disbelief. And in the middle of it all stood Ronaldo, chest heaving, eyes blazing, as if he alone had seen this ending before it began.

Zanetti, Cannavaro, Thuram, Zidane, Larsson, and the others surged forward in protest, only to be stunned for a moment before roaring, "No foul, no foul—the play goes on!"

Even Neil Lennon, who had only been pretending to be hurt, immediately stood up and gave a thumbs-up gesture, leaving all the Barcelona players speechless.

All of them couldn't help but look toward the referee, as if asking for clarification.

So, is it a goal or not?