Football Dynasty
Chapter 242: The Debut of Pirlo’s Trademark Pass

Chapter 242: The Debut of Pirlo’s Trademark Pass

It was no secret that Manchester City effectively had two squads at their disposal. And thanks to a few sneaky paparazzi who managed to infiltrate Maine Road during yesterday’s session, the media had already begun spinning their narrative.

Headlines confidently claimed that City would field a younger, second-string lineup against Leeds, citing "exclusive footage" and insider observations as their evidence. It was as if Manchester City were underestimating him—and George Graham wasn’t about to take that lightly.

Graham didn’t need much convincing. The photos splashed across the back pages showed a handful of unfamiliar faces receiving extended attention from the coaching staff.

The signs were clear: City were underestimating Leeds. And that was just the opening he needed.

This led George Graham to launch a scathing tirade against Manchester City just a day before the match, accusing them of arrogance and disrespect for underestimating Leeds United.

The next day, at the pre-match press conference, Robertson arrived as scheduled.

Over thirty reporters were present, drawn by the high-stakes clash between City and Leeds—especially after George Graham’s unexpected tirade during his interview the day before.

Staying calm, Robertson took his seat and smiled. "Any questions?"

As expected, Thomson from The Sun immediately raised his hand. "Coach can you share the starting lineup for the match?"

Robertson replied casually, "Goalkeeper: Lehmann. Defenders: Zanetti, Gallas, Thuram, Finnan. Midfielders: Lampard, Pirlo, Okocha, Zambrotta. Forwards: Trezeguet and Larsson."

Thomson quickly raised his hand again and asked, "Where are Ronaldo, Lennon, and the others?"

The main squad.

Robertson nodded slightly and replied, "Some of them will be on the bench today. They’re not quite ready for a full start."

"Coach, did you read the papers today?"

Finally, they brought it up. As expected, the media couldn’t resist stirring the pot in a situation like this.

The room went silent.

All eyes turned toward Robertson—even Richard in the back, who squinted in the direction of The Sun, then shifted his gaze to Robertson, who suddenly laughed.

"What? Didn’t Graham already give you the news? What more do you want from me?"

Calm and unapologetic, he laughed again. "George Graham is just deflecting attention. He’s facing an FA investigation over bribery in last year’s player transfers. It’s obvious—he’s attacking City to shift focus from his own mess. Even if Leeds were playing someone else, he’d still be throwing around the same kind of barbs. This is such an old trick that even the readers aren’t fooled. What he said isn’t news—it’s a bad performance."

BOOM.

The comeback landed—sharp, direct, unmistakably personal. Across the press area, a few reporters, like sharks scenting blood, began to whisper, scribble, and weave conspiracies—eager to spin the moment into headlines that would sell.

After all, shady tactics like these had existed since the dawn of professional football in England. Even legendary managers like Brian Clough had suffered similar downfalls. Graham was hardly unique—and scandals like this were bound to continue.

An hour before kickoff between Manchester City and Leeds United, Maine Road welcomed a pair of unexpected visitors.

To Richard’s surprise, his parents—Bryan and Anna Maddox—arrived at the stadium unannounced.

"I thought you two were going on holiday to Greece with Harry and Sarah?" Richard asked, visibly taken aback.

Ever since Richard had suddenly decided to move out and fully dedicate himself to Manchester City, his time with family had become limited, leaving his parents somewhat dissatisfied. After all, he had lived with them for so long—his departure had left a noticeable void. So this rare opportunity to share a meal together clearly made Bryan and Anna particularly happy.

"I remember last time we came here," she said, glancing around with interest, "there were only hot dog carts and a soda stand. Now look at all this!"

Rows of modern food stalls now lined the concourse, offering everything from artisan coffee to gourmet burgers. Her eyes sparkled.

"We wanted to bring a bit more variety to the matchday experience," Richard replied with a soft smile. He subtly signaled Miss Heysen, who immediately understood and offered to escort Anna on a tour of the food carts.

With his mother distracted, Richard took a seat at a nearby table alongside his father—only to notice Bryan looking unusually tense. His gaze was locked onto the Leeds bench, eyes narrowing in visible disdain.

Breathing heavily, Bryan suddenly burst out, "Graham, that bastard! He can’t even wipe his own arse and still has the audacity to slander others! And the media gives him a full-page spread for it? Damn it, Ross—starting today, cancel every subscription we have to those bloody newspapers!"

Ross, who worked under Richard’s older brother Harry at Maddox Entertainment, had been assigned to assist Bryan and Anna at home. Acting as a personal manager, he handled all their travel arrangements, finances, and daily schedules—never once missing a 7 a.m. arrival at their apartment.

And though he was technically employed by Harry, Ross knew perfectly well who the real boss in the Maddox family was: Richard.

So when Bryan gave an order, Ross didn’t dare question it. He simply nodded.

Bryan turned back to Richard, still fuming. "Son, teach them a lesson today—especially that Graham. He thinks winning a few trophies gives him the right to take bribes and throw mud at others? He acts like the world owes him something. And now look at him—stranded at bloody Leeds United. That ungrateful bastard!"

Of course, if you live in London, you can’t escape football. No matter your background or social class, you’re a supporter of someone. Among the top clubs are Chelsea, Arsenal, Tottenham, and West Ham—firmly in the upper tier—followed by teams like Brentford, Crystal Palace, Millwall, and Queens Park Rangers.

Because the Maddox family had lived in North London, they had naturally been fans of either Arsenal or Tottenham Hotspur. And between the two? Naturally, it was Arsenal.

But after Richard took over Manchester City, Bryan made the switch—abandoning his loyalty to Arsenal and becoming a proud supporter of City.

Richard was utterly helpless with this. Nonetheless, he nodded, making his father grin like a general about to send his army into battle. "That’s my boy."

As the players of Manchester City and Leeds United began exchanging handshakes and pats on the back, both head coaches made their way toward the sideline.

Both men looked tense. Their faces were hard, unreadable. Still, out of basic respect, Robertson approached the Leeds bench and extended his hand toward George Graham.

But Graham didn’t even slow down.

No eye contact. No hesitation.

He simply raised his hand—briefly—and slapped Robertson’s hand aside like it was nothing. His stride never broke. His message was clear: this was not respect. This was dismissal.

Robertson turned in shock, eyebrows raised. "Hey—come on!" he shouted, stepping forward, ready to react.

But before he could do anything more, City’s staff rushed in and held him back.

"Coach, leave it—let it go," one of them said, grabbing him by the shoulders.

Meanwhile, Graham was already walking away, calm and cold, not sparing even a glance back.

The stadium buzzed with confusion and energy. In the broadcast booth, the commentators reacted instantly:

"Whoa! Did you see that?"

"George Graham just dismissed John Robertson—he straight-up swatted his hand away!"

"Robertson was still fuming, shaking free from the staff member holding him. ’Hey! You think you can just—!’ he shouted, but they held him back firmly.

His staff held him tighter.

"Coach, it’s over! Let it go!"

And just like that, the tension of the match had spilled into something deeper—personal, unforgettable, and very, very public.

"What just happened?" Bryant, who had been watching from a distance, was taken aback as the drama unfolded near the sideline.

"Nothing," Richard muttered beside him, shaking their head. "It’s just Graham being Graham."

"That bastard," Bryan muttered under his breath.

Thankfully, the incident remained a minor one—just a brief flash of drama, quickly contained before it could spiral into something worse.

PHWEEEEEE!

The referee blew the whistle, and the second half began. In the press box, Martin Tyler and Andy Gray took a sip of water, cleared their throats, turned on the microphone, and began their commentary.

"This is the second match of the Premier League 1996/1997 season, with the visiting team, Leeds United, challenging Manchester City at their home ground. What will we see in this match... Oh, foul!"

He hadn’t even finished his prepared line before he had to change it mid-sentence.

The main referee had just blown the whistle to start play, and now he had to blow it again.

This time, it was because City’s Zambrotta had committed a foul—he had pushed the Leeds United captain, Lucas Radebe, during a tackle.

This is the guy City needs to watch closely—according to Prozone, he’s one of the key players who could cause them real trouble.

Thebe Mabanga, a journalist from the Mail & Guardian, once wrote that South African fans still remember Lucas Radebe from his Kaizer Chiefs days, long before his move to Leeds United.

Back then, he was known as "a lanky, flamboyant central midfielder who switched to central defence with ease—snuffing out any opposition threat with exquisite, acrobatic scissor kicks and diving headers, and man-marking the most lethal strikers into silence

Playing football in the Premier League demanded exceptional physical fitness. Stamina and endurance were often more important than technical finesse—especially for midfielders and defenders. If a player had a fragile, glass-like body, it was almost a guarantee they’d never taste glory.

Survival came first; brilliance came later.

"Push forward! Push forward!"

From the sideline, George Graham roared, waving his arms with all his might, urging the Leeds players to surge into City’s penalty area.

It was very common to see set-piece strategies that relied on crowding the penalty area during this time. Teams would load the box with tall players—usually center-backs or physical midfielders—and aim for knock-downs or second balls rather than direct headers, taking advantage of the chaos in the box, especially since goalkeepers weren’t as well protected.

This approach was particularly favored by British managers of that era, who emphasized physicality, aerial duels, and direct play—especially when compared to the more possession-based style of Spain or the zonal-marking systems used in Italy.

Thankfully, Prozone had already identified the two most dangerous threats during set pieces—Lee Sharpe and Ian Rush. So even though most of City’s defenders were busy marking their assigned men, their eyes kept drifting, from time to time, toward those two.

The free kick went out, and sure enough, this time the target was Ian Rush. But Gallas easily outmuscled the 34-year-old before passing the ball to Lampard, who cautiously stopped it with his foot and immediately played it to the nearest teammate—Pirlo—who, unexpectedly, had his eyes not on the ball, but fixed ahead toward Leeds’ goal.

You know how visionary players—or great playmakers—play? Their eyes aren’t on the ball, but on the pitch, constantly scanning the field—checking teammates’ positions, opponents’ movements, and open spaces.

And this is exactly what was happening now.

Neither George Graham, his players, nor anyone else on the field or in the stands seemed to take it seriously. After all, the ball was more than 30 yards from goal. But Richard suddenly stood up—so abruptly that it startled his father, mother, and even Miss Heysen who were all confused by his reaction.

This Andrea Pirlo was still not the mature version Richard knew. The problem was, he still tended to drift too far forward—an instinct left over from his time at Brescia, where his role had essentially been designed to mimic Roberto Baggio. However, when it came to passing, there was a reason Pirlo was the star, rather than last season’s benchwarmer, Theodoros Zagorakis.

’A long pass? Could I do it?’ Pirlo hesitated.

He remembered his days at Brescia—how easy it was to spot gaps on the pitch. But whenever he tried to dribble through them, he could manage it... until his lack of speed caught up with him. More than once, by the time he realized it, he was already on the ground, having lost the ball.

Pirlo then remembered what Richard had said when he persuaded him to join Manchester City.

’But you can become the one and only Pirlo! You’re not a second Baggio; you are Andrea Pirlo! If you stay at Brescia, you’ll gradually improve as a trequartista, but I can offer you a bigger stage where your talents can truly shine, where you can play to your strengths. And I will never ask you to do something beyond your abilities.’

’Your gift is your vision, your passing—those long, cutting balls that split defenses apart. I can give you a bigger stage to showcase that. And I’ll never ask you to become someone you’re not...Is that what he said yesterday?’ Pirlo thought to himself.

And so, young Pirlo gritted his teeth and followed his instincts.

In fact, Pirlo had already noticed how disorganized Leeds United’s formation was. Yes, they were trying to park the bus—but from what he could see, their defense was still full of gaps. And now, with both their midfielders and defenders pushing forward during their own free kick to catch City off guard, those gaps were only widening.

BANG!

Before even receiving the ball, Pirlo lifted his head. He saw it immediately—Larsson making a diagonal run, slipping like smoke between two defenders, curling just behind the line.

Larsson had just raised his head, catching Pirlo’s gaze for the briefest second.

That was all the signal Pirlo needed.

With a subtle shift of his hips, Pirlo leaned back and sent the ball soaring.

From the director box, Richard watched the football fly, shining brightly under the afternoon sun, straight behind the Leeds defense line.

It wasn’t a lob. It wasn’t a hoof. It was a painting in motion—a lofted, dipping pass with backspin, arcing high over the scrambling Leeds backline.

The ball seemed to hang in the air, then suddenly dropped like it had been pulled by a string.

Larsson was there.

"Oh crap—too strong!" he thought.

The ball wasn’t perfect. It skimmed the top of Larsson’s head, sending it bouncing awkwardly into the air—too high, too loose, and seemingly wasted.

Martin Tyler sighed. "Beautiful pass from Pirlo, but Larsson couldn’t quite take advantage—"

Andy Gray (cutting in): "Wait—look! There’s Trezeguet!"

Whatever Martin was about to say was lost in the chaos unfolding below.

Nigel Martyn, the Leeds goalkeeper, had already committed himself. He’d read Larsson’s run early, stepped off his line, arms raised, poised to punch it clear. When the ball came off Larsson awkwardly, he relaxed—just a bit. It was an easy claim now. He had it covered.

But he didn’t see the danger lurking.

David Trezeguet, silent as a shadow, had timed everything to perfection. Like a cobra coiled in the grass, he waited, then struck—breaking away from his marker in the blink of an eye. With one powerful leap, he rose above everyone, his body arching as he met the ball with a thunderous header.

Thwack!

The ball flew straight toward the unguarded net.

Andy Gray shouted, standing up: "David Trezeguet... what a goal!! City have caught Leeds United completely off guard!"

No one had expected it—not the long ball from Pirlo, not the awkward flick by Larsson, and certainly not the lethal, unstoppable finish from Trezeguet.

Maine Road erupted instantly.