Football Dynasty
Chapter 245: We were Raped by the Referee

Chapter 245: We were Raped by the Referee

"We’ve got the whole world in our hands. Come on, come on! A little more! We’ll never feel sick of it!"

The singing at Maine Road continued as time went on.

This time, Leeds United staged a bit of a comeback in the final stages of the match. They didn’t want to end the game in such a pathetic manner—even with a two-man advantage and clear control of the match.

From the sidelines, George Graham paced like a caged lion. Arms crossed one moment, flung wide the next, he barked orders that were half instruction, half desperation.

"Push up! Keep the pressure on!" he roared, his voice nearly lost in the sea of chanting fans.

Amidst the cheers of the fans and Graham barks, Leeds launched a relentless offensive toward the City’s goalmouth, and for a moment the situation, goal for Leeds is a must.

A sharp one-two between David Wetherall and Lee Sharpe sliced through City’s midfield. Ian Rush let fly from the edge of the box—a low, curling shot heading for the far corner. It had goal written all over it.

But Buffon sprang to life.

He dived at full stretch, his fingertips brushing the ball just enough to deflect it off the post and out.

Gasps echoed around Maine Road, followed by a wave of applause. George Graham threw his hands to his head in disbelief on the sidelines. That was the moment. That was supposed to be the goal.

"How on earth has he saved that?"

City’s attack was no longer a threat. For the remaining time, it all depended on whether Leeds could steal one point back at Maine Road—or even snatch all three—depending on how well they capitalized on the situation.

Unexpectedly, when the match reached the 80th minute, City was finally given a chance to score the winning goal.

Lampard drove the ball forward and broke through down the wing. The ball was then cleared over the end line by second-half substitute Zagorakis with a header, earning City a corner kick.

Larsson picked up the ball and placed it at the corner flag, then backed up and leaned against the advertising board. Behind him stood the City fans, their hands reaching out to pat him on the shoulder as they roared with excitement.

"Henrik! Send the ball straight in! You can do it!"

Larsson looked back and smiled at the shouting supporters. Fans always made it sound like a three-year-old could pull off the impossible—but it was just their way of expressing belief. They always expected something special from the players they adored.

Rio Ferdinand had been lingering outside the penalty area, but he suddenly heard Robertson shouting from the touchline.

"Rio! What are you doing out there? Get in there! Go to the front of the goal!"

Ferdinand was tall and strong in the air. At just 19 years old and standing 1.89 meters tall, he was a genuine aerial threat in front of the opponent’s goal. He dutifully made his run into the box, instantly making Nigel Martyn nervous.

"Keep an eye on him! Watch him! Don’t let him jump—damn it!" George Graham hadn’t even finished his sentence when the referee blew his whistle.

At the same moment, Larsson delivered the corner.

Marking Ferdinand was Leeds’ central defender, Carlton Palmer. But despite the pressure—and Palmer’s attempts to challenge him—Ferdinand rose higher than anyone else and powered a beautiful header toward goal!

Faced with a shot from such close range, Nigel Martyn had no chance. He could only watch as the ball flew into the net!

"Yeah!" Maine Road erupted into a frenzy.

"Rio Ferdinand! That’s his first goal for City! The 19-year-old center-back!"

"Well done!" Robertson shouted as he saw the ball hit the back of the net, pumping his fist in celebration.

Leeds United were done for.

The other City players rushed toward the ecstatic Ferdinand, ready to celebrate the goal—until the sharp, urgent whistle of the referee cut through the noise. Everyone froze.

The referee stood near the goal area, pointing down at Carlton Palmer, who was lying on the ground!

"The goal does not count! What a startling turn of events... Rio Ferdinand’s goal is ruled out. The referee believes that, during his leap for the header, he pressed down on Palmer. But clearly... wait—what’s happening on the sidelines?"Following Andy Tyler’s commentary, the television cameras cut to the City bench.

Incensed, Robertson kicked a water bottle, sending it flying across the sideline. In his view, it was a perfectly legitimate goal—one that couldn’t have been better. But now, inexplicably, it had been ruled out. His outburst quickly drew the attention of the fourth official.

"Mr. Robertson, you’d better restrain yourself. I don’t want the referee coming over to show you a red card—and I don’t think you want that either," the fourth official warned sternly, stepping up to confront him.

At that moment, Robertson looked ready to explode, but before he could say another word, he was pulled back by Steve Walford, the team’s temporary assistant manager.

"I’m sorry, I promise this won’t happen again..." Walford apologized on his behalf, trying to calm things down as he dragged Robertson away.

"Let go of me, Steve! That damn referee is trying to balance things out..." Robertson growled, still resisting.

This time, Walford simply clamped a hand over his boss’s mouth.

"Shut up! Do you want us to lose our most important player? The match isn’t over yet—we still have a chance!"

For once, Walford—usually all smiles and easygoing—snapped with rare urgency. Robertson blinked in surprise. Then, straightening up and scratching his head, he muttered, "You’re right, Steve... I almost lost sight of the bigger picture. Thanks for reminding me."

Then he returned to the sidelines and shouted toward the field, "Don’t take it to heart—keep attacking! We still have a chance!"

But in the end, he couldn’t help venting the frustration boiling inside him: "Hang them out to dry!!"

The fourth official overheard Robertson’s outburst and glanced at him suspiciously, but in the end, chose not to make an issue of it.

"Ferdinand looks a little dejected. The first goal he scored for City disappeared just like that. But he’s a good lad—a center-back with great potential. I believe that, in time, he’ll be the new star of England’s defensive line," Martin Tyler predicted Ferdinand’s future.

But for now, even those words couldn’t comfort the lad’s disappointed heart. Ferdinand could swear on his future that he hadn’t pressed anyone down with his header. If Sharpe had really gone to the ground because of contact, there was only one explanation—he was just too good an actor.

While Ferdinand was still vexed about the disallowed goal, City got the perfect opportunity once again!

It was Zanetti who provided the assist with a sharp cross from the right flank. Larsson made a brilliant run, received the ball in front of the goal, and delicately lobbed it toward the net.

The ball smashed into the back of the net!

But this time, before the City players or the fans could even begin to celebrate, the assistant referee raised his flag. Holding it parallel to the ground, he pointed to the far side—clearly signaling that Larsson was in an offside position.

Larsson looked stunned. He pointed to himself and shouted at the assistant referee, "What? Me? Offside?" But the official ignored his protest, keeping the flag raised and his gaze fixed ahead, treating Larsson like air.

Several other City players rushed toward the assistant referee, surrounding him in disbelief. A loud buzzing came from the stands, no longer directed at the opposition—but at the officials. The City fans were furious.

Oddly enough, Robertson showed no extreme reaction on the sidelines.

When the offside call was confirmed by both the assistant and the referee, the fourth official turned to glance at him. But the usually hot-tempered manager didn’t explode. Instead, he opened his arms in frustration and helplessly shook his head toward the technical area.

Walford watched Robertson return and slump down beside him on the bench."John, are you okay?"

"What can I do..." Robertson muttered, glancing at his players still arguing with the officials. "Steve, we’ve lost the match. There’s nothing you can do when you run into referees like this."

Sitting silently, he buried his head in his arms, dejected.

’Yes, I predicted the opposing manager’s reaction. I anticipated my players’ performances. My tactics completely suppressed the opponent, and I inspired this group’s confidence and morale. The only thing I didn’t account for... was the referee. There are always days like this in football—and today, it was my turn.’

Walford didn’t know what to say when he saw Robertson so dejected. They had a wonderful start in the first half with two goals. But no one expected City to end up with three red cards and now be forced to scramble to park the bus—against George Graham’s Leeds, a team notorious for parking the bus themselves.

Was it karma?

The problem was, in the dying minutes of a match like this—when the opposing team gained an advantage through both extra men and the referee’s calls—your team could lose its concentration. And... sure enough.

Leeds pushed forward again.

A long diagonal pass from David Wetherall cut across the pitch, finding Lee Sharpe wide on the left. He took a deft touch past Finnan, cut inside, and with his right foot curled a low shot toward the near post.

Buffon dived, but it was just out of reach.

GOAL!

The ball hit the back of the net.

Maine Road fell silent. Only the traveling Leeds fans exploded in celebration.

Manchester City 2 - 2 Leeds United.

When the referee blew the final whistle, the City players were clearly unhappy with the result. From the sidelines, some even saw tears in Jens Lehmann’s eyes. He had worked so hard, but his efforts were overshadowed by that embarrassing incident—and a victory that should’ve been theirs slipped away.

George Graham, though weary, was grinning at the comeback result. After celebrating the draw with his own men, he looked over, intending to shake hands with Robertson and perhaps say a few words. But the home team’s manager was nowhere to be seen near the bench.

John Robertson had already begun walking toward the players’ tunnel.

Steve Walford was still busy comforting the players when he noticed Robertson heading straight off the pitch without acknowledging the opposing manager. He called out to him, "John, where are you going?"

"Heading back."

"You still need to shake hands with the other manager!"

"You shake it for me," Robertson replied, not even turning his head.

"But you’ve got to attend the press conference! I can’t go on your behalf again..."

Robertson stopped in his tracks, turned around, looked at Walford, and nodded. "Okay, I’ll go."

Watching the stubborn figure walk away, Walford sighed. Sometimes, he truly didn’t know what to do with him. Only O’Neill seemed capable of putting a leash on him.

Spotting George Graham now looking his way, Walford gave a quick apologetic smile and stepped forward, reaching out his hand to the opposing manager.

Everyone thought the war between the two sides had ended—until the City press conference.

"Three red cards and then two disallowed goals? Haha..." Robertson gave a dry, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. Then he leaned toward the mic and made his feelings crystal clear."You want my opinion? Fine. We were absolutely raped by the referee."

A stunned murmur swept through the room. Then someone at the back asked, half in disbelief, "Coach, did you say raped?"

Robertson nodded firmly. "Yes. Raped. Not ’offended,’ not ’violated,’ not ’insulted.’ Raped. Three nonsense red cards and two perfectly legitimate goals—taken away for nothing. If that’s not what this is, then what is it?"

The press room went silent for a moment—stunned.

Even Richard, who had been casually sipping his orange juice while reviewing notes, choked and sputtered, spraying juice onto the table. He hadn’t expected that kind of headline coming out of the City vs. Leeds post-match presser.