Football Dynasty
Chapter 252 - 2-0!

Chapter 252: 2-0!

Old Trafford was plunged into an eerie silence.

Manchester United fans were in shock—many latecomers still wandering in search of their seats stood frozen in the aisles, gazing blankly at the pitch. Even the few thousand City supporters were in disbelief.

Is this real? Did we just score? So soon?

The commentators, Andy Gray and Martin Tyler, were caught off guard. They had expected a moment to ease into the game, but the goal came so quickly they scrambled to their microphones, launching into a breathless commentary.

"Incredible! Unbelievable! What flamboyant skill we’ve just seen from Ronaldo!"

Everyone watching at home, in bars, or wherever they were, could hear their roar—Tyler’s mellifluous voice booming above the cheering fans in front of the screens.

"Absolutely incredible, with that beautiful Cruyff turn—dazzling stuff from the 19-year-old Brazilian! He’s just lost Gary Neville and carved out space for himself. And with Manchester City’s very first attack of the match, they take the lead at Old Trafford!"

In the VIP box, Richard was ecstatic. He glanced down and saw Ronaldo lift his head for a moment, sweeping a calm gaze across the field.

The roar of the City fans reached another level—fuelled not just by the goal, but by the audacity, the brilliance of it. Ronaldo hadn’t just scored; he had announced himself in the Premiere League.

"No official statistics yet, but from our replay, we can confirm this goal happened within four minutes of play. Without a doubt, it’s the fastest goal recorded since Ferguson took charge of Manchester United! Martin, tell me—was this goal a fluke?"

"Andy, I have to disagree. It was anything but a fluke. Analyzing City’s players’ movements shows this was a brilliantly executed attack. The chemistry between Ronaldo and Neil Lennon there was outstanding. It’s actually the second time those two have linked up to create something out of nothing—just like they did back in the First Division."

Ronaldo after satisfied scaning all the spectators dashed towards the City bench, with his teammates rushing to him. They had every reason to celebrate; this was the Premier League stage at Old Trafford!

Robertson waved his arms—just like Walford, Gennoe, and the other staff—overwhelmed with excitement at the goal, though somehow managing to hold back a full outburst.

When he saw Ronaldo sprinting toward the bench, he didn’t shy away. Ronaldo leapt in front of him, and Robertson instinctively embraced him. He stumbled backward from the momentum, and if not for the staff catching him, he might’ve fallen flat.

Will this go down as the fastest goal on record? Definitely not.But will it be remembered by fans for years to come? Absolutely.

Once the players had calmed down a bit, Robertson clenched his teeth and asked quietly, "Now that we’re ahead—what’s the plan? Do you remember what I said before the match?"

Ronaldo, Larsson, Lennon, and the others all responded in unison, "We remember!"

No mercy. They would keep pressing Manchester United.

"Alright then," Robertson said firmly. "Until the final whistle—we don’t stop!"

Indeed—this was Manchester United. The same team that once clawed back from a 12-point deficit against Newcastle without ever flinching. If City allowed themselves even a moment of complacency, this early lead wouldn’t be a turning point—it would become a warning. A false dawn. A goal that history might remember not as triumph, but as the spark that woke a giant.

City’s players marched back to their half with renewed determination, every word from Robertson still echoing in their minds.

"Manchester United have won three of the last four Premier League titles—they’re undeniably strong. That’s why most teams who come to Old Trafford sit back and defend from the first whistle. United love to dictate the pace, press high, and pin you back. But not us. We’re not here to admire them—we’re here to shock them. We’ll hit them hard and fast. They expect a newly promoted side to panic, to play safe. Absolutely not. We’re going to knock them off their perch and make them chase us!"

And City followed that plan to the letter. They executed Robertson’s bold strategy without hesitation. Meanwhile, the United players stood ready for the restart—focused, serious—but their expressions hadn’t changed. Not yet.

They were Manchester United. If a single early goal was enough to rattle them—if they were the type to crumble under pressure—then they didn’t deserve to wear the red jersey.

Richard, in the Old Trafford VIP box, celebrated the goal—but his focus quickly shifted back to Ferguson on the sidelines. He was curious to see the legendary manager’s reaction to the early goal, but upon seeing the relaxed gaffer, his mouth twitched slightly. Just as expected.

Ferguson remained seated on the bench, calmly chewing his gum, unfazed by the early goal. After ten years in charge, if he leapt up and shouted every time his team conceded, he wouldn’t have lasted this long.

The control, the blood of the Red Devils, and their ability to recompose themselves were far beyond mere player capabilities on the field.

In fact, it could be argued that during Ferguson’s era, not all Manchester United players were exceptionally talented. But their formidable spirit imbued even average players with a royal aura, elevating their tactical cohesion and teamwork.

Despite conceding early, Manchester United wasted no time reasserting themselves, immediately putting pressure back on Manchester City. They quickly reverted to their renowned tactic of attacking down the flanks.

Van Bommel had underestimated the young talent on United’s wings—particularly the 21-year-old Welsh star, Ryan Giggs.

It wasn’t until Giggs accelerated past him with a sudden change of direction that Van Bommel realized just how foolish his underestimation had been. Especially considering the coaching staff had warned him specifically about Giggs before the match.

Van Bommel’s lapse in judgment was instinctive, but he reacted quickly—intercepting the ball from Giggs’s feet. Yet Giggs was too quick. With a burst of pace and trademark close control, the winger slipped past him again. Thankfully, Zanetti had read the danger and was in position. The Argentine full-back stepped in and hammered the loose ball clear, relieving the pressure.

From the VIP box, Richard visibly tensed as he watched the exchange—skipping a breath when Giggs got past them.

Van Bommel usually would have responded with physicality, denying space immediately. But Giggs’s rapid adjustment left him exposed. Fortunately, Van Bommel managed a slight touch on the ball—just enough to knock it loose toward Zanetti, proving he wasn’t entirely late in sensing the threat.

City’s midfield dropped deeper in response to United’s relentless pressure. They were struggling to contain the tempo. Whether it was the Premier League or just Manchester United, City was now truly feeling the step up from the First Division.

The technical level was higher, the game faster, and the ball movement more precise.

Long diagonal passes were particularly threatening. United capitalized on the smallest of spaces. Beckham’s crosses from the right were always dangerous—though still not quite at the surgical level of his mature years. Zambrotta did well to outmuscle him slightly, limiting his effectiveness for now.

Still, with Roy Keane orchestrating from midfield and Giggs constantly making dangerous runs, City’s defenders remained on high alert.

United’s tactical emphasis on wing play relied heavily on controlling the midfield. Their tempo was unmatched by most in the league. The ball moved vertically and with purpose, unlike the horizontal, possession-heavy play favored by others.

Giggs whipped in a cross. Butt met it near the edge of the area, passing quickly to Keane, who then teed up Beckham.

Spotting Solskjær making a run, Beckham shaped for a cross—but Zambrotta was quick to shoulder him off balance, forcing him into a rushed back pass to Butt.

Butt, under pressure, couldn’t turn. The ball was immediately redirected back to Giggs on the left—but Zanetti had already read it perfectly.

One moment of pressure. One chance. One opening.

This was only the second time—perhaps the only time so far—that City had managed to apply effective pressure and steal the ball cleanly from United’s feet.

Zambrotta and Zanetti dropped back quickly, while Pirlo and Van Bommel positioned themselves just in front of the defense, forming a vertical barrier. Relying solely on them to stifle United’s attack might have been wishful thinking—but this time, it worked.

After Zanetti intercepted a cutting run from Giggs, he didn’t pass to Lennon—Keane was already lurking behind him, poised to pounce on any mistake. Instead, he switched the ball across to the left flank.

Once again—Ronaldo.

People instinctively rose from their seats, and even Richard found himself standing without realizing it, gripping the handrail in front of him.

Young Ronaldo received the pass with intent, fully aware that if the ball had come to him instead of someone else, then the responsibility was his.

Time to counterattack. If you like to play a high line so much—then let me punish you.

Before Beckham could close him down, Ronaldo quickly passed the ball to Larsson and darted forward.

Beckham turned to recover, but it was already too late.

Ronaldo had executed a textbook two-on-one with Larsson, easily bypassing the bewildered Beckham. All he could do was watch as the Brazilian sprinted into United’s half with the ball at his feet.

"Chase him, for God’s sake!" Ferguson shouted from the sideline, furious at how easily Beckham had been beaten. But instead of pressing back, Beckham merely jogged—triggering something in the gaffer.

Only Nicky Butt and Roy Keane managed to trail back, desperately trying to halt City’s blistering counterattack.

Gary Neville rushed in from the flank to cut off the angle, while both Butt and Keane were practically clawing at Ronaldo, grabbing at his jersey in a frantic attempt to bring him down. But this time, Ronaldo played it smart. Instead of attempting to dribble past the crowd, he lifted his head and scanned the pitch.

Inside the box, Pallister and David May were tightening their grip on Okocha and Larsson—both already in dangerous positions. The United defenders were on edge, anticipating a threaded pass or a shot.

’Nope,’ Ronaldo thought to himself, resisting the obvious play.

Then he saw it—just beyond the penalty area, near the center of the pitch. Pirlo had raised his hand, quietly ghosting into position, far from the chaos inside the box.

With a deft touch, Ronaldo rolled the ball perfectly into Pirlo’s path.

The timing. The weight. The space. It was all perfect—and Pirlo didn’t need a second touch.

He stepped forward, his eyes already locked onto the target. The roar of the crowd faded. The noise vanished. For a brief moment, it was only Pirlo, the ball, and the goal.

He struck it.

The ball curled with just enough bend, gliding like a guided missile. It arced around Denis Irwin’s desperate lunge, over the outstretched leg of Pallister, and just as Schmeichel dove—too late—the ball kissed the inside of the post and rippled the back of the net.

2–0 to Manchester City. At Old Trafford.