The Next Big Thing
Chapter 111: Manchester united vs Chelsea FA CUP

Chapter 111: Manchester united vs Chelsea FA CUP

David was grinning as he made his way to the field, thankful he didn’t get lost this time. Reaching the home team’s stand, he saw the wide pitch stretching out before him. It still felt surreal. He walked to the bench, spotting the players seated there, and was greeted with a familiar voice.

"My man, how far nah? Come sit," Ighalo called out, his thick Nigerian pidgin instantly making David feel at ease. He smiled and went over to sit next to him.

Juan Mata, seated nearby, raised an eyebrow and teased, "David, why are you always late?"

David chuckled, rubbing his leg. "The leg, the leg," he replied, using his injury as his trusty excuse.

As he sat down, his eyes caught two faces on the bench that completely surprised him. First, Paul Pogba. It shouldn’t have been shocking, really—Pogba had played just 20 matches this season due to injuries. But since returning, the Frenchman had started every game. David, a diehard fan, immediately began overthinking. Sure, Pogba’s stats this season weren’t mind-blowing—just one goal and two assists—but stats weren’t everything, were they? He shook his head, remembering his first lesson here: it wasn’t just about stats. What Pogba brought to the pitch was deeper than numbers.

David shook his head again, this time with a smile creeping onto his face. He realized he’d been analyzing like a coach. Smiling to himself, he thought, Yeah, I’m goated. Analytical thinking? Check.

But the real shocker was Anthony Martial. Martial, the team’s highest goal scorer this season with 23 goals and 10 assists, was seated on the bench, arms folded, eyes fixed on the pitch. David was stunned. Martial had been almost untouchable this season, starting 44 out of 45 games, the one exception being when he sprained his ankle but still came on as a sub. Seeing him benched now felt... strange.

David sighed to himself, thinking, I really need to start checking the lineups. It was a habit he had picked up from his dad, who hated knowing the lineups before a match. "It spoils the surprise," his dad would always say.

Sitting next to Ighalo, David leaned in and asked, "Where’s the gaffer?"

Ighalo pointed toward the touchline. David followed his gaze and saw Ole Gunnar Solskjær standing up front, his posture tense. He couldn’t see Ole’s face, but he could imagine the pressure on the man. This was a must-win match. Manchester United’s season so far had been solid but trophy-less. Sure, they finished third in the league and secured Champions League qualification, but that wasn’t enough for fans—or for David.

The team had reached the semi-finals of the Europa League, the FA Cup, and the EFL Cup, but they had already lost the EFL Cup to Manchester City, a frustrating 2-0 defeat before the Covid break. Now, it was down to this FA Cup semi-final against Chelsea and the Europa League clash against Sevilla next week. The stakes were high.

Despite the tension, David felt confident. "We should win, though. Chelsea aren’t that good, plus we’ve beaten them the last few times. We can do it again," he said casually.

Mata glanced at him, shaking his head. "Hmm, football doesn’t work like that, David. We have to be fully focused, or we could lose."

Martial, still frowning at the back, muttered under his breath, "I wouldn’t be surprised if we lose. Why would the coach bench me?" His tone was sharp, frustration evident.

Pogba, ever the optimist, gave him a reassuring smile. "Oh, come on, man. The gaffer knows what he’s doing. We can win this," he said, turning back toward the pitch.

David, refusing to let the negativity spread, raised his voice and said, "Don’t worry, we’ll win!"

Mason Greenwood, sitting a few seats behind, scoffed. "And how are you so sure?"

David grinned, puffing out his chest. "Because I’m here."

Laughter erupted from the bench, with Pogba and Mata laughing the hardest. "You aren’t even playing, dude," Pogba said between chuckles.

"Yeah, I know that" David replied, his grin widening. "But haven’t you noticed? We haven’t lost a single match since I came here. And every single one I’ve been on the bench for—we’ve won. The Lord Himself knows I am United’s good luck charm!"

The laughter grew louder, Pogba nearly doubling over. Even Martial cracked a small smile, shaking his head. David leaned back, satisfied. Maybe he wasn’t playing yet, but his presence was definitely making an impact why wouldn’t it.

Then, immediately, he heard the whistle signaling the match had started. David snapped his focus forward, thinking, "Shit, I didn’t even check the starting lineup." His eyes darted to the pitch, catching Bruno Fernandes with the ball, passing backward to Fred in midfield. Fred moved the ball to the side, finding Matic, who calmly controlled it. David’s gaze quickly swept over the Manchester United lineup.

He spotted three at the back—Harry Maguire, Eric Bailly, and Victor Lindelöf—anchoring the defense. In midfield, Aaron Wan-Bissaka and Brandon Williams were operating as wing-backs, supporting Fred and Matic. Up front, Bruno was just ahead of them, while Marcus Rashford and Daniel James played in attack. United were keeping possession, moving the ball confidently, frustrating Chelsea’s attempts to press.

Curious, David turned his attention to Chelsea’s lineup. They, too, were playing a 3-4-3, mirroring United’s setup. Azpilicueta, Zouma, and Rüdiger formed their backline. Alonso, Kovačić, Jorginho, and Reece James filled the midfield. Reece James, in particular, caught David’s attention. At just 20 years old, the young defender was playing a hybrid role as both a midfielder and a full-back. He would drop deep at times, turning Chelsea’s formation into a 4-3-3, a strategy that mirrored Wan-Bissaka’s role for United. Reece James had been touted as one of the future best right-backs in the world, often compared to his fellow Englishman, Trent Alexander-Arnold. The buzz around James didn’t bother David, though. His interest lay elsewhere.

His eyes drifted upfield, where he saw Olivier Giroud, Willian, and Mason Mount leading Chelsea’s attack. But it was Mason Mount who captivated him. The Future of England. That title had been thrown around for years, applied to countless young talents. But now, it belonged to Mount. Despite playing as a winger in this match, Mount’s natural position was in midfield, drawing comparisons to Chelsea’s legendary midfielder and current coach, Frank Lampard.

This season, Mount had solidified his place in Chelsea’s lineup, scoring 8 goals and registering 5 assists. The praise had been universal—Lampard, the media, pundits, and even football legends like Rio Ferdinand and Joe Cole sang his praises. England manager Gareth Southgate had said, "He’s going to be one of the key players for England in the future." And Chelsea legend John Terry went even further, claiming, "In my mind, he’ll be Chelsea and England captain."

David’s interest in Mount wasn’t born out of admiration but competition. That title—The Future of England—was what David wanted. It wasn’t just a title; it was a legacy, a symbol of being the player everyone looked to for the country’s future. He felt he deserved it, knew he could be the one to wear it. His dream wasn’t just to play for England but to be the face of the nation’s footballing future.

As the game unfolded and his eyes settled back on the pitch, David muttered under his breath, "David Jones, Future of England," a confident smile spreading across his face. The thought thrilled him. That’s my title, he told himself, and I’m coming for it.

As David finished thinking about claiming the "Future of England" title, he shook his head with a smirk, thinking, Next season. Don’t worry. His thoughts drifted back to the present, and his eyes settled on the pitch just in time to catch Fred, who had won the ball back from a clumsy Chelsea pass.

Fred, showing flashes of the Brazilian flair he was sometimes criticized for lacking, made a couple of slick turns, sidestepping two Chelsea midfielders like they weren’t even there. David’s eyes widened as Fred moved with unexpected grace, gliding past another challenge. Damn, Fred’s got sauce today.

Fred then threaded the ball forward, a perfect pass to Daniel James. David immediately sat up, wincing slightly as he put pressure on his leg, but his excitement drowned out the pain. James, known for his explosive speed, didn’t disappoint. He took off like a bullet, leaving Chelsea’s Reece James trailing behind. The Welshman’s one outstanding quality—his blistering pace—was on full display, and David couldn’t help but marvel at how easily he burned past defenders.

"Run, Dan, run!" David muttered under his breath, practically standing now, completely caught in the moment. He could feel his heart racing as James approached the final third.

But as James closed in on the sideline, David’s excitement shifted to anxiety. Please pass, please pass, he thought desperately, knowing full well that James had a reputation for being a "one-way traffic" player. Too often, he’d make a blistering run only to squander the opportunity with a poor decision.

David leaned forward, holding his breath. James reached the edge of the box, just before the ball could roll out of play. And then, almost miraculously, James did the right thing—he cut the ball back across the box, a perfectly weighted pass that found Rashford lurking near the penalty spot.

Rashford controlled the ball with a deft touch and turned, but before he could pull the trigger, Chelsea’s Kurt Zouma lunged in with a clumsy tackle. Rashford went down hard, rolling over as the ball skidded away.

"Ahh, that’s a pen!" David yelled, his voice blending into the chorus of shouts from the Manchester United bench.

"PEN!" the players screamed in unison, several of them half-standing, fists raised in protest. Pogba was already halfway off the bench, and even Mata, normally composed, had his arms outstretched, demanding justice.

The referee hesitated for a split second, but it felt like an eternity. Then, with an emphatic gesture, he pointed straight to the penalty spot.

David burst into laughter, shaking his head as he sat back down. "I told you guys—I’m the good luck charm!" he said, grinning from ear to ear.

Pogba turned to him, laughing as he clapped him on the shoulder. "Maybe we should bring you to every match, David."

Meanwhile, on the pitch, Bruno Fernandes confidently picked up the ball. He didn’t need anyone to tell him he was taking this penalty—everyone knew he was the man for the job. David watched as Bruno placed the ball on the spot, his calm demeanor exuding confidence.

David leaned back, crossing his arms with a smug smile. This is going in. No doubt about it, he thought, already picturing the ball hitting the back of the net.

As Bruno took his signature hop-step run-up, David muttered under his breath, "Let’s go punish this pen."