The Next Big Thing
Chapter 172: First Game of the season

Chapter 172: First Game of the season

September 19, 2020

"GOALLLL!"

The roar may not have erupted from the stands of Old Trafford, but it still sent shockwaves across Manchester — from living rooms to pub corners, from WhatsApp groups to quiet backyards lit only by fairy lights and flickering TV screens. There were no scarves waving in the wind, no stampede of fans on Sir Matt Busby Way. This wasn’t a normal matchday.

It was COVID season. The stadiums were silent, the streets half-empty, but the hearts of Manchester United fans thumped just as loud as ever.

In a different kind of theatre, the Theatre of Homes, the rituals lived on. Fridges were stocked with cold beers. Wings sizzled in ovens. Children wore oversized United kits and bounced on couches while parents argued about the starting eleven. Windows glowed with the soft pulse of pre-match broadcasts. The city was alive — not outside, but within.

Manchester’s pulse was split in two, though. Because while half the city prepared to roar in red, the other half was reeling. Earlier that day, just across town, the blue half of Manchester had suffered a humiliation so spectacular, it stunned the Premier League.

Manchester City 2 – Leicester City 5.

It was the kind of result that didn’t just sting — it left bruises.

The Etihad had been dissected. A performance so chaotic and defensively disjointed, even the most loyal City fans were left scratching their heads. For United fans, it was an unexpected appetizer. For neutrals, it was entertainment at its finest.

Back in the Sky Sports studio, the fallout had already begun.

Gary Neville was the first to speak. He leaned forward, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed as though trying to process what he had just witnessed.

"Wow," he said. "What a match."

Micah Richards, a City man through and through, couldn’t hold back his laughter. He slapped the desk lightly, his booming laugh echoing off the studio walls.

"Five-two?! Nah mate, that was a proper trashing! At home?! In the Etihad?! I had to check if it was City or a Sunday League team playing in blue!"

Even Jamie Carragher cracked up, shaking his head. "Honestly, I’ve never seen City this open. It was like every time Leicester crossed the halfway line, they were in. That back four — if you can even call it that — looked like they just met each other at kick-off."

Gary smirked, his eyes glued to the slow-motion replay looping behind them. "Let’s just say Leicester didn’t come to play nice. Vardy was sniffing out space like a truffle pig. And City gave him the whole bloody forest."

Micah tried to compose himself, sitting upright and tugging at his blazer. "Alright, alright, let me be serious for a second. Defensively — shocking. Absolutely shocking. No leadership, no shape. Fernandinho looked like he was doing three jobs. Mendy couldn’t stop a parked car. And Eric Garcia... bless him, he tried, but it was a long afternoon."

David Jones, ever the steady anchor, turned to Micah with a half-smile. "Be honest with us. What’s going on at City? Gameweek Two and already leaking goals like a pub tap?"

Micah sighed, then nodded with reluctant honesty. "Poor game. No excuses. I love Pep, you know I do. But we’re trying to play this ultra-high line without pace at the back, and with Leicester, you can’t do that. Vardy’s not chasing shadows — he’s making you chase him. And we did. All game."

Carragher chimed in, arms waving as he got more animated. "And it wasn’t just Vardy! Tielemans, Maddison... they were having a picnic in midfield! Every second ball, every transition — Leicester were first. It wasn’t a smash and grab. It was domination."

Gary leaned back slightly, arms crossed. "They’ll need to sort that out. Because Liverpool are playing later. If they beat Chelsea like they did last season, the pressure’s on from the start."

Micah threw his hands up. "It’s early, lads! Come on. We’ve got injuries — no Laporte, no Agüero. Cancelo’s just coming back. Nathan Aké still settling in. It’s not panic time yet."

Gary raised an eyebrow. "Maybe not panic time, but you lot conceded five goals at home. That’s not something you just brush off."

Jamie grinned. "And don’t forget the penalties. Three of them! It’s like City said, ’Come in lads, help yourselves. Free samples.’ I was waiting for them to set up a table with a ’Welcome’ sign!"

Even David Jones laughed at that, shaking his head. "You’ve got to admit, Micah — today was rough."

Micah nodded again, chuckling despite himself. "Look — we’ll bounce back. Pep knows what he’s doing. But he better start knowing it faster. Because otherwise, it’s going to be a long season."

Gary nodded slowly, thoughtful. "It’s a weird year. Short pre-season, tired legs, no crowd to lift you. But you’d still expect better defensive discipline."

Jamie pointed at the screen, where a heat map of City’s defense lit up in all the wrong places. "Look at this! Gaps everywhere. No compact shape. The full-backs are halfway to the shops. It’s like they thought Leicester were going to play keep-ball. They didn’t. They countered. Ruthlessly."

Micah, leaning in, tried to defend his team one last time. "Listen — we’ll get Dias in, Laporte will return, and Rodri will settle. That back line will look very different soon. It’s still early doors."

Gary tilted his head, unconvinced but not dismissive. "They’ll need to. Because right now, United and Liverpool are breathing down their necks."

Micah rolled his eyes and shot back with a smirk, "Not just Liverpool, though. There’s another ’title contender’ playing tonight, remember?"

Gary raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

Micah burst out laughing. "Come on, Gary! Don’t play coy. It’s your lot — Manchester United!"

The studio erupted in knowing laughter. Even Jamie cracked a wide smile. David Jones chuckled."United vs Crystal Palace. First official game of the season for United. No pressure, right?"

Gary Neville’s smirk had returned, but it was hollow, forced. His eyes, though, were sharp with irritation."After the headlines we’ve seen this weekend, I genuinely don’t know if this club’s serious anymore."

Roy Keane leaned forward, eyes narrowed beneath furrowed brows. His arms remained folded, ironclad."The whole thing’s a circus," he muttered.

Jamie Redknapp raised a brow. "You’re talking about the Sancho stuff?"

Micah Richards let out a low whistle, shifting in his seat. "Yeah, mate. It’s a mess. Apparently, he got arrested yesterday."

David Jones nodded, checking his notes with a look of disbelief. "Details are still sketchy, but reports say Sancho was taken in after a car accident. Minor injuries, but—here’s the kicker—he wasn’t the only united player involved in the accident."

Gary’s brow lifted. "Go on."

David exhaled. "The other person? Sixteen-year-old David Jones."

A beat.

Then chaos.

Jamie choked on a laugh. "Sorry—what? Your son’s out joyriding with Jadon Sancho now?"

Micah threw his head back, roaring. "Oi, Dave, is this what happens when you say you’ve got ’connections at Carrington’?"

David rolled his eyes, lips curling into a tight smile. "Yes. He’s mine. I taught him everything he knows—how to drive illegally and knock over cones."

Gary was laughing now too, genuinely amused. "What’s a sixteen-year-old even doing behind the wheel?"

Micah didn’t skip a beat. "At sixteen I was still trying to get served at the corner shop, never mind crashing German whips with England internationals!"

Roy didn’t laugh. His voice was cold. "Why’s a kid in a car near Sancho anyway? Where’s the discipline?"

Jamie raised a hand. "Wait, is it true the fight between them started after the accident?"

David nodded. "That’s what’s being reported. Apparently, they got into it—some shouting match, then it got physical. Hospital security got involved, police called... and now Sancho’s not in the squad."

Micah blinked. "And the kid?"

"He’s in the squad," David said. "David Jones is listed."

Gary scoffed. "You’re joking."

Roy looked genuinely appalled. "The same teenager who was involved in an off-pitch incident that got your new star winger arrested is in the squad 24 hours later?"

David shrugged. "Welcome to Manchester United."

Jamie let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "It’s like they’re making it up as they go."

Micah was still stuck on one detail, grinning. "So let me get this straight—he crashes a car, scraps with Sancho, and now might be starting the season opener at Old Trafford?" He cackled. "This is either the beginning of a Netflix documentary or the boldest debut story we’ve ever seen."

Gary leaned forward, arms crossed. "Let’s be clear. He’s in the squad list. No confirmed lineup yet. But the fact he’s even on the coach after that drama? That says a lot."

Jamie nodded. "We all saw him against Villa in preseason. He wasn’t just tidy—he was superb. Real quick feet. Confident. That little feint and nutmeg on Mings? That wasn’t luck."

Micah grinned. "He looked fearless. I liked that."

Roy wasn’t impressed. "That was Villa in friendlies. This is the Premier League. A debut under normal conditions is tough enough. Now throw in no fans, lockdown rules, media firestorm, and the fact that he just wrecked a car with Sancho? That’s not a setup—it’s a trap."

David tapped the desk, thoughtful. "And if he does start... what message does that send? You’re rewarding the chaos. What does it say to the dressing room?"

Gary’s voice turned dry. "That if you crash a car and win the argument, you make the matchday squad."

Jamie chuckled, but there was unease beneath it. "Still... part of me’s curious. Either he’s a once-in-a-generation talent about to rise, or this ends up being just another Chapter in United’s modern tragedy."

Micah, arms spread, said what everyone was thinking. "You have to feel for the lad, though. Sixteen. First time in the squad. And now the whole football world is watching him like he’s the problem."

Roy exhaled sharply. "Shouldn’t be there. Not like this."

David adjusted his earpiece, then looked at the camera. His tone turned brisk, professional.

"Well, we’re under an hour away from kickoff at Old Trafford. The stadium’s empty, of course—no fans allowed under current COVID protocols. Just players, staff, medics, and a hell of a lot of tension."

Gary’s voice cut in, quiet and pointed. "Let’s see what this lad’s made of."

A pause fell over the panel.

No fans in the stands. No roar of the Stretford End. Just the hum of the floodlights, the echo of boots on concrete, and the pressure of millions watching from home.

The camera faded.

The drama was already in motion.

And now, all eyes turned to Manchester.