Chapter 303: The Two Worlds II
"Patrick, tuck in! Scott, cover!"
Van Aanholt, his instincts honed by a thousand training sessions, shuffled a few yards inside, closing the gap. Dann, ever the leader, adjusted his position, covering the space behind him. The passing lane vanished.
De Bruyne, for the first ti all ga, looked frustrated, his perfect pass cut out before it had even been conceived. To Sarah, to my staff, to the world, it was a mont of brilliant, intuitive coaching. A manager in perfect sync with his team. They didn’t see the data. They didn’t see the System. They just saw the result.
City’s frustration grew. Raheem Sterling, one of the most dangerous wingers in the world, tried to take on Wan-Bissaka. It was like watching a master craftsman at work. Aaron didn’t dive in.
He just shadowed him, his long legs matching Sterling’s every feint, his timing perfect. He waited, he waited, and then, with a single, clean, surgical tackle, he took the ball. No fuss, no drama. Just quiet, brutal efficiency.
Sterling threw his hands up in frustration. Sergio Agüero, a ghost in the box, found himself crowded out by the sheer physical presence of Dann and Sakho, a wall of muscle and experience that he simply could not penetrate.
Then, in the 26th minute, it happened. The trigger. McArthur, a tireless ball of energy, snapped into a tackle on David Silva, winning the ball cleanly. For a split second, the Etihad held its breath. And then, the plan was in motion.
McArthur didn’t look for a safe pass. He didn’t try to build from the back. He just turned and hit it, a long, raking, sixty-yard pass into the left channel, the exact weakness we had identified, the exact space we had targeted.
Andros Townsend was already gone. He had been waiting for this mont, a coiled spring of explosive pace. The foot race was on. Kolarov, City’s aging left-back, was a good five yards behind him, his legs churning, his face a mask of desperate, futile effort. Townsend was a blur of motion, his feet barely seeming to touch the grass.
He reached the byline, and without breaking stride, he whipped in a vicious, inswinging cross. Christian Benteke, a giant among n, rose above Otandi, his neck muscles straining, and t the ball with a powerful, thudding header. For a heart-stopping mont, it looked destined for the top corner. The Etihad fell silent. But it was just over. The ball skimd the top of the net and went behind for a goal kick.
It was our first attack of the ga. We had had 18% possession. We had had one shot. But we had created the best chance of the match. A shockwave rippled through the stadium.
The ho crowd, who had been so comfortable, so certain, were now a sea of anxious, murmuring faces. Pep Guardiola was on his feet, a whirlwind of frantic, gesticulating energy, screaming at his players. The psychological blow had been landed. The System confird it, a cool, clinical line of text in my vision.
[Opponent Morale: Anxious. Kolarov (Confidence: Lowered).]
Stung, City ca at us with a renewed, almost desperate fury. The final ten minutes of the half were a siege, a relentless, suffocating wave of blue. They threw everything at us. Crosses, shots, intricate passing moves. But the wall held firm. In the 35th minute, De Bruyne found a rare pocket of space and threaded a perfect pass to Agüero.
The Argentine’s first touch was instant, and he fired a low, hard shot towards the bottom corner. It was the first clear-cut chance of the ga. But Wayne Hennessey, who had been a spectator for most of the half, was alive to it.
He moved his feet quickly and got down low, his strong right hand pushing the ball around the post. It was a world-class save, a mont of pure goalkeeping instinct. The System flashed its approval: [Shot on Target: Saved. Goalkeeper Performance: 8/10].
I allowed myself a small, internal sigh of relief. That was the mont. The one clear chance they would get. And we had survived it.
Then, in the 44th minute, a corner. The ball was whipped in, and after a frantic scramble, it dropped to David Silva on the edge of the box. Ti seed to slow down. Silva, a magician with the ball at his feet, t it on the volley, a perfect, textbook strike that was destined for the back of the net. I held my breath.
But then, from nowhere, a body appeared, a blur of red and blue, flying through the air. It was Jas Tomkins. He threw himself head-first at the ball, a mont of pure, selfless, reckless bravery. The ball cannoned off his forehead with a sickening thud and looped over the bar. He landed in a heap, dazed but triumphant.
His teammates mobbed him, patting him on the head, their faces a mixture of awe and gratitude. It was a mont that encapsulated everything we were about: fight, spirit, and a willingness to put your body on the line for the cause.
The referee raised the whistle to his lips and blew for half-ti. The scoreboard read 0-0. The Palace players, exhausted, battered, but unbowed, walked off the pitch to a thunderous, deafening roar from the three thousand traveling fans.
It was a sound of pure, unadulterated pride. I gave a firm, approving nod to each of my players as they walked past , their faces etched with a mixture of exhaustion and defiant belief. I caught Pep Guardiola’s eye across the pitch. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of respect. It was a silent acknowledgnt from one general to another. You have survived the first wave.
In the tunnel, Marcus handed
a tablet with the half-ti stats. They were almost comical. Possession: Man City 78% - 22% Crystal Palace. Shots: Man City 14 - 1 Crystal Palace.
On paper, it was a massacre. But the only stat that mattered was the one on the scoreboard. Zero-zero. As I walked into the dressing room, the System flashed one final notification, a secret, silent validation of our suffering.
[First Half Analysis: Plan Executed to Perfection. Probability of Success: Increased to 25%.]
I looked at the faces of my players, my warriors, my band of brothers. The mountain was still there, a vast, imposing peak. But we had survived the first ascent. The rope-a-dope was working. And we were still in the fight.
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