Football Dynasty-Chapter 106: The Bus was Attacked!

From the very first whistle, one player stole the spotlight, leaving the audience with a lasting and unexpected impression.

Ronaldo.

His tactical role required him to form the first line of defense as soon as the opposition advanced, applying relentless pressure to win the ball back. He delivered—surpassing even O’Neill and his staff’s expectations.

He was like a beast, hungry for the ball. Was this the result of not playing in the past three matches? He looked absolutely possessed.

And when we say beast, we mean it—a true wild beast. He played with feral intensity, pressing with reckless abandon. Just minutes into the game, he earned the match’s first yellow card.

City Ground was nearly drowned in jeers.

Frank Clark, Forest’s manager, was all too familiar with that sound—and his expression turned grim.

O’Neill called out from the sidelines, reminding Ronaldo to watch his challenges and avoid a second booking.

Ronaldo nodded thoughtfully, gave a thumbs-up, and refocused on the game.

English Football in the 1990s had a narrow view. Those who thrived in the heat of physical confrontations—tackles, putting in hard graft—were praised for their grit, toughness, and relentless determination. In contrast, players with technical flair—dribbling, passing, and creativity—were sometimes unfairly seen as overly focused on finesse and were often dismissed as being flashy or showy.

As a result, technical flair often goes unnoticed. No matter how high your dribbling success rate, how precise your passes, or how creative your playmaking, these skills are often overshadowed by the perception that the physical, "dirty" work is the true measure of a player’s worth.

This is why, despite Spain’s football scene being somewhat similar to Ligue 1, with only Barcelona and Real Madrid dominating in the future, people still favor them. Their style of play is more technical and often more satisfying to watch.

La Liga - slick dancers, highly technical.

Premier League - a group of rowdy boys.

Serie A - philosophical about it all.

Ligue 1 - never the best, never the worst.

Bundesliga - One bully and one or two vassals of his choosing who together rule the roost.

But today, Ronaldo shattered that perception. He was the complete package.

When switching from attack to defense, he pressed aggressively—more tirelessly than any player on the field. And when moving from defense to attack, his blistering pace, technical ability, and especially his dribbling, truly overwhelmed the opposition defense.

One guy definitely isn’t enough. Two might work, but you also need to be cautious of his powerful shot, as he can score from a distance or in tight spaces. Three is the safe number to make him stop for a moment; however, that leaves enough room for others to exploit the gaps in Forest’s defense.

"Warner, Haaland, what are you doing?! Press him—don’t let him get through!" Clark, Forest manager shouted, as Ronaldo was already making yet another dangerous move.

The decision proved fatal. The moment Forest’s defense shifted all their focus onto Ronaldo, someone else quietly began to stir up trouble.

51st minute.

"Ronaldo again!" the commentator’s voice rang out, filled with anticipation. "He’s been absolutely everywhere tonight! Taken a few knocks, but still going strong—real old-school stuff. That’s what the fans love to see!"

"Look at this—three men on him! Warner, Haaland, Rosario—all trying to stop the lad. But he’s not having it, is he? Twists out of trouble—oh, that’s cheeky—and what a pass! He’s pinged it cross-field, 40 yards, right to Cafu’s boots!"

With that sweeping cross-field pass, Ronaldo changed the game’s tempo in a heartbeat. The ball arced through the air, sailing past the defenders and landing perfectly at the feet of Cafu, already sprinting down the right touchline at full speed.

The stadium held its breath.

"Cafu’s on it—he’s picked it up cleanly! Forest are in trouble now!"

With flawless control, Cafu surged forward like a freight train, his pace unstoppable.

"Cafu’s flying down the right like an express out of Euston! Lovely first touch—keeps it in play—and... hang on! He’s whipped it in deep—what’s this?!"

Just as a defender rushed in, Cafu sent in a perfectly weighted cross that curved toward the far edge of the penalty box. The ball floated—suspended in the air like a thing of beauty, as if time itself had paused.

Time seemed to slow. The crowd froze, unaware another train was about to strike.

Charging into the scene from the opposite flank, Roberto Carlos arrived like a thunderbolt. He didn’t let the ball bounce, didn’t need to adjust—his body was already primed for the perfect strike. In one fluid motion, he swung his left leg through the ball—a blistering volley from just outside the box.

BANG!

"Roberto Carlos! On the run! He’s lined it up—what a hit, son, what a hit! That’s a screamer! The keeper didn’t even flinch—just watched it sail in! Top corner! No chance!"

The stadium erupted.

The net bulged violently as the ball slammed into the top corner.

GOAL!!!

"Unbelievable! UN-BE-LIEVABLE! A volley from outside the penalty area—Roberto Carlos!" the commentator screamed. "It’s simply hard to believe! We’ve just entered the second half and City have crushed Nottingham Forest! He is the future treasure of English football!"

"This is Manchester City’s third goal! They’ve taken complete control, leaving Nottingham Forest—a Premier League side—with no chance at all. 3–0! The match looks done!"

’Done?! You worthless commentator, what are you saying? The second half just started!’ Frank Clark barked angrily from the touchline.

He cursed the commentary and immediately called for a triple substitution.

"Oh, here we go—Stan Collymore, Scott Gemmill, and Lars Bohinen are coming on! Do you think this is too little too late?"

"Well... technically, there’s still around 40 minutes left. So Forest still have a shot at a miracle, right? After all—they’re up against a Second Division side."

The two thousand City fans who attended the match at City Ground were instantly ignited. How proud they were to see their team beat a Premier League side. Even if it was Forest’s second-string team, they were more than satisfied watching such a performance.

What had come over him?

Ronaldo.

They knew him well—he had featured in the first three opening matches of the Second Division. But even then, he hadn’t shown this kind of intensity.

That question lingered in the minds of many Blues supporters. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was what he gave them on the pitch—and they had found their hero.

And soon enough, they found their voice too.

They sang, loud and proud: "We’ll drink a drink a drink, To Ronaldo the King, the King, the King— He’s the leader of Man City, He’s the greatest inside forward, That the world has ever seen!"

For the next 30 minutes, even without scoring, City dominated the match—relentlessly pressing forward, bombarding Forest’s goal, and leaving their defenders dazed and scrambling.

The arrival of Stan Collymore, Scott Gemmill, and Lars Bohinen did shift the rhythm of the game as they brought more stability, but it wasn’t enough to dampen City’s fiery momentum. If anything, it only pushed Forest into a more defensive stance, struggling to contain the energy and aggression coming at them.

City’s attack flowed with a mix of precision and flair. Their passing was sharp, their dribbling confident—built on simplicity and freedom. Ronaldo roamed wherever he pleased, supported by Roberto Carlos, who frequently made overlapping runs, unshackled by rigid instructions.

Up front, Shaun Goater provided the perfect balance, while Cafu’s dangerous crosses from the right left Forest’s tier-two squad unable to anticipate the threat. In the middle, Ian Taylor, Tony Grant, Steve Lomas, and Ian Ferguson formed a solid and reliable core, while at the back, Campbell and Cox stood firm.

In a corner of the field, a group of City supporters gathered around their players, celebrating their third goal of the match with exuberant joy.

Meanwhile, the Nottingham Forest coaching staff wore grim expressions. No one had anticipated such a massacre in this match.

In the VIP box, Clough was taken aback by the sight of a player of Ronaldo’s caliber in the Second Division. He couldn’t help but be intrigued. He’d have to speak with Forest management—surely, a player like that deserved to be in the Premier League. Who would want to play in the Second Division? A talent like his? It was almost unthinkable

The electronic scoreboard read 0:3, the red numbers glaring like fresh blood.

Angry fans directed their frustration at Forest’s manager, with numerous middle fingers raised in protest against Clark’s decisions, as they voiced their fury over the team’s performance.

If Richard were here, he would definitely know them—the Forest Executive Crew, the club’s firm—who were facing the reality of such an embarrassing display. Their vulgar gestures and middle fingers expressed their utter displeasure.

Some even started wondering if the 11 men on the field had skipped a good night’s sleep. Had they spent the night indulging in the local ’entertainment’ before the match?

The thought crossed their mind, and they couldn’t help but scowl and grit his teeth at the shameful display.

As the final whistle blew, a deafening silence descended over the City Ground, broken only by the eruptions of celebration from a small blue section in the stands, standing out against the sea of red

The underdog victory—a 3-0 thrashing of a Premier League club—was a triumph no one had anticipated.

City’s players stood tall, basking in the glory of their dominant performance, while their fans roared in approval.

But unfortunately, the jubilant mood didn’t last long. As the they made their way to the team bus, an ominous tension began to rise.

Forest fans, seething with frustration, hurled insults and empty beer cans at them. At first, it seemed like a small, isolated group—but the crowd quickly grew. A bottle, then a few plastic cups. Before anyone could react, the situation escalated. A barrage of projectiles—cups, cans, even stones—rained down on the vehicle.

From the other side of the square, two thousand City supporters—still high on the thrill of victory—erupted in anger at the sight of their players being targeted. They surged forward. Insults were exchanged. In moments, a group of hooligans clashed in the middle of the street.

Right then, the heavy police presence that had been quietly monitoring the match sprang into action.

Mounted officers charged onto the scene, their horses parting the crowd with sheer force. Riot police, clad in full gear, moved in to form barricades, pushing to keep the two factions apart. They were trained for moments like this—but handling raw emotion, especially in the aftermath of a heated football match, was never easy.

Officers quickly began arresting those causing trouble, their batons raised to break up the clashes before they spiraled further out of control.

Amid the chaos, a group of young City fans—blue scarves wrapped around their necks—stood firm, undeterred by the hostility. They kept singing, kept chanting. They had just witnessed a historic moment, and no amount of provocation could silence their pride.

But those who were caught in the violence, whether retaliating or simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, found themselves face-to-face with the force of the law.

The scene was chaotic, but as the police began to regain control, the clashes slowly began to die down.

The City players finally boarded their bus. As it pulled away from City Ground, the fans who had taken part in the fight were either being carted off by the police or retreating into the shadows, nursing both their pride and their wounds.

The victory would be remembered—and it seemed that by tomorrow morning, both City and Forest would be making the headlines once again.