Football Dynasty-Chapter 145: Given? No, he is ’Shay,’ the hero!

Author’s Note

1. First of all, I sincerely apologize to everyone who left a comment and didn’t receive a reply. As some of you may know, we recently welcomed a new addition to our family—our baby boy. Unfortunately, he developed a high fever, followed by a distinctive rash. The doctor diagnosed it as roseola, and to make matters worse, by the end of the day, all of us had come down with a fever too (╥﹏╥). Thank you for your patience—I’ll catch up on comments as soon as I can!

2. Sorry for the delay—this Chapter is a long one!

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"If your team loses, does that mean you’re out of the league?"

Richard shook his head with a small smile. "Winning the Second Division doesn’t mean much on its own. What matters is promotion."

"So if you lose now, does that mean you’ve already lost your chance for promotion?" she asked again.

"Of course not," Richard replied. "Even if we lose, we still have the playoffs to fight for promotion. But I’m really hoping we can secure automatic promotion."

His mother nodded, deciding not to ask any more questions, and soon joined her future daughter-in-law, who was playing with little Jessica.

At first, Anna had watched the match with interest—it was her first time experiencing a football game. But she soon found it dull, and decided it was better to spend time playing with Miss Rowling and her daughter.

Richard then turned to his brother, Harry. "I never knew you had the ability to persuade Oasis to join your agency."

From what he knew, Oasis was already an established band, and their single "Some Might Say" had recently become their first number-one hit in the UK.

Harry was momentarily surprised by the question, then realized what Richard meant. He finished chewing his food before replying, "They didn’t sign with us—I bought their label."

He went on to explain that instead of chasing Oasis directly, he had acquired Creation Records Ltd, the British independent label that represented them. Their recent attempt to launch a sub-label under Warner Brothers had failed, forcing them to release several artists from their roster.

"So yeah," Harry continued. "Following that unsuccessful project, they were forced to let go of some of their artists and bands. Many left the label—except Oasis. I stepped in quickly and promised they’d be the center of our full support. That made them think twice about leaving."

"So who else have you got right now?" Richard asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Just two—Oasis and Radiohead."

Richard nodded thoughtfully, not intending to get involved, then turned his attention back to the pitch as the players began returning to the field. However, before he could fully focus, Harry nudged him, making him turn.

Harry took a sip of water, cleared his throat, and said, "Give me an idea."

"An idea about what?"

"Don’t play coy. You’re good at this. Just like when you suggested ’Creep’ to be pushed in the US after it flopped here. Who do you think might blow up next?" freewebnoveℓ.com

The single "Creep" by Radiohead, when it was first released, was met with mixed reactions; however, if anything, it was largely unfavorable.

The band began receiving attention in the British music press, with most describing them as a lily-livered excuse for a rock band. "Creep" was even blacklisted by BBC Radio 1 for being "too depressing."

Harry was the one who became depressed in the end, which made their parents worry. With no other choice, they called Richard for help.

Richard, with no other option, came up with a plan to revitalize Radiohead’s career. He decided to have Radiohead work with American producers, leveraging his connections with McMahon and Anschutz Corporation.

His strategy included an aggressive tour in America, hoping to build a strong following there before returning to the UK. The result? An instant hit.

"Creep" became a "slacker anthem" in the vein of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Nirvana and "Loser" by Beck.

With a sigh, Richard decided to jot down a few names on a piece of paper—bands and artists he believed would rise to fame in the future: Chris Martin from Coldplay, the Spice Girls who had recently left Heart Management, Robbie Williams who was dealing with a drug overdose scandal, and the Irish rock band The Cranberries, who had recently scrapped their latest work, fired their manager, and were currently in a state of limbo.

"Give them the freedom to pursue their passion, let them create without unnecessary restrictions. Your role is to support them, provide guidance when needed, and ensure they avoid any pitfalls that could hinder their progress. Alright, we’ll stop here; the match is about to start now."

Harry wanted to ask where Richard got all these names from, but seeing that Richard had already turned his attention back to the pitch, he could only swallow his words.

Richard watched as the City players and the Rotherham players made their way onto the field, each team preparing for the second half.

PHWEEEE!

The whistle blew, and the match resumed.

Just moments into the second half—barely a minute in—Cafu once again exploded down the wing, slicing through the defense with ease. He delivered a pinpoint cross, nearly identical to the one he sent in the 43rd minute.

Solskjær timed his run perfectly, met the ball in front of goal, and gracefully lobbed it toward the net.

The football slammed into the back of the net!

But before the City players or fans could erupt in celebration, the assistant referee intervened. His flag was raised, held parallel to the ground, pointing toward the far side—offside.

O’Neill didn’t understand the call. He pointed at himself, silently mouthing, "What?" But the assistant referee didn’t respond. He simply kept his gaze forward, his flag steady in the air, as though O’Neill weren’t even there

Other City players rushed over, protesting the call. A loud, angry buzz rose from the stands, the fans directing their frustration at the officials.

On the sideline, the fourth official glanced nervously at O’Neill. He remembered the coach’s fiery reaction in the first half and braced for another outburst. But to his surprise, O’Neill just turned toward the technical area, arms open in disbelief, and said nothing.

He walked back to the bench and sat down beside his assistant.

"Martin, are you alright?" Robertson asked quietly.

"What can I do?" O’Neill muttered, watching his players continue to argue. "John, we’ve already lost this match. With referees like this... they’ve clearly been bought."

Robertson’s eyes widened in shock. He immediately clamped a hand over O’Neill’s mouth, panicking that someone might have overheard.

O’Neill slumped on the bench, buried his head in his arms, and sat in silence—defeated.

Robertson didn’t know what to say as he watched O’Neill sink into despair. They had played a solid match, pressing high and creating chances, but now they were being forced to accept the reality of a blatantly biased referee.

"Martin... you did everything you could. No one could’ve predicted the referee would be this—"

Before he could finish, Robertson noticed O’Neill had already risen to his feet and was walking briskly toward the tunnel.

"Martin! Where are you going?" he called out.

"Back inside," O’Neill replied, without slowing down.

"What? The match isn’t even over!"

"You handle it for me," O’Neill said, still not turning back.

"But you’ve got the press conference! I can’t speak on your behalf!"

O’Neill stopped in his tracks. For a moment, he stood there, shoulders tense, thinking. Then, with a dismissive wave, he said, "Alright. I’ll go," before continuing on without another word.

Watching his stubborn figure disappear down the tunnel, Robertson let out a heavy sigh. He honestly didn’t know what to do with him anymore.

"Emile, warm up. You’re going in," he said to Emile Heskey, who sat further down the bench.

He glanced at his watch, remembering that Ronaldo could only play for ten minutes. Just as he was about to turn around—

"YEEAAAHHHHH!!!"

A thunderous roar exploded from the Main Road stands, startling him. He spun around in shock.

And there it was—chaos.

A sea of blue shirts had swarmed one corner of the pitch.

City players were surrounding Ronaldo, piling onto him near the corner flag in a euphoric celebration. Arms raised, fists clenched, they screamed in triumph, bouncing with unrestrained joy.

He blinked. ’What just happened?’

"What happened?"

"I don’t know, it’s just—" Robertson started to speak but was cut off as his eyes widened, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest when he saw O’Neill suddenly appear out of nowhere.

"God, you shocked me!"

But O’Neill didn’t seem to care. He excitedly shook his hands, "What happened?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Robertson shook his head, still trying to process the situation. "I—I didn’t see it! Did you?" he asked, glancing at Walford, the other coach, who had been watching.

Walford then stepped in to help filled the void.

It happened in the 55th minute—Ronaldo received the ball just inside his own half, deep in midfield. Three Rotherham players immediately closed in on him. One tried to drag him down by his jersey, but Ronaldo shrugged him off without breaking stride.

He switched gears instantly.

Surging forward, he dribbled past one defender, then another. A third defender lunged in with a desperate sliding tackle—Ronaldo simply skipped over it, the ball still glued to his feet.

Now at full speed, he sprinted toward the penalty box. A final defender rushed to stop him—no chance. Ronaldo delicately nudged the ball past him with the outside of his boot, still completely in control.

Now in full sprint, he raced toward the edge of the penalty box. Another defender rushed to intercept—no chance. Ronaldo nudged the ball past him with the outside of his boot, still in full control.

With remarkable balance and pace, he weaved through the remaining defenders and coolly slotted the ball into the bottom corner of the net.

The crowd erupted in astonishment.

Even the Rotherham coach, kneeling on the sideline, hands on his head in disbelief, couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed.

"I knew it! I knew it!" O’Neill muttered to himself, still in shock.

After that, the first thing he did was run toward the referee and the officials, furiously shouting, "I know it! You fucking idiot!! How can you disallow a solo goal like that?! Bloody moron! Your license should be revoked, you stupid cunt!!!"

He went to vent his fury toward them, which earned him his very first yellow card as a manager.

Manchester City 1 - 0 Rotherham United

After the goal, O’Neill became more energized, shouting enthusiastically from the sidelines.

In the 61st minute, he who originally planned to play Ronaldo for longer, frowned as he saw Ronaldo’s movements looking a bit labored. He called out for a substitution.

"Emile Heskey, Tony Vaughan, Nick Fenton, for Ronaldo, Solskjær, and Keith Gillespie!" the commentator then announced. "City seem to be preparing to pack the punch with these changes."

When Ronaldo reached the sidelines, he extended his hand toward O’Neill.

"I said it right? I definitely scored today!"

O’Neill nodded and gave him a hug. "Nice work. Go take a shower in the locker room."

Ronaldo shook his head. "No, I don’t want to go back to the locker room just yet. I have to be with everyone."

O’Neill smiled, grateful, as he patted Ronaldo on the back. "Then you stay here," he said, signaling the medic to check on Ronaldo.

After he saw Ronaldo sitting in his chair, fingers crossed as if the lads had already finished the job, O’Neill finally managed to focus on the match.

There was no hope for Rotherham, as City basically camped in their half, rendering all of Rotherham’s efforts pointless—they couldn’t even get possession of the ball.

Time ticked into the 90th minute, and then the board went up—five minutes of added time.O’Neil stood with his mouth agape, hearing the collective gasp from the City fans around him.

Five minutes of hell — that’s what it felt like.

Every City fan was clinging to hope and fraying nerves, silently (and not-so-silently) begging the referee: ’Blow the whistle, we’ve had enough.’ Some were already wiping away tears, heads in hands, unable to watch.

Every second seemed to stretch on, as if the match was stuck in slow motion. And then—the 95th minute. It was Rotherham’s last real chance of the entire second half, but even that was just a stray ball.

A long ball floated into the box. It bounced awkwardly. Campbell, desperate to clear, lunged—and caught the attacker instead. The stadium froze. City hearts stopped.

The striker went down. Imre Váradi again.

PHWEEEE!!!

A moment of stunned silence—then an explosion of noise. City fans roared with fury and disbelief. The players swarmed the referee, arms raised, shouting in protest. The City bench was in chaos—some on their feet, others frozen, hands clasped in prayer.

And then came the final moment.

While the referee was still explaining the decision to City players, O’Neill had already marched up to him, squared up, and shouted in his face, voice shaking with rage: "Are you watching the same game we are?!"

Even Richard, who was seated in the director’s box, had no choice but to excuse himself from the guests—he had to step in personally.

The referee was down.

O’Neill had headbutted him.

PHWEEE~

A red card!!!

After the players pulled O’Neill back to the bench, Richard, who had already left the director’s box and made his way to the stand near the City bench, shouted directly into O’Neill’s face, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"CALM DOWN! TRUST SHAY!"

O’Neill, his eyes wild with fury, looked like a man possessed. But it was the sound of Richard’s familiar voice that finally cut through the chaos. His breathing began to slow, the fire in his eyes dimmed—just enough. Reluctantly, he let himself be pulled back.

The silence that followed was deafening. No one spoke. All eyes shifted to the penalty spot.

The referee, the headbutted victim, stood expressionless. Rattled but back on his feet, he raised his arm as the penalty was about to begin.

PHWEEE!!!

The moment the whistle blew, the stadium erupted. Slurs, curses, chants—screaming insults and anger—unleashed a wave of frustration and desperation.

"You traitor!"

"You’ll always be a City reject!"

"Go back to where you came from, you snake!"

"You’ll never be one of us!"

Imre Váradi, who played for Manchester City from 1986 to 1988, was about to face a barrage of abuse. Richard, however, was relieved that the penalty was being taken in front of the City fan stands.

Váradi stepped up, placed the ball, and stared down the keeper. He began his run.

A thud.

The shot was powerful—but slightly off.

The ball struck one post with a sharp clang, spun across the goal line—teasing everyone—and rolled along it, as if delaying Váradi’s redemption.

BANG!

He stepped up again for his second attempt, hitting it straight down the middle. But Shay Given stood tall, saving it with his feet.

That was it.

Twenty five thousand fans went wild— we were promoted.

Given took off on a mad celebratory run, arms flailing in pure joy. He was so euphoric that even the players chasing behind him—some of them faster than him—couldn’t catch up.

He just kept running... and running.

There were ten lads chasing him, and as he ran toward O’Neill, who had already leaped from the stands in a desperate attempt to join the chaos on the pitch, the first person they grabbed was him. They tossed him onto the turf, and he landed right on top of him—a human sandwich that no one asked for.

It was pure mayhem. The starting lineup, bench players, and coaching staff all piled on top of him like a chaotic game of rugby. It was a team effort—everyone seemed to want a piece.

O’Neill, was gasping for air, his lungs screaming for mercy, but all he could hear was the muffled sound of bodies crushing him. Then, through the tangle of limbs and chaos, all he could see was Roberto Carlos’s round face staring down at him. Desperate, he screamed, "HELP ME! I’M GONNA DIE! GET OFF ME, YOU FAT BASTARD!"

Roberto Carlos, clearly concerned but also slightly bemused, acted only when he saw the real panic in his eyes. He realized they might actually crush him to death. So, he formed a makeshift cradle with his arms to lift some of the weight off, giving him just enough space to breathe. Eventually, everyone rolled off.

Meanwhile, Richard, perched on the stand, was about to leap down and join the celebration when suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder tightly. He turned to find Dr. Waller standing behind him, pointing at his head.

"If you want to die, then go!"

Only then did Richard realize—he had nearly sent himself to an early grave.