Football Dynasty-Chapter 165: You must crush them!

August 12th, 3 PM — Griffin Park Stadium.

The stadium was packed to capacity, the stands vibrating with energy as City’s team anthem echoed through the air.

🎵 "She wore! She wore! She wore a sky blue ribbon~"

"She wore a sky blue ribbon in the merry month of August~"

"And when I asked her why she wore the ribbon~"

"She said she wore the ribbon to see City on their way~" 🎶

However, there was no way the Brentford fans would let the Blues fans outshine them in this matter. After all, this was their turf, their stadium and they weren’t about to let City fans take over the chant.

🎵 "Talk about Pele, talk about Cruyff, talk about Beckenbauer...

But talk about Batesy, that’s a different matter - he’s best by far.

Heeeeee’s Batesy, Batesy, Jamie, Jamie Batesy,

He’s Jamie Batesy!" 🎶

The back-and-forth exchange of chants filled the air, creating a cacophony of sound.

For City fans, after the emotional rollercoaster of last season in the Second Division, this was more than just a match—it was the beginning of a new Chapter.

A season of hope.

It was a new beginning full of hope for the Blues as they prepared for their campaign in the Nationwide First Division, knowing that the Nirvana that is the Premiership was now just one league away.

Backstage, City’s players stood in their dressing room—focused, silent, and ready for battle.

The tactical board remained blank. O’Neill, dressed in a sharp suit with the top buttons casually undone, stood with his hands in his pockets, calmly observing his team. He had already said all that needed to be said during training.

Today, O’Neill chose not to focus on game specifics. Instead, he simply asked how each player felt physically—no overcomplicated briefings.

"I’ve drilled the strategies into you enough during training," he began. "There’s no need to repeat them now. Just play the way you’ve trained, stick to the plan, stay sharp—and stay hungry. That will be enough."

He paused, then added with quiet intensity. "But before we walk out there... there’s one more thing I want to say."

His gaze swept across each player’s face as he intently declared, "I believe in you all, even if it means putting my life in your hands. Ask me a hundred times, and I will respond a hundred times: you are the best! However, like me, you and this club, with over a century of history, possess nothing! As you exit this room and step onto the pitch—"

Suddenly, his phone rang, breaking the moment.

O’Neill reached into his pocket, intending to silence it, but as his eyes flicked to the caller ID, he paused.

The call quickly ended.

A second later, a message popped up:

[...Meet me outside. NOW!...]

"..."

It seemed something had happened.

"Excuse me, lads," he said, stepping aside and still holding the phone.

After he opened the door, the first thing that greeted him was Richard’s darkened expression, which immediately took him by surprise.

"Martin," Richard said, his voice low and serious, gesturing toward the hallway.

O’Neill nodded, signaling that he understood.

He stepped out of the locker room, closing the door softly behind him, and followed Richard down the narrow corridor.

When they came to a halt, Richard turned and met O’Neill’s gaze.

"What’s going on, Richard?" O’Neill asked.

Richard had always been calm, collected, but now... there was something different in the air.

"Martin!" Richard’s voice cracked with fury, cutting through the air like a knife. His anger was palpable, and the sudden shift in his demeanor took O’Nell by surprise.

"W-What’s the matter?"

"Can we win this match?"

"Ermmm..." O’Neill swallowed hard.

If Richard had asked him calmly, he might’ve known exactly how to respond. But faced with this sudden fury, O’Neill found himself at a loss for words.

His instinct was to say "yes," but he knew the consequences could be dire if he ended up failing to deliver. After all, this was football—luck played its part too. So, he decided to play it safe.

"I’m unable to promise you anything before the match ends," O’Neill finally replied, glancing down the hallway where people bustled past.

After all, they were playing away, and expecting too much would have been unrealistic. Moreover, not only had City reinforced their squad, but Brentford had also bolstered their ranks for the new season—including signing former Arsenal and Premier League veteran Paul Davis.

With that in mind, O’Neill felt it was fair to remain cautious.

"No! You must win, must win!" Richard clamped O’Neill’s shoulder and shouted in his face.

Now, O’Neill found it rather strange.

"Hey, Richard, does the boss of Brentford owe you a lot of money?" he asked with a wry smile.

"No, but I just hate that guy!" Richard retorted sharply.

After remembering what had just happened, the more he thought about it, the angrier he became.

O’Neill could clearly sense the depth of Richard’s fury. The sight of him shouting, his shoulders trembling with suppressed anger, was startlingly uncharacteristic of the usually amiable man.

Richard then lowered his voice, but the venom in his tone was unmistakable.

"I hate him very, very much! That bastard dares to look down on me... and on our team! Martin, didn’t you say you want to win a match? There’s a real opportunity right now. Defeat him. Humiliate him!"

It was hard to believe that Richard Maddox, typically so genial, would erupt in such anger. Clearly, the Brentford boss had done something outrageously over the line.

O’Neill gave a slight sigh, then replied, "Alright, I’ll try to get a win over Brentford, but I’m not promi—"

"No, not try. You must! Must!" Richard cut him off forcefully.

O’Neill sighed in resignation, fully aware of the expectations placed upon him as he prepared to lead his team into battle.

Sensing O’Neill’s hesitation, Richard didn’t wait. Without missing a beat, he threw out the bait.

"If you win this match, I’ll promise you something," Richard said, and for the first time, his voice softened—but carried unmistakable weight.

"A favor."

"..."

O’Neill blinked.

"A favor. Whatever you need—be it a player, new staff, training support, or even pulling strings with the board. You’ll have it. You have my word."

It wasn’t said dramatically, but the meaning hit hard. Richard Maddox wasn’t just some wealthy fan—he was the real deal. And when a self-made billionaire like him gave his word, it wasn’t something to take lightly.

What else could O’Neill say? He looked at Richard and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"Alright... I have to beat Brentford. No excuses. I must win—no matter what."

"That’s right!!"

Richard was satisfied with the answer as he patted O’Neill’s shoulder.

"Shut that idiot’s mouth! Make him... reap—what—he—goddamned—sowed!" Richard emphasized each and every word he shouted.

Once again, returning to the changing room, O’Neill looked at the players—suddenly unsure of what to say. freeweɓnøvel.com

After all, he had already given his: ’Stick to the plan, stay sharp—and stay hungry. That will be enough.’ instructions.

So he decided to change his approach.

He walked over to the tactics board, dragging it to the center with a screech of the wheels. With a quiet click, he started rearranging the magnetic player pieces—midfielders nudging closer, the backline tightening, a lone striker pulled slightly wider.

No words yet.

Just the faint clack of magnets.

Then he looked up and tapped the board twice.

"We control the tempo. We press them out of the game. We punish their mistakes."

"..."

Everyone was taken aback by this sudden change. Even Robetrson and the rest of the staff fell silent.

Of course, before the pre-match talk, the backroom staff had already discussed all of this. This was how O’Neill usually did things. So they were surprised to see this sudden shift—but none of them voiced it.

O’Neill rubbed his temples slowly, then let out a short breath. He stepped away from the board and turned back to face them fully. He decided to tell them what just happened. Perhaps, it could have quite a considerable effect on them.

"Does anyone know who that call was from—or who I just met outside?"

No one nodded. No one shook their heads either. Just silence.

O’Neill let the quiet stretch for a second, then said evenly, "It was the chairman."

"..."

Everyone focused their attention on O’Neill, wanting to listen to what he had to say.

"Let’s just say he’s not in the best mood right now," O’Neill said, pausing as he gathered his thoughts. "He’s furious with the Brentford top brass. Apparently, they looked down on us—claimed the only reason we finished above them last season was because they were exhausted. Too many fixtures, too many competitions, while we only had one to focus on."

"..."

"Especially now that they’ve bolstered their squad with an ex-Premier League player, they believe they can tame us. So tell me—are we easy to tame?"

"IMPOSSIBLE!!!"

Cafu, the new captain, stood up instantly. To be honest, as a new captain, he felt a bit awkward, not knowing what to do. But thankfully, O’Neill had given him a chance just now.

The other players followed suit, standing with determination.

"That’s right!"

That’s right!!"

"That’s why—"

The Game Plan.

Exploit the Flanks.

"Using what we do best, Cafu and Roberto will push hard on the left and right, stretching them wide to expose the middle."

He turned to the players, his gaze sharp.

"Ronaldo, one-on-one situations. Direct runs. No hesitation. Make them panic. Make them uncomfortable."

Press Aggressively.