CHAPTER 431: FROM DARK HORSE TO CHAMPION

Richard had a reason for choosing Martin O’Neill—who was managing a modest side like Wycombe Wanderers—over more famous names when he brought City into the Premier League. The choice underscored the squad’s depth and O’Neill’s talent for bringing the best out of individual players.

It’s not about some tactical masterstroke or revolutionary system—rather, it was about man-management, motivation, and O’Neill’s uncanny ability to make every player feel important. For example, contrast that with how future Manchester United experimented with Ruben Amorim’s 3-4-3 system to test their compatibility.

Tell me—what was Manchester United’s actual win–loss ratio? How much money did they spend in every transfer window, often justifying it by saying they needed to replace ’toxic’ players? And in the end, what really happened?

Richard remembered clearly the peak of Manchester United fans’ frustration when Amorim stuck firmly to his plan. There’s your coach, with a clear idea, determined to deliver it without flip-flopping to suit the players—because constant changes can undermine what you’re trying to achieve.

But then suddenly, in the middle of a match, you see five or six positional shifts, and by the end, an attacking midfielder is being pushed out wide as a left wing-back. Sorry, that just can’t work for him.

Tactical identity is unclear, and the current system changes are seen by many as jarring. Players often look unsure, sometimes misused in the wrong positions, with roles that shift inconsistently. High expectations combined with poor performances have created morale problems, while the psychological strain continues to erode confidence in both the squad and the staff.

Perhaps most damaging of all is the sense that the players themselves have begun to doubt the system and everything happening around them.

Richard had learned well from Manchester United’s failures by the time he took over City, when they were still battling in the Second Division. In his eyes, what City needed wasn’t flashy systems or clever tactical tricks, but a reformed mentality—both institutionally and on the pitch

When the club and its fans began to develop genuine self-confidence, they started to believe that City were no longer outsiders but, at the very least, on par with the giants of the game—Manchester United, Juventus, Bayern Munich, or Real Madrid. It was a shift in identity as much as ambition: the sense that they truly belonged among Europe’s elite

The key was mentality.

After scoring, Ronaldo didn’t waste a second on celebration. He ignored the slumped Madrid defenders, sprinted straight into the net to scoop up the ball, and jogged it back to the center circle. His message was unmistakable: "We’re not done yet."

The clock ticked past 93 minutes. At this moment, a steady mindset was crucial.

Four minutes of stoppage time had been shown, and now even that had nearly expired. The Amsterdam Arena settled into an unusual state of "peace."

Both sides grew cautious, each wary of being undone by a sudden counter-attack. At this stage, conceding would have been nothing short of fatal.

Neither team dared commit numbers forward. Instead, they leaned on flashes of individual brilliance, hoping that a single moment of magic could break the deadlock. One extraordinary performance might still tilt the balance.

But no one could have imagined it: with just over a minute left of the allotted ninety-five, Manchester City were still chasing a fourth goal so suddenly.

Buffon, far off his line, played the role of sweeper-keeper, booting the ball forward and El Real scrambled to clear it, and the ball bounced awkwardly on the edge of their penalty area.

Ronaldo, already the hero with two late goals, picked it up on the left-hand side. His energy was astonishing; while others’ legs had turned to lead, he looked as if he had just stepped onto the pitch. Driving at Salgado, he danced into a pocket of space—only to be bundled over near the edge of the box.

PHWEEEE!~

The referee’s whistle pierced through the chaos. Free kick to Manchester City.

It was the 95th minute—the very last chance. If this opportunity failed and the ball went out, they would have no choice but to play an additional thirty minutes of extra time.

By this stage of the match, apart from the cautious approach both teams had taken in the final minutes of regulation, City had been relentlessly offensive, putting Real Madrid under constant pressure with fierce attacks.

Both sides were physically exhausted. After all, no matter how strong a football player is, they had run for more than ninety minutes; surely, they would have run out of steam, right?

O’Neill found himself regretting his decision to follow Mourinho’s advice and instruct the team to go all out attack. The weariness he had anticipated never materialized; instead, the game intensified, pushing both teams beyond their limits.

Not only had City reached their physical limits, but Real Madrid had as well. Yet as City pushed into a more attacking stance, their already exhausted players rapidly drained what little stamina they had left.

As everyone knows, defending at this stage of the game demanded even more. Even a single lapse could be fatal. One misjudged tackle or a half-step late, and City’s players would exploit it immediately. That pressure compounded fatigue, turning every second into a mental and physical battle. Players were forced to bend, lunge, and stretch repeatedly, often without a moment to recover. The mind and body both screamed, yet the clock showed no mercy.

It was different when attacking. Yes, pressing forward was exhausting, but attackers had moments of control—they decided when to accelerate, when to pause, when to probe for openings. They could shape the play, dictate the tempo, and, in small bursts, conserve energy.

Defenders, by contrast, had no such luxury. Every attack demanded an instant reaction. Every feint, every flick of the ball, every sudden change of direction forced them to adjust on the fly. There was no pause, no choice—only response. Mental strain amplified the physical toll; a single lapse could undo all their work, and the fear of making a mistake only increased the effort required to stay perfect.

Every camera zoomed in.

Zidane placed the ball carefully on the grass, his eyes fixed on Real Madrid’s makeshift defensive line, which shuffled nervously inside the penalty box. In the middle, Redondo screamed at his teammates to stay alert, while Sanchís waved his arms frantically, pointing to runners.

Observing all of this, Zidane stepped back, took three long strides, and whipped in a curling delivery with his right foot. The ball arced dangerously toward the penalty spot.

Chaos.

The Ball into the Box

The first Madrid header cleared only half the danger. The ball dropped into the crowd of bodies, bouncing awkwardly like a pinball.

Cannavaro lunged for it, so did Hierro. It bounced again, rolling toward Lampard—Manchester City’s utility man, their unsung soldier, who had spent much of his career filling gaps left by others.

As the ball looped toward him, time seemed to fracture. The sound inside the Amsterdam Arena was swallowed by anticipation—a hollow gasp from ninety thousand throats. Lampard darted forward, the Madrid backline already leaning the other way, fooled by his movement.

He stretched, sliding into the ball with everything he had. His right foot connected—not with power, but with precision—guiding it high into the roof of the net before Cañizares could react.

"What the...?!" Richard shot up instantly, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.

For a second—just one frozen heartbeat—there was silence.

And then the world exploded.

"LAMPARD—into the box!... It’s loose!... Lampard!... GOAL! GOOOOAL! FRANK LAMPARD! UNBELIEVABLE! MANCHESTER CITY HAVE DONE IT! FROM THE IMPOSSIBLE, THE MIRACLE IS REAL! THE AMSTERDAM ARENA ERUPTS!"

The words of the commentators were nearly drowned out by the sheer noise of the crowd. It was not so much sound as a physical force, a wall of noise that rattled the stadium’s ancient steel and concrete. People screamed, wept, and tumbled over seats.

On the pitch, City players didn’t care anymore. Lampard ripped away from the crowd, sprinting in circles before collapsing onto the grass in disbelief. Zidane, the quiet genius, raised both arms to the heavens, as if acknowledging something divine had just taken place.

Minute 90+5.

Manchester City 4 – Real Madrid 3

Soon, Lampard was engulfed by a tidal wave of teammates, dragged down into a heap of bodies. He had just etched his name into football eternity.

On the other side, Real Madrid were statues. Karembeu sank to his knees, staring into the distance as if someone had stolen his soul. Seedorf threw his head back and closed his eyes. Cañizares remained rooted in goal, arms half-raised, as though hoping time might rewind and give him one more chance.

Salgado, Redondo, and Morientes screamed at the referee, gesturing for offside, for a foul—anything—but their protests were swallowed by the chaos. Raul buried his face in his shirt.

For Real Madrid, it’s a bitter disappointment. Their nightmare was complete. La Décima was thwarted. History had been rewritten. Their dream of a Champions League title, which had eluded them for 32 years, was completely shattered by this goal.

In the English commentary box, the broadcasters spoke with excitement, but focused on the facts.

"English clubs have returned to the top of European football after fourteen years. The last Champions League title for an English team was won by Liverpool in 1984. During the intervening years, English clubs faced challenges in European competitions and often struggled against the continent’s strongest teams. Today, Manchester City has claimed the title, marking a significant achievement for English football."