CHAPTER 432: LIFTING THE TROPHY, LIFTING THE FALLEN

Real Madrid players collapsed onto the turf after a minute of relentless battle and a brutal penalty shootout. Faces streaked with sweat and tears reflected every shade of defeat—some were numb with disbelief, some openly mournful, and others had eyes reddened from holding back tears.

Heynckes walked slowly onto the field, placing a hand on each player’s shoulder, murmuring quiet words of comfort. Inside, he felt the sting of the loss just as sharply, but his years had taught him to mask it, to shoulder the burden for the team. "We will come again," he said firmly, looking each player in the eye.

Of course, Heynckes knew that his journey with Real Madrid had come to an end. Finishing third in the league and as runners-up in the Champions League meant there would be no European Cup next season. The club simply couldn’t tolerate his record this year. With the club ending the year without a trophy, even if he had wanted to stay, he knew Sanz would likely relieve him of his duties after this defeat. Still, abandoning his players was unthinkable. He remained on the pitch with them, sharing their grief, silently promising that this wasn’t the end.

In the stands, Manchester City fans were in a frenzy, their cheers shaking the stadium as they watched their beloved team reach the pinnacle of European football.

"Show me the way to Amsterdam,

Where we won the Champions League final,

Ronaldo scored and we won it all.

Sha la la la la la la la City,

Ronaldo’s on fire,

Your defence is terrified.

Sha la la la la la la la City.

Ronaldo’s on fire,

Your defence is terrified."

In this moment, it seemed as if they could leave the world content, having witnessed history.

It took Richard a long moment to fully grasp what had just happened. The joy of winning the championship didn’t bring him to tears. Strangely enough, while many fans in the stands—and even some players on the field—had misty eyes, he remained strangely composed, absorbing the victory in quiet awe.

On the field, players embraced one another. Larsson, having hugged Lennon, approached O’Neill from behind, gripping his calves with both hands. He ducked his head under the poor man’s legs and stood up, lifting him onto his shoulders.

Larsson stripped to the waist, revealing his strong muscles as he carried O’Neill toward the City fan section.

"Hey, hey, Henrik, you don’t need to do this!" O’Neill called down.

But Larsson and Lennon dismissed him, laughing heartily. "But they love it!"

Sure enough, other City players and fans in the stands joined in, collectively singing the song as they celebrated the victory. The amazing scene took everyone’s breath away—it was utterly shocking and unforgettable.

Led by Carl Morran, the Blazing Squad fan club suddenly erupted into song, their voices roaring across the stadium as they spotted the target.

By the end of the day, O’Neill was drenched—not from sweat, but from beer. The Players had playfully drenched him in celebration, splashing mugs and bottles in all directions. Foam dripped down his face and soaked his clothes, but he laughed along with them, the sheer joy of victory overriding any discomfort.

"Son! Son! Son!"

Richard had almost left the VIP box when he heard the familiar, excited voices. His father, mother, brother, and wife, Adam Lewis, and even Miss Rowling and her daughter were all waiting to see him. Earlier, Richard had been tied up with work discussions with Marina and Miss Heysen, and they had arranged a separate box so that he could focus. Now, finally, he could join his loved ones.

He turned to them, a tired smile breaking across his face. His mother’s eyes glistened, his father’s chest heaved with pride, and his brother grinned ear to ear. Adam clapped him on the shoulder, laughing despite the emotion, while Miss Rowling’s daughter bounced up and down beside her mother, barely able to contain her excitement.

"Son, you are incredible! It’s the final! The final!" his father, Bryan, shouted, his voice thick with emotion.

A wave of warmth and relief washed over Richard. He embraced each of them in turn, holding them close, letting their love and pride anchor him. In that moment, all the stress, all the struggle, and all the sacrifices felt worth it.

"Dad, Mom, you can stay here for now. There’s something I have to do first," Richard said hurriedly, glancing toward the pitch.

"Go on, then—do what you need to," Anna, his mother replied, stepping back with a nod, her eyes still full of pride

Richard had to exert considerable effort to pull his father away, knowing that otherwise he might miss—and forever regret—something important.

Along the tunnel, the UEFA guests were mostly unfamiliar faces to Richard, but that didn’t stop him from exchanging a few polite words. Eventually, Lennart Johansson, a member of UEFA’s Legal & Disciplinary Committee—someone who had once clashed with him—bent down for a long conversation, offering his congratulations.

"I hear you fought your way to become UEFA president?"

"It’s all thanks to you," Johansson mumbled, humbling himself as Richard praised him.

Remembering how they had clashed in the past, Richard noticed the corner of Johansson’s mouth twitch.

"Good luck on your journey to the presidency," Richard added.

"Thank you," Johansson replied, his tone sincere.

They were just about to part when Richard suddenly remembered something.

"Hey Lennart, by the way, help me with something," Richard said, leaning in slightly before they finally bid each other farewell.

While everyone’s attention was fixed on the Manchester City players and their jubilant fans, Richard slipped past unnoticed, speaking briefly with UEFA staff before finally being allowed onto the pitch. Yet, he didn’t move toward the celebrations. Instead, he walked quietly to where Roberto Carlos had slumped, staring at the sky in a daze.

"Roberto," Richard called softly, reaching out his hand for him to grasp.

Back in Italy, after leaving Manchester City, every day felt like a nightmare for Roberto Carlos. Even though he had scored a 30-yard free kick on his debut, his season at Inter was unsuccessful, with the club finishing seventh in Serie A.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t good enough for Serie A, but Roy Hodgson wanted him to play as a winger, while Roberto Carlos preferred to play as a left back. In the end, Roberto Carlos spoke to Inter owner Massimo Moratti to see if they could sort things out, and it soon became clear that the only solution was to leave.

He had never imagined that after joining Real Madrid he would reach the Champions League final, experiencing moments like this—moments that should have marked the peak of his life. He had thought it would take years even to get there, to have a chance at winning the Champions League, but he had never anticipated the depth of this pain. The feeling of loss was utterly crushing.

After Roberto Carlos grasped Richard’s hand, Richard said nothing. He simply embraced him, patting his back gently. Tears streamed down Roberto Carlos’s face the moment he felt Richard’s arms around him.

It was a quietly powerful moment, unnoticed by most in the chaos of celebration around the pitch.

The first to truly notice it were members of ITV’s football commentary team, who, from the stands, caught sight of Richard holding Roberto Carlos in a solemn, encouraging embrace.

"Interesting," said Clive Tyldesley, senior commentator for ITV. "Rumor has it that Roberto Carlos, Cafu, and Ronaldo were three Brazilian players directly recruited by Richard Maddox. Looking at them now, I’d say that rumor is far from baseless."

When the cameras focused on Richard and Roberto Carlos as they hugged, everyone around watched curiously—especially Richard, who drew the most attention from international fans.

"You’ve carried teams before, you’ve inspired everyone around you. Today, we didn’t win the trophy, but the way you played, the way you led—people will remember that. Remember this: one game doesn’t define you—or us. You gave everything out there. That’s what matters. You’ll get another shot. I promise you, you’ll come back stronger," Richard said encouragingly.

What a joke—this is Real Madrid we’re talking about. Manchester City may have won this year, okay, but next year? The probability is probably less than 50%!

Soon, the City players who had noticed Richard began approaching one by one, each giving Roberto Carlos a heartfelt hug before he finally bid farewell. Once Richard finished embracing the City players, he stood alone in the technical area with his hands on his hips, gazing at the podium where the awards would soon be presented.

The surrounding cameras zoomed in on the ceremony as it began. The audience on either side applauded in unison for the City players, and Richard also clapped proudly for his team.

UEFA’s Johansson bent down for a long conversation with O’Neill before finally draping the medal around his neck.

After the ceremony—

"Coach, over here!"

Makélélé and Zidane waved him over, while Zanetti tried to coax O’Neill back to lift the trophy with them. But O’Neill had already slipped away to ITV’s commentary desk. His jacket was still damp, his trousers smeared with grass stains—signs of the chaos and passion of the night.

He sat down, adjusting the headset as the reporters leaned forward, notebooks and microphones at the ready.

Reporter: "Coach, before the match, most of us predicted Manchester City would play a defensive, counter-attacking game. Yet tonight we saw an aggressive, attacking style. Why the change?"

O’Neill chuckled softly, the lines around his eyes crinkling.

O’Neill: "I’ve said many times—I’m not a rigid coach. Every match and every opponent is different. I use the approach I think suits us best. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Tonight, it worked. The players executed the plan brilliantly, and that’s why we’re champions."

There was a ripple of nods across the room. Some reporters even whispered that, if not for City’s bad luck, the game would have been finished inside ninety minutes.

Reporter: "And what about Real Madrid’s performance? How would you evaluate them?"

O’Neill: "They were a fantastic opponent. Honestly, their finishing ability is stronger than ours. We created more chances, but after ninety minutes it was still 3–3. In the end, a bit of luck was on our side."

A murmur swept the room. One journalist leaned forward with a pointed question.

Reporter: "Luck? But coach, Manchester City has just won its first Champions League—only two years after joining the Premier League. Are you saying this historic trophy was simply luck? And what about next year? With such a young squad, surely you’re already thinking about a second, maybe even a third?"

O’Neill paused, his expression thoughtful. Then he shook his head firmly.

O’Neill: "No. Right now, I’m not thinking about a second Champions League. That would be disrespectful to the players. We went unbeaten this season, but this wasn’t easy—it was built on their hard work, their sacrifice, and their seriousness every single week. Talking about the next trophy would diminish what they achieved tonight. For now, my only focus is celebrating this honor with them. The future will come soon enough—when it does, we’ll deal with it then."

Seeing O’Neill still busy with the media, Makélélé and Zidane exchanged looks. Then Ronaldo wandered over with a mischievous grin, his eyes darting toward Richard.

Before long, the players had surrounded him, urging him on. After a wave of persuasion—and plenty of teasing—Richard finally sighed, raising his hands in surrender.

"Fine then," he laughed. "Since the coach is tied up, if you don’t want to lift it, plenty of us would be more than happy to take his place!"

The squad erupted in cheers, slapping his back and letting out a roar of approval. Richard’s words weren’t just accepted—they were celebrated.

Though he was the club’s owner, Richard wasn’t distant from the dressing room. As head of the performance team, he had often stayed in the City dormitory, training and eating with the players. And so, for the first time in Champions League history, it wasn’t a manager, but an owner who was invited to share the lift.

Zanetti glanced at the excited teammates, then caught Ronaldo’s eye. Zidane, Larsson, and the others nodded in agreement.

"Ready?" Zanetti asked.

The answer came in unison: "Ready!"

Together, Zanetti and Ronaldo—captain and vice-captain—gripped the handles, with Richard standing behind them. The three of them hoisted the trophy high into the air. Golden confetti rained down from the rafters, sparkling in the floodlights. The players jumped and shouted in unison, their voices carrying into the night:

"We are the champions!"

Thunderous applause thundered back from the stands. The trophy was then carried down to the pitch, where photographers jostled for position. The first group photo was taken with Richard at the center, the silver cup gleaming under the lights.

Reporters who had followed the moment stood to their feet, applauding and nodding toward Richard. Some exchanged knowing smiles—it was a historic sight, a landmark in football history. The owner, not just the manager, had been embraced by his team as one of their own.

And on this night, Manchester City’s triumph felt bigger than football—it felt like family.