Rival Schadenfreude and the Bratislava Breeze
Champions League league phase, round 2 against Bratislava. November was right around the corner, and all that was left was the final ministry audit announcement. Judging by the schedule, it'd come after the Leicester City match. The next game was the Champions League league phase opponent: Slovan Bratislava.
Coldly speaking, it was a matchup so lopsided I didn't even feel the need to skim the reports from the power analysts. Playing at home, the objective gap in strength was already galactic—straight to Andromeda. For us, the Bratislava game wasn't a tactical proving ground so much as a rest period to manage our depleted stamina from the packed league schedule, just sweating it out a bit.
Maybe that's why the training ground air felt lighter than usual. During free time, players gathered in a circle around table tennis, but instead of tomorrow's opponent, the names of our rivals—who'd been flopping side by side—dominated the chatter.
This top-of-the-table leisure was something I'd never experienced in my previous life, so I figured we needed a touch of tension and tossed out a topic.
"Liverpool though—what the hell are they doing? They bring in Wirtz and Isak, and all they get is draws."
My offhand remark got Silva, practicing table tennis, chuckling as he replied.
"Right? Wirtz threads the needle, Isak makes the run, and they can't break a single Brighton low block for a 0-0? For that kind of money, my nephew in the stands could've scored one."
Haaland, who'd slotted in Grealish for a goal, chimed in.
"Isak seemed scarier back at Newcastle, honestly. Put him in a Liverpool kit, and suddenly the kid's all tame."
Rodri, listening from the side, nodded and added his two cents.
"That's Liverpool's limit. Give 'em prime ingredients, but the chef can't season worth shit—how do they win? And Arsenal? Drawing Everton is straight-up talent-level failure, no?"
The fire naturally shifted to Arsenal, exactly as I'd hoped, so I piled on.
"Arteta's hobby is copying us, but this time he even copied our draws. True disciple—loyalty like that is unmatched."
The training ground erupted in laughter at my jab. Truth be told, we weren't in a position to laugh, but everyone sucking together was just funny.
"Point is, even if we shit the bed, we're still first."
Haaland kept it light, bouncing the ping-pong ball casually.
"We scrape a point even at rock bottom and hold the top spot, but those guys can't capitalize even when we hand 'em chances. That's real clown certification."
"Spot on. Let's take it out on Bratislava tomorrow. Especially you, Marmoush."
I poked Marmoush in the ribs, and he scratched the back of his head, embarrassed.
"Tomorrow, hat-trick for real. No hitting the post."
"Yeah, hitting the post is a skill too—Fulham was just bad luck. Let's do it tomorrow."
Instead of poring over tactics for Bratislava, we snickered over our rivals' downfall like it was appetizers. If this were Celta Vigo, we'd get called arrogant, but now we're Man City. When the bastards run like cheetahs, we just laugh from behind.
The leisure born from the absolute gap: a team that holds first on draws versus ones that need wins just to keep up.
Even amid this cocky banter, their table tennis focus was elite. Mouths loose, bodies mechanical. My thoughts drifted briefly to Liverpool's genius midfielder anchoring their midfield.
Florian Wirtz.
The all-time talent from Germany, the commander who'd led Leverkusen to an unbeaten title. When I heard Liverpool shelled out big for him, even I felt a stir deep down. As a fellow midfielder, I'd watched his Bundesliga demolition clips intently.
He was that good.
The touch to possess in tight spaces. Killer passes threading defenders like paper. That brain reading the game's flow. Even as a peer, his play sent chills—refined, beautiful.
So why's he powerless at Liverpool?
The Brighton game was the same. His feet seemed oddly out of sync with the team's gears. Adaptation issue? Post-Klopp tactics clashing with Leverkusen's style? Or the Premier League's brutal pressing taming his genius for now?
True geniuses prove it eventually.
Once he melts into the tactics and owns this league's tempo, Liverpool gets a monster weapon. Then Wirtz might mock my laughed-off clown draws by terrorizing the whole league.
Hurry up and rise, Wirtz. That's when devouring you tastes best.
Watching touted geniuses crash is fun, but nothing beats the dopamine of crushing them at peak form under my boot. Can't wait for the Wirtz matchup.
"Ryan! Pep's coming!"
"Shut your mouths—Pep's here."
Pep? During free time?
Spotting the shiny bald silhouette from afar, we zipped our lips like we'd rehearsed.
The Champions League anthem boomed majestically, and the scoreboard lit up with Manchester City's somewhat experimental lineup.
17th minute.
— Bratislava counter chance? Pass from midfield! But—
— Ryan! He read it! Like he'd pre-set a net on the passing lane. Casual foot extension—ball snatched.
— Steals and instantly threads forward! Perfect to Savinho on the right!
— Savinho goes! Facing the fullback—flashy steps! Sells him! Cuts inside, fools two defenders! Pure Brazilian rhythm!
— Savinho into the box! Shoots? Spots surging Ryan opposite! Cutback!
— Ryan! Unmarked!
— Ryan——!!! GOAL!!! Net-shredding rocket! 17th minute—Man City strikes first! 1-0!
— Clean as hell. Ryan's intercept, Savinho's cracker instinct, Ryan's unmarked finish like "when'd he steal it?" Textbook from the tactics board.
— Haaland on the bench giving standing ovation!
Long time since he scored, but what if the opponent was tougher or the stakes higher? I high-fived the charging Savinho and glanced at the bench. Pep gave a short cheer. His bald head seemed to shine extra with satisfaction.
First half was one-sided half-court ball. Bratislava barely touched it, gasping in City's pass hell—with me at the center.
30th minute.
— 30 minutes in, possession near 8-2. City circling patiently, probing gaps.
— Ryan grabs it in midfield—Bratislava defense backs off. See it now."
— Ryan creeps forward. One marker? Shakes him easy! Bit of distance... shoots!
— Ooh! Ryan's cannon mid-ranger!
KABOOM—!
The ball on my instep sliced air. Keeper dove, but it hit the post instead.
— Ah!! Post! But ball's alive! Savinho surges from right, collects!
— Savinho—no angle, but blasts second ball!
— Keeper body hit, deflects! Chaos in the box!
In the pile-up of defenders and keeper, one man charged.
— Marmoush! Pushes the loose ball into empty net! GOAL! Omar Marmoush adds the second! 2-0!
— That's top-team focus. Ryan's shot sparks it, Savinho chases to the end. Marmoush waits like it's a walk in the park, feasts. Football this easy?
— Despair for Bratislava.
I ruffled Marmoush's hair as he ran over cheering.
"Thanks to me."
He flashed white teeth in a grin at my joke.