Doku's Masterclass and Rodri's Nightmare
The halftime whistle blew. Score: 2-0. As expected, the gap in class was massive. The game was basically over right there.
Pep clapped me on the shoulder as we headed into the tunnel to the locker room.
"You looked sharp out there today. You'll get the second half off—got a league match this weekend."
I secretly wanted to keep playing, but there was no point wasting energy in this snoozer. I stripped off my sweat-soaked jersey, changed into training gear, and sank into the bench as the second half kicked off. Haaland, already in chill mode next to me, was chugging a Powerade and chuckling.
"Hey, Ryan. Now that you're off, the real slaughter show's starting. Doku's coming on."
Sure enough, Jeremy Doku was finishing his warm-up with that signature bouncy athleticism, stepping onto the pitch near the touchline.
The game still looked like Man City's passing drill. 55th minute of the second half.
"Rodri passes to Doku from midfield! Doku's in a one-on-one on the left flank!"
"Two Bratislava defenders on him? Oh, Doku shakes 'em! Left, right, left again! The defenders' feet are all tangled up!"
Doku's footwork was light and breezy. One shoulder fake shifted his center of gravity in an instant, sending one defender stumbling to the turf.
"Jeremy Doku! Drives straight into the box! Slips through three defenders in tight space... whoa! He threads it!"
"He's turning the defense into a freeze-frame! Keeper's rushing out—no angle though?"
"Dokuuuu—GOAL!!! What a solo run!"
From the left corner of the box, Doku unleashed a rocket that sailed over the keeper's fingertips and buried itself in the top of the far post. Overwhelming.
"This is beyond tactics! Doku cooked the entire backline and did the dishes too! Etihad's going wild!"
"Look at Bratislava's faces. This isn't soccer—it's a natural disaster. 3-0, Man City in total control!"
Watching from the bench, I let out a dry chuckle.
"Damn... sometimes it feels like they're playing a video game."
Haaland nodded at my mutter.
"Right? Doku served up the full dessert course. We can sleep like babies tonight."
Doku hit his signature dance celebration, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. 75th minute of the second half.
As Doku breezed past two defenders and whipped in a cross, I commented,
"Doku's in beast mode today."
Haaland, slamming back another Powerade, nodded in agreement.
"Yeah. Fresh off injury and already perfect. Look at that bounce—like a rubber band."
John Stones, watching from behind us, chimed in.
"Hey, Ryan. Didn't you play in Doku's spot too?"
I shrugged.
"Yeah, but I don't love hanging out wide. Prefer cutting inside from there."
Stones narrowed his eyes, intrigued.
"So if you two start together later, won't your positions overlap? You both love ball at your feet."
I glanced at the pitch and replied casually,
"Dunno. Hasn't happened much so far."
But Stones had a point.
Truth be told, Doku and I hadn't synced up much. Under Pep's rotation, we'd been artfully staggered. Even now, I'd done my job in the first half and retreated to rest, while Doku came on to party in the second.
Less overlap, more handoff.
"Doku again! Jeremy Doku! Doesn't drive this time—lays it back to Rodri!"
"Bratislava's backline flinches every time Doku touches it. Full-on Doku phobia?"
"Rodri switches long to the flank. Doku takes it!"
"Doku! Did you see that? Threading through that tight spot in the box!"
"Doku's glued to the ball today—like magnets in his boots!"
"City keeps rolling—no stopping for the fourth goal. Build-up resumes!"
Haaland set down his empty Powerade and said,
"Whatever. If we overlap, who cares? Goals are goals. Right?"
Spot on. Simple and clean. Soccer's weird like that—scream and curse all you want, but no goals means nothing. Put 'em in, though, and it ain't always skill. Complicated yet simple. That's soccer. 85th minute of the second half.
As the game wound down, Doku was still hungry.
"Sub Phil Foden lays it off easy—Doku collects! Does this guy have a motor in his boots? Non-stop!"
"One defender, two... just ghosts past 'em! Teleportation level! Cuts in along the right byline!"
"Nudges central for the left-foot angle! Shoots! Dokuuuu!!"
"GOAL!!! Jeremy Doku with a brace! Low and vicious—keeper stretched, but the ball's already rippling the net corner!"
"4-0! City's giving Bratislava a masterclass. This is soccer—teaching 'em a lesson!"
93rd minute of the second half.
"Three minutes of stoppage gone! Ref's got the whistle. Peep—peep-peep—FULL TIME!"
"UEFA Champions League league phase: Man City vs. Slovan Bratislava ends 4-0! City's perfect demolition!"
"Ryan's opener in the first, Marmoush's follow-up, then sub Doku's brace! Starters and bench blurring lines with firepower."
"Ryan dominated midfield early, set the tone, subbed smart for energy management. Pep couldn't dream better."
I stood, eyeing the 4-0 on the scoreboard, and let out a small yawn. Barely broke a sweat. Exaggeration? Maybe, but close enough.
"Good work, Jeremy."
I high-fived Doku heading to the tunnel.
"You stirred it up perfect in the first—I just picked scraps."
"Knew it. Shower up. Tomorrow, we watch Liverpool and Arsenal flail."
Pep was shaking hands with the staff, smiling content. Drew in the league? Sure. But a Champo win and Doku's form? Solid close.
Ahead of the weekend Leicester clash, the City Football Academy training ground was business as usual.
"Leicester's got nothing but Vardy, right?"
Haaland grinned at my comment.
"Vardy's a one-man army."
Phil Foden, eavesdropping, laughed and jumped in.
"Vardy's a legend, age considered."
I nodded.
"Guys like him deserve the hype."
Feeling fresher than before Fulham thanks to the early sub against Bratislava. Muscles buzzing with life.
Pep, like a man possessed, drilled quick transitions in midfield relentlessly.
Rodri anchoring, Bernardo Silva and me flanking in support drills.
Toward the end of training, in an 11v11 scrimmage. Rodri, as usual, intercepted in midfield, planted his foot to pivot—
Thud.
"Ugh!"
Rodri crumpled to the grass. No one around. Non-contact injury. The nightmare scenario for any pro.
"Medics! Medics!!"
Pep screamed, sprinting onto the pitch. The ground fell silent. Rodri clutched his right knee, face twisted. Hiss... this is bad.
"You okay? Rodri, talk to me!"
No words—just ragged breaths and a head shake. At least a month out, easy. Silver lining: Champs done, internationals not till November post-league. City'll manage.
As medics swarmed for emergency care, Pep clutched the back of his head, staring into space. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickling down.