Explosive Wolverhampton Rout on Gratitude Announcement Day
On the day of the official gratitude announcement, we had a match against Wolverhampton. After three straight games with two draws and a loss, we desperately needed a momentum shift—and facing relegation fodder like Wolves? Pure honey.
Pep slotted me into Rodri's spot again. Despite the Leicester loss, he clearly rated my adaptation to defensive midfield highly. But he shuffled the backline for better cover: John Stones in for the shaky Akanji.
"Man City must win today! With Arsenal and Liverpool pulling away, no more slip-ups allowed!"
"Exactly. Key to watch is Ryan's positioning. Despite the loss last game, Pep's doubling down on Ryan filling Rodri's shoes. Pairing him with Stones and Dias bolsters midfield stability."
"Ref's whistle—first half underway!"
Once the game kicked off, it felt right. Wolves sat deep, sure, but Stones kept overlapping to my side, bulking our numbers and making build-up play a breeze. I pushed forward, spraying passes to choke their breathing room.
"Here!"
I raised my hand, and Bernardo Silva's ball dropped perfectly on my instep. I spun past the charging Joao Gomes with a simple turn and rifled a long ball to Marmoush on the far side.
"Ryan looks right at home in defensive midfield now—like it was made for him. Shakes pressure, dictates attack."
35th minute. Equilibrium at 0-0 begging to shatter. I took Dias's pass from deep, turned, scanned ahead. Wolves' double pivot was tight; had to force a gap. That's class.
"Marmoush!"
I stabbed it into the half-space where he was slicing in, then surged box-center. Marmoush read it, dragged his marker, cut back—but it clipped a defender and bobbled awkwardly.
Luckily, Bernardo Silva pounced nearby. I signaled again. "BenSil! Ahead!"
His short pass landed at my feet. Edge of the arc, dead-on. Three, four defenders glued to me. Angle too acute for a shot, so I eyed beetle-backed Haaland facing goal.
No hesitation—I drilled it into his feet.
Haaland lived up to the monster rep. He shrugged off Max Kilman leeching his back with raw power, cushioned my pass with his sole, then nudged it sideways.
Right onto my run. Defenders swarming from everywhere, Jose Sa narrowing angles and rushing out.
I launched myself at the turf. Sliding, I scooped it with my sole.
Thwack!
Vibration shot through me. The ball rocketed off, threading the keeper's dive and sliding tackles into the far corner.
Splash!
The white net thrashed. Etihad erupted. "GOOOOAAAAL!!!"
"It's in! Opener! Hero is Ryan! Shatters the flow with an absolute belter!"
"Look at that buildup! Dias to Marmoush, Bernardo Silva, Ryan—and Haaland's perfect post-play finish!"
"Ryan's focus and grit hurling himself for the shot—that's what sealed it!"
Flat on the grass, fist clenched, I roared. Haaland yanked me up first, thumping my chest. "Nice finish!"
That's it. Recent slump, all the noise—gone in one blast. Who are we? Manchester City.
"40th minute. Wolves crumbling like leaves against Ryan's physicality! Midfield battle? Non-existent!"
42nd minute.
Wolves' counters bit when they came. Cunha blazed into our half at speed. Last game, that back space would've gaped—but not today. Instinct kicked in; I anticipated, dove.
Thud!
Clean tackle. Fallen Cunha stared up, gutted. I stood wordless, high-fived Stones.
"That's it! What City fans craved! Erases the space Vardy exploited last time."
"Etihad in frenzy! Washing away the third-place rage!"
The game rolled on in our one-sided siege. Clock ticked mercilessly.
45th minute.
Ball I stole in midfield flowed right to Bernardo Silva. His pinpoint left foot whipped a vicious cross into the box.
Haaland leaped high enough to flip LeBron—smacked it header-first.
Crack!
Hammer on nail. Keeper frozen; lodged top bins.
"Goal!! Haaland again! Joins Ryan's opener in the barrage!"
"Bernardo's delivery, Haaland's finish—know it, still can't stop it. But it all stemmed from Ryan blocking lanes in midfield!"
Tweeet—tweeet—TWEEEET!
Half-time whistle.
Ref's whistle ignited Etihad anew for the second half. Booth voices amped up.
"Second half kicks off. First half? City back to their vintage selves."
"Ryan plugging Rodri's hole perfectly. Stones-Dias line rock-solid too. Wolves attack suffocated."
My legs felt lighter than the first half. Pressure? Bring it—pure confidence overflowed. Stones covering let me bomb forward bolder.
72nd minute.
Our corner. Bernardo curled it in; box chaos. Haaland went high again but tangled, ball dropped.
Mayhem inside. Wolves hacking clear, we scrapping seconds. Ball ricocheted ownerless—then spilled to my feet at the arc.
Two defenders lunged.
"Outta my way."
Instinct shot.
Thump!
Heavy connection; zipped through legs like lightning. Sa, vision blocked, flailed late. Already ripped the top right.
Splash!
"Goal!! Ryan!! Him again!"
"Scrambles it home! Ryan's game of his life! 3-0—match over."
"Pulling his crisis-hit team from the abyss himself!"
I sprinted to the corner flag, dropped to knees, slid on grass. Bernardo joined the slide; Haaland ruffled my hair.
"Nice shot, Ryan!" "Good strike!"
Amid cheers, I glanced at the board: 3-0. Pushed aside the smug dominance high—after 2D1L, this turnaround was mandatory. Savor every second.
Tweeet—tweeet—TWEEEET!
Full-time at Etihad: victory horn.
"Full time! City crush Wolves 3-0 at home, snag three points!"
"Erased the slump with vintage dominance. Ryan? Untouchable. Answered Rodri worries with action."
"Spot on. Multi-goal haul—opener and dagger—plus midfield mastery on another level. MOTM: Ryan, no doubt!"
"City reignites title race. Hero Ryan saves the day in the nick of time!"
Dejected Wolves slumped on the pitch; Etihad chanted my name. "Ryan! Ryan! Ryan!"
I waved lightly to the stands. Before the win's glow faded, Pep pulled me into a bear hug.