The Savage Manchester Derby
The Manchester Derby was turning into a brutal slugfest right from the kickoff. Etihad Stadium crackled with clashing blue and red energy, like it was about to explode.
As expected, City dominated possession early on. The ball started at Rodri's toes, flowed through me to Bernardo Silva and Foden, relentlessly pounding United's half. But today's United defense was on another level—not their usual sloppy shit.
"...Look at this?"
Right in front of me, Casemiro blocked the lane with his rock-solid frame, while teenage prodigy Kobbie Mainoo erased my passing angles with veteran positioning. Every time I got the ball, two or three of them swarmed me in a suffocating press.
And Bruno Fernandes was all in on defense, shadowing our engine Bernardo Silva like a pitbull. Even silky Benasil, who usually danced out of pressure, struggled against his Portugal teammate's dirty mind games and physical battles, flashing frustrated gestures nonstop.
These bastards are serious today.
Today's United wasn't the loose screw-up team from before. Their backline was airtight, midfield rock-solid. A thought flashed through my head.
Not the dumbasses... has Manchester United actually come back for real?
Pep's instructions were clear even in the scrap: smash through midfield and feed Haaland. But as the game dragged into the 20th minute, things unfolded nothing like we'd planned.
"Ryan! Behind!"
Rodri's shout hit just as a massive shadow loomed over my back. Casemiro again. This prick wasn't even going for the ball—just subtly stomping my plant foot and slamming his shoulder into me in a blatant shove.
And that kid Mainoo was sprinting like a maniac, sticking his foot in every passing lane. Three red jerseys piled on every time I touched it. Midfield was clogged.
Glancing sideways, Bernardo looked ragged too. National team buddy Bruno was blatantly nudging his ankles, riling him up. Weren't these guys teammates on Portugal? Bruno shoved Benasil's chest when the ref wasn't looking, trash-talking nonstop.
Crazy... these dumbass pricks.
Our prized tactics kept breaking under United's rough press.
At the 35th minute, in the midst of the frustration, opportunity knocked. As Casemiro shoved my left shoulder, I faked a back pass, then spun sharply, threading the ball between Mainoo's legs.
A split-second gap. I fired a low, sharp through ball to Bernardo bursting into half-space.
"Benasil!"
My call synced perfectly—Silva trapped it, nutmegged United's fullback with his signature short dribble, then lofted a pinpoint cross to Erling Haaland charging the box.
Haaland turned his back to the defender, trying to trap it with his brute strength, when United's center-back Lisandro Martinez launched a reckless tackle from behind.
Thwack!
It sounded like it clipped his ankle, not the ball. Haaland tumbled to the turf. Every soul in the Etihad surged up, roaring "Penalty!"
But the ref's whistle stayed silent. No foul. Haaland popped up in disbelief, charging the ref, but Lisandro and Dalot got to him first, yelling.
"Get up, you fake Viking bastard! Go to Hollywood if you're gonna flop like that!"
"A big lug like you going down from that? Have some shame!"
Haaland's face flushed crimson. He shoved Lisandro's chest hard.
"That's not a foul? What the hell are your eyes for! You nearly snapped my ankle!"
Both teams piled in instantly. Bruno was next to the ref with his signature aggrieved face, pointing and snitching. Casemiro pretended to calm Haaland while slyly shoving his shoulder.
I jumped into the melee too, blocking Lisandro to pull Haaland back.
"Hey, ease up."
I glared at Lisandro with the eyes of a lion eyeing prey. He smirked slyly and whispered,
"Fuck off."
"The hell...?" I was thrown for a sec. Replay showed Lisandro nicking the ball first before Haaland touched it. These dumbasses were locking us down too well today—if they countered now...
That unease hit just as chaos erupted from my feet. 42nd minute. A pass meant for Foden deflected off Mainoo's leg, rolling straight to Casemiro. United's attack exploded forward in sync.
"Back to the box! Defend!"
Nathan Aké's scream pierced the air. Casemiro lofted it long without looking—right to Garnacho on the flank.
Aké chased like mad, but Garnacho kept tempo, one-touching to Bruno cutting centrally. Chilling interplay. Bruno chipped it over the defense using his momentum.
Waiting there: United's No. 9, Rasmus Højlund.
Perfect run splitting Dias and Stones. The ball magnetized to his chest. One touch created the angle, putting him 1v1 with Ederson. Etihad's blue air froze.
Not today, prosthetic leg—please...
I gripped my heart, staring at his foot. Højlund unleashed a rocket left-footed shot. The impact thundered in my ears.
BAM—!
But instead of rippling the net, the ball rocketed into the upper stands, smashing a fan's beer cup.
"Huh...?"
Prime open goal—even aiming corner would’ve gone in. He blasted it skyward like a missile. United's lethal break evaporated in futility, silencing Etihad a heartbeat ago.
"Arghhh!"
Højlund clutched his head, collapsing. Ten Hag hurled his water bottle from the bench. Ederson, spared by miracle, roared to the stands, clutching his chest.
Rodri sidled up with a dry chuckle.
"Thank Ryan. That prick just saved us."
I rubbed my face, nodding. United's tactics were flawless: midfield steal, flank switch, central run. But their No. 9's foot betrayed him to dumbass instinct.
That's Højlund for ya.
Relief snapped me alert. Whistle blew—halftime. 0-0.
Players filed off with murder in their eyes. Taunting chants from United fans mixed with City boos exploding from the stands.
Pep Guardiola's face twisted in the tunnel. Heavy breaths and curses filled the air. He glared at his tactics board like it was about to blow, already scheming second-half destruction.
I spat and stepped in.
Yeah, this is the Manchester Derby.
If we couldn't smash that red wall, Manchester's king might change hands tonight.
The locker room door flew open like it might shatter as Pep Guardiola stormed in. His face was beet-red, like a ripe octopus, veins bulging on his forehead ready to snap.
He hurled the towel bundle by the tactics board to the floor.
"Sit down! Everybody SIT DOWN!"
No logical tactics talk today. Pep paced the center like a madman, glaring into every player's eyes. The room filled with panting breaths as his tirade exploded.
"What the hell are you doing? Huh? Is this soccer? This ain't soccer! It's a street brawl! They kick ankles and spit in faces, so you do the same? Where's our tactics? Where's the space we prepared?!"
Pep stormed to Haaland, still sitting with injustice and rage on his face. Haaland shut his mouth under the pressure.
"Erling! You a fighter now? Lisandro baits you, and you dance right along? That's what he wants! You rage out and lose focus! Instead of whining to the ref, run one more cut! Penalty? Don't count on that shit! Shove the ball in the net—that's it!"
Pep's eyes turned to me. Ah... I let out a short sigh.