Fulham's Pep Virus - First-Half Heartbreaker
Fulham match, Pep Virus.
In the 2nd minute, Fulham's attackers Rodrigo Muniz and Iwobi came charging like madmen. The second Rodri's pass went astray, Fulham's left-back Anthony Robinson started bombing down the touchline.
"Ryan! Check Robinson!"
I'd already twisted my body that way before Dias even shouted.
As Robinson whipped in a sharp ground cross to Andreas Pereira in the middle, I cut it off with instinctive movement that bypassed my brain entirely.
Thwack!
The ball caught the tip of my boot.
I fed the snatched ball straight to Rodri and sprinted into the half-space. 5th minute.
Man City's pass-and-move started clicking. Just as Pep instructed, I took position in the awkward gap between Fulham's defensive mids Berge and Issa Diop.
"Ryan, here!"
Marmoush's pass came my way. The moment I received it, I used Berge's pressing force against him for a slick turn.
I stabbed a diagonal killer pass toward Haaland surging forward. Fulham's Calvin Bassey barely flung himself to block it.
15th minute.
Chaos after a corner. Timothy Castagne grabbed the ball flowing back and pumped it into the box again. Harry Wilson, subbed on for Willian, timed up a vicious left-footed shot.
A trajectory Ederson couldn't react to with his view blocked.
Dias hurled himself at it.
Thud!
The ball ricocheted off Dias's chest and spun out over the touchline.
20th minute.
Fulham's brutal press clashed head-on with City's precise escapes, and 20 minutes ticked by in a deadlock. The scoreboard still read 0-0. The stadium air was electric—one spark and it'd explode. 22nd minute.
Fulham's Sander Berge started man-marking me exclusively. In the rough tussle, his elbow slyly grazed the bandage above my eyebrow.
"Move it, you prick."
I couldn't help but smirk at Berge's taunt. This guy's hoping I'll snap and charge him—wrong target.
"After you."
As we crossed the 25th minute, Manchester City's signature suffocating soccer began infiltrating Craven Cottage's pitch. City players didn't miss the tiniest dip in Fulham's press intensity.
27th minute.
Rodri, circulating in midfield, caught my eye and shoved a short, sharp pass my way. Berge still shadowed me like a ghost, but I'd already visualized the next play.
Just before receiving, I twisted my body slightly right, toppling Berge's balance. A light touch on the ball, and I spun. I felt Berge's hand swipe my jersey and slice empty air.
From the half-space, I sliced a low, quick ground pass through to the left flank, piercing between three defenders right to Marmoush's toe.
Marmoush shook Fulham's full-back Timothy Castagne with his rhythmic dribbling. Feinted inside, then outside again. The moment Castagne's feet tangled, Marmoush low-driven it into the box.
Haaland took it with his back to defender Bassey, executed a crisp half-turn, and unleashed a thunderous left-footed shot. Bernd Leno stretched, but the net rippled violently.
I rushed to Haaland for a high-five.
"Told ya it was me!"
"Hell yeah! You chaotic bastard!"
The sky-blue waves in the stands surged wildly. The momentum was ours—I could feel it. But the joy was short-lived; the vibe turned weird. As we finished celebrating and headed to halfway, the ref wasn't going to the center circle. He had a hand to his ear. Fulham players protested en masse, and the stadium roar died instantly.
The ref jogged to the on-pitch review monitor with a stern face. Pep Guardiola clutched his head, protesting to the fourth official. My heart rate spiked again.
Please. That sequence was perfect.
The ref returned from the monitor, drew a massive rectangle in the air, and signaled a Fulham free kick.
Ah, shit.
I laughed hollowly, scratching my head. Fulham fans roared like they'd scored, and the fire reignited in their players' eyes. 40th minute. The flow twisted after the disallowance.
Near halfway, I shrugged off Berge's marking to possess the ball. Spotting Marmoush bursting left, I pinged it to the flank. He controlled it but got swarmed immediately—Andreas Pereira charged in at ludicrous speed and poked it away.
Poke!
"Ah...!"
Pereira fed it straight to Alex Iwobi up top. Our back four scrambled, but Fulham's wingers hugged the line. Iwobi cut central, rolling it to Rodrigo Muniz waiting at the edge of the box.
Dias dove desperately, but Muniz was clever. Feigned a shot, then no-looked it to Harry Wilson storming from the right.
Ederson narrowed the angle and charged, but Wilson's lefty curled tape-measure precise into the far post corner.
Swish!
Devastating. The white waves in the stands seemed to mock me. Pep hurled a water bottle from the touchline, bellowing something.
44th minute.
We countered like demons right after conceding. I grabbed it at the center circle and lofted long to Haaland, but Fulham had parked the bus in twin deep lines.
Near the box, I flailed for any gap. Berge and Pereira sandwiched me, stripping the ball. Rodri won it back—chaos ensued. Attacks blocked back and forth until the ref's whistle pierced the stadium.
Preeeee—
Preeee— Preeeek—!
I braced my knees, exhaling hard. Nothing weighs heavier than entering the locker room down 1-0. Glanced at the board. Forty-five minutes left. We could flip it anytime. But seeing Pep's blazing eyes, a normal halftime break seemed unlikely.