No Black Cranes Left
"And we're underway in the second half! The first half was full of upsets. Man City dominated possession 70-30, but Fulham leads 1-0!"
"Exactly. Haaland's goal getting VAR'd off hurt City bad. Fulham lit up Craven Cottage with Harry Wilson's one shot. What magic did Pep Guardiola work in the locker room?"
The second-half whistle blew. 50th minute.
Rodri, holding the ball near the halfway line, glanced my way. I pointed to the space ahead, and his pass landed right at my toes like it was measured with a ruler.
Sander Berge shoved me rough again. Slower than the first half's exhausted slog, but this time I was quicker. I chipped the ball over his tackle and burst forward. From just outside the penalty arc, I read the ball's spin and smashed it with my laces.
Thwack!
The thud against my boot felt heavy. The ball rocketed straight, tearing through the air without spin.
"Oh! Ryan! Shoots from there!"
"Ooooh!"
"Bernd Leno stretches out with animal instincts and punches it away! Ryan looks gutted."
Damn, that should've gone in—blocked by the save. But my shot on target kickstarted Man City's precision machine again. Per Pep's orders, I roamed higher as a free role.
"Man City riding the momentum! Fulham can't even see the ball!"
"Ryan orchestrating from the middle—Fulham's backline splitting wide open. Look at that through ball to Marmoush! Calvin Bassey barely clears!"
62nd minute. Fulham's Andreas Pereira dribbling out for a counter—I ghosted in from behind, poked the ball away clean.
"Ryan's steal! Intercepted! Counter right away!"
I lofted a pass to Haaland breaking into the box. His volley smashed the post.
Tension building to the breaking point. 66th minute.
Fulham's attacks failing, all 11 jammed in the box. Even Alex Iwobi wouldn't dare cross halfway.
"This is a siege! City pounding the Fulham goal nonstop!"
"Marmoush shot—Leno saves! Corner follows, Haaland header! Fulham defense lost it."
On the corner, I collected the cleared ball and whipped it wide to Gvardiol. As defenders swarmed him, I slipped into the box's blind spot.
Opponent Issa Diop lost me. My soccer IQ exploiting their fatigue, finding the deadliest gap.
"Ryan!"
Gvardiol's cross flew to my head. Crack! I hammered it. No goal, but Leno diving full stretch—enough to draw screams from Fulham fans.
"Header! Blocked. Game's heating up!"
"Fulham's first-half fire? Gone. Question is when the equalizer drops!"
My brain raced faster than ever, solving the victory equation. Use the sluggish-legged Berge? He was still marking me man-to-man. Worth a shot—even if not, he can't keep up.
72nd minute.
"Man City knocking, but Fulham's double pivot holding firm! Berge shadowing Ryan viciously."
"Insane stamina drain. See that? Berge spitting, hands on knees—hitting his limit."
I nodded to Rodri. He circulated centrally, controlling tempo, then fired a sharp short pass as Berge stepped up to position.
Showtime.
Receiving, I feinted lightly at Berge.
Body feint right. His torso twitched that way. I dragged left, turned. He panicked, lunged off-balance. Hesitate, cut inside again.
"Wow, Ryan! Footwork clinic! Shakes Berge three times on the spot!"
"Berge's balance gone! Off-beat!"
Perfection. Stumbling Berge instinctively stuck a leg out. I timed it, nudged the ball first—and went down.
Tweet—!
Ref sprinted over, yanked yellow from his breast pocket.
"Yellow card! Ref's firm! Ryan's crafty dribbling draws Berge's booking!"
"Fishing level IQ. Berge completely toyed by Ryan's smarts."
I brushed grass off, stood, eyed panting, sweat-drenched Berge. Low voice: "Coulda let me pass nice."
Free kick, dead center arc. Bernardo Silva over it. Box chaos, walls and attackers tangled.
"Bernardo Silva lifts it! Wicked arc!"
His floater skimmed heads into melee. Bassey and Diop flung bodies; all but Ederson piled the box.
Thud! Crash!
Ball ricocheted off a back, dropped 3 meters out. Eyes locked—but the monster reacted first.
"Scramble! Where's the ball? Oh! Haaland!!"
Haaland bulldozed two clinging defenders, toed it home. No finesse corner shot—just instinct shove past Leno's hands, net rippling.
"GOOOAAAL!! Erling Haaland! Goal opens up! 1-1 equalizer!"
"Ryan's free kick pays off! Man City's persistence rewarded!"
Haaland roared. "Teammate or not, fucking monster."
I admired, zoned—Bernardo snapped me: "One more. Focus."
Right.
I bolted past cheering fans to halfway. Board: 1-1. Ten minutes left.
Community bettors' regrets echoing here.
Three points right in front of us.