The Giggs Hunt Begins
The second half kicked off with the Giggs hunt.
"The gaffer too..."
Alan Pardew might not have been a legendary manager, but he was a decent bloke. At least he never blamed the players for the results. It was thanks to him that I'd been able to hold onto my style and settle in quickly after coming to the English leagues.
Beep—!!
As soon as play resumed, Man United unleashed a furious onslaught. True to the strongest team, they knew exactly when and where to concentrate their power to kill off the opposition.
"Scary bastard..."
I glanced at Ferguson on the Man United bench. Playing under that man would give you the best early education in management. I had no intention of ending my soccer career as just a player. Learning from Ferguson could make me the first Eastern manager in the Premier League.
This time, United targeted our left flank. Fletcher dragged Tomas Repka and Mark Noble out, then slipped a perfect pass to Solskjær infiltrating from midfield.
Whoosh—!!
I'd been marking Pannier in the box but left him to burst forward. I knew how dangerous Solskjær was from that position.
Thud—!
I could see the startled faces of Paul Scholes and Giggs. They hadn't expected me to dribble again after that mistake—against Man United, no less!
Thwack—!
"Gotcha!"
I'd spotted Giggs drifting central and slotted the ball into the space he vacated on the flank. Just as we'd practiced, Anton surged forward boldly.
Thwack—!!
"Tch."
As I jogged back to the box, Pannier smirked at me.
"You're a real hero, huh~ I like your selfish style of play. Suits me perfectly."
"Let's see how long you can keep talking that shit."
"Why? I'm planning to do it for the full 90."
Stung, Man United came roaring back with vengeful fury. Giggs led the charge again. No need for other tactics when he was around.
Pat-pat-pat—!
Thoom—!!
My second dribble breakthrough had worked. Anton's confidence was surging. After that fine overlapping run and cross, his movement had visibly improved. He boldly shouldered Giggs flying.
"Ooooh—!! Damn kid! That was a foul!"
"Anton! That bastard! What a dirty player."
The Man United fans who'd mocked Anton earlier now showered him with boos. That meant he'd earned their respect as an opponent.
"Huff. Huff. Huff."
All us West Ham players on the pitch felt it. It wasn't even halftime yet, but we were gassed like we'd played a full 90. Legs wobbling, hearts pounding. We caught our breath carefully, not wanting the opponents to notice.
Meanwhile, United's players didn't flinch. They just played on with calm faces, as if they knew they'd win in the end.
Beep—!!
Jermain Defoe won the corner. As I crossed the halfway line into United territory, the Hammers roared.
Entering the penalty area, United players glared coldly at me. Today's center-back duo was Silvestre and John O'Shea. Not as legendary as Rio and Vidic would become in a few years, but among the central defenders I'd faced directly, they were top level.
Thump—!
I bumped into Silvestre and flinched. Is this a human? Or a rock?
I'd been surprised tussling with striker Pannier, but Silvestre was even more solid.
This... is the body of a first-class defender.
You can't build a physique like this overnight. It takes years of systematic core strengthening. At minimum, you need this to mix it up with the world's top strikers.
Thwack—!
The corner came in. Step-step—Silvestre and O'Shea sandwiched me front and back. Then they pushed my back and shoulders with their hands from both sides.
"Damn it!"
Blocked by their interference, I couldn't even jump. They were stronger than me and sly with their hands. A complete defeat.
"Just you wait."
Around the 44th minute. Desperately blocking United's attacks, we conceded a corner this time.
"Hey~ kid. Want me to show you how it's done? Strong teams excel in these details. Heh."
"Pannier. Focus on the game."
"Tch."
As Pannier taunted me, Roy Keane chimed in. Roy wasn't just captain—he was the boss.
Roy whispered slyly in my ear. "Kid. Dare to dribble forward one more time, and I'll snap your ankle. Keep that in mind if you wanna stick around this league."
I stared right at Roy Keane and shot back. "Oh no, I'm so scared. You really an Irish gangster or what?"
"What! You little shit! How dare you, you brat!"
Beep—!!
The atmosphere turned nasty, boos raining from the United end. Old Trafford's air boiled with barely contained rage and tension, ready to explode.
"Don't lose your marks!"
Thwack—!
Play resumed, Scholes lofted the corner. Pannier, whom I was marking, backpedaled, arched his back, and leaped the opposite way.
"Not today!"
I pinned O'Shea with my right arm while contesting Pannier.
Pang—!
No one beats me in a header duel.
Thud—!
As Mark tried to deal with my headed clearance, Solskjær pounced from behind for a half-beat faster shot. A goal worthy of the baby-faced assassin.
"Bad momentum."
We'd struggled early but steadied, holding to just one goal conceded till near halftime. Then Solskjær's late strike shattered West Ham's tension.
"No!"
Smack—!! Beep—!
Frantic Anton clipped Giggs from behind with a sliding tackle. Giggs grabbed his ankle and went down; the ref whistled.
"Please..."
We gave away a penalty but avoided a sending-off. Then Ferguson exploded at the ref.
"That's a red! How's that a yellow!? You blind!?"
His flushed face burned with greedy obsession for victory.
Pannier converted the spot-kick for 3-0.
Beep! Beep! Beep—!
"Anton! Mark! Yeong-ung! Chin up. Not your fault. Soccer has days when luck doesn't come. So don't hang your heads. Play confident till the final whistle!"
Alan Pardew's halftime locker room speech. Mark and Anton's grim faces eased a bit. The crushing pressure was wearing everyone down.
I raised my hand.
"Gaffer. For the second half, we need to change our defensive strategy."
"How?"
When I explained my idea, not just the manager but the players freaked.
"Isn't that too reckless?"
"United's strong. If we don't go all out, we got zero chance. It's do-or-die—lose 10-0 or 3-0, a tournament loss is a loss. Let's go at 'em with no regrets."
"...Alright."
"Thanks, Tomas hyung."
"Hmph. Bold thinking. Leave the dirty work to me and run wild."
We headed back to Old Trafford's pitch. If this didn't work, it could be 10-0.
Beep—!
We compacted into a narrow five-back in a W shape. Me, Mark, and Anton sweeping forward; Tomas Repka and Lúper guarding the back. Tomas and Lúper were slow but seasoned pros.
"Hey~ little buddy~ Ditching me? I'm hurt~"
I'd shed my marking role on Pannier to push higher. To control this guy.
Pat-pat-pat—!
I chased Giggs with quick steps and sidesteps, keeping distance carefully. Facing him up close, I got Anton's frustration. Giggs was blindingly fast, impossibly smooth, unbelievably sharp.
But.
Step—
I herded Giggs to the byline. He stood with the ball teetering on the white line.
Now the real battle began.
Step— Pat-pat—!!
The second half kicked off with the Giggs hunt.