Recall the Memories from Your Napoli Days
“Whoaaaa!”
As soon as we stepped onto the pitch, a massive roar erupted. The Hammers fans who had traveled for the away game didn't cower under the Man United supporters' intensity—they screamed right back. When it came to the fans, they were worth a hundred men each.
“Alright. Let's see who comes out on top.”
Peep!
Defying expectations, I hung back at the deepest position like a sweeper. Instead, Anton took on the stopper role higher up the pitch. Starting at right-back today was Larry Spencer, a veteran we signed that summer, specialized in defense.
“I don't know what you're scheming, but you're gonna have to work hard to stop us. Heh heh.”
Van Nistelrooy led the diamond formation deep into our half. Giggs and Ronaldo flanked the wings, Rooney dropped deeper, and Van Nistelrooy spearheaded the front. We had Mark Noble and Anton holding the center, with fullbacks dropping all the way back to cover the flanks. I roamed freely between the four defenders as a libero, sweeping up danger.
The Man United players looked flustered as they tried to build attacks. This flew in the face of modern soccer trends. The basics of modern defending were line control—defenders moving as one unit to catch attackers offside with a trap. But our West Ham backline abandoned the midfield entirely, dropping so deep there was no space behind us to exploit.
“Hmph. Cowards.”
Giggs dribbled in from the left. It was a narrow zone with no apparent space, but as he drove the ball forward, cracks appeared.
Paat!Pababat!
Giggs drilled a hole through us, and Rooney and Ronaldo sliced in from the opposite side like a rake. Van Nistelrooy backed into me for a post play.
Paaaat!
Giggs burst past Mark and Spencer, then slipped a pass to Rooney at the last second.
Bweeeeng!
I cut out the pass, nudged the ball forward to create an angle, and smashed it with my right foot. The low, whipping pass sliced through midfield and landed perfectly on Zola's left boot. I'd spotted his position even before intercepting, making the timing possible.
Old Trafford fell silent at our lightning counter. Zola's chipped pass smacked into Gudjohnsen's head as he charged toward the Man United goal.
Bweeeeng!Charrurruk!
Gudjohnsen's header ripped the net. True to his Viking blood, he clenched his fist and roared. Nothing like last season's static two-striker setup with Marlon—this guy was dynamic. He and Defoe, kindred spirits in grit, embraced in celebration of the opener.
Our rehearsed counter had played out perfectly. With Zola now in the mix, I didn't need to ping it straight to the forwards. I'd snatch the ball in defense and fire it quick to the playmaker. Then the wizard Zola handled the rest. Our ultra-fast counter designed for Man United worked like a charm. With four United players committed forward, their midfield was wide open—prime real estate for Zola to roam free.
Peep!
Now the real test began. Man United's eyes sharpened after conceding first. They rampaged like wounded tigers.
Ronaldo charged ferociously. As feared, our fullback Luper couldn't handle him. When Luper got skinned, left-winger Errington dropped back to harass Ronaldo—studs on ankles, jersey tugs, body checks. Pure British soccer.
But.
Ronaldo had leveled up massively from last season—not just speed and power, but balance too. His rubber-band body shrugged off one or two with ease.
Kwaaaang!
But growth wasn't just Ronaldo's story. Anton had sweated daily with me for this moment. With Rio still suspended, the brotherly clash was delayed, but Anton's venom against his brother's club burned hot. He hadn't forgotten the abusive chants from United fans last game.
“Why'd the same mom birth a loser like Anton~~”
Looking down at Ronaldo whining to the ref on the turf, Anton sneered.
“Quit showboating, you Portuguese hick.”
His trash talk, learned from me, was coming along nicely. Ronaldo caught flak not just from enemy defenders, but teammates too.
“Stupid selfish prick. Keep it up. You'll be heading back to your African island shithole soon enough.”
Van Nistelrooy ground his teeth at Ronaldo.
As the half progressed, United regained control. Ferguson, caught off guard, adjusted tactics fast—the weakness we'd targeted vanished. The issue was Roy Keane.
Keane's sticky man-marking had Zola pinned. Despite his brute appearance, his soccer IQ made him a nightmare to shake.
We dropped deep, heads-down defending. Battles erupted on the wings, with 2-3 Hammers ganging up on Ronaldo and Giggs repeatedly. From the back, I snuffed out threats swept our way, holding a clean sheet. We were hanging tough, but something felt off.
'No wonder that guy's been too quiet...'
Rooney had wandered the penalty arc like a lost kid all half. New to United this season, he hadn't settled. Unlike Van Nistelrooy whining for balls inside the box, Rooney covered the whole pitch diligently. Still, he rarely got touches.
“United players aren't used to Rooney's chaotic runs yet.”
Grateful we'd faced them in the second leg, then—
Rooney dropped to the center circle and finally got the ball.
“Pass! Pass! Rooney!”
Van Nistelrooy bellowed from the box. Ronaldo and Giggs started their runs from the flanks. Our five-back fired up.
“This... feels... off. Damn it! Nooo~~!”
Bweeeeeeng!
No sooner had the words left than Rooney unleashed from distance. His ankle power was monstrous—the ball exploded.
Chwaaaaak!
Rooney sprinted to the United fans in triumph. His hometown Liverpool hated these locals, but in this island nation, score enough in the shirt and you're a hero. Rooney's wonder long shot was his debut ritual.
Peep! Peep! Peeep!
Halftime ended 1-1. Our five-back and Zola-fueled hyperspeed counters notched half a win, but Roy Keane and Rooney wrecked it.
Mourinho had clashed with Ferguson upon arriving in England. Professing respect while needling with barbs. The Prem shifted from Ferguson vs. Wenger duality to a fiery trio, boosting popularity.
“Ferguson'll get more aggressive second half. A draw with West Ham wounds his pride. We exploit that gap.”
“Got a plan?”
“Yeah. Haven't drilled it, but if you pull it off, it'll work.”
Zola grinned at my new tactic.
“Gonna properly work the old man, eh?”
“Recall the memories from your Napoli days. Heh heh.”
Roy Keane glared murderously at Gudjohnsen, who stared right back undaunted. Bigger and just as fiery, Gudjohnsen matched him. Keane had too much midfield to cover now, freeing flank-shifted Zola from his mark.
I'd dreamed up putting Zola wide thanks to future winger-meets-10 Neymar, proving flair and vision could thrive there. Unfamiliar now, but Zola-level genius would adapt quick.
Rooney took Scholes' pass and barreled in with his signature mortar-dribble. Clunky at first glance, but blistering speed and odd rhythm bounced our defenders away.
Kuuwung! Kuung!
“Urgh!”
The clash with Anton somehow sent him flying. Rooney's freakishly low center of gravity repelled bigger men.
“Is that a man or a rhino?”