Chapter 40
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 40
Chapter Title: The History of One Football Team, 72 Years of Drought
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They led 1-0 and kicked off again.
As the Chelsea players passed the ball around, preparing for another attack, Gattuso and Paul Ince teamed up to lock down the center tight.
With their diamond formation relying on midfielders without wingers, they shifted into an even higher attacking gear and charged forward rapidly.
Deschamps was a world-class player, a key member of France's World Cup-winning squad and a two-time Champions League winner with his club, but I'd heard he wasn't much of an attacker as a defensive midfielder.
In fact, nearly all their attacks came from the Weah-Zola striker duo up top, supported from behind by Poyet, Di Matteo, and Wise.
"Keep coming! I'll show you how scary a counterpunch can be!"
I clenched my fists and threw myself into the cheering.
When the Blackburn fans gathered at Wembley belted out the team song at the top of their lungs, I sang along with them, cheering for our team.
Halftime.
In the locker room, the sweat-soaked Blackburn players gulped down sports drinks, panting for breath.
"Gianfranco, that bastard's really going berserk."
"In cup final shootouts, there's always one guy who loses it like that."
Dalglish nodded with a grin.
While the manager steadied their mentality, the coaches gave each player a few words.
"Kevin, James. Chances aren't coming, so when one does, lock in completely. You've got to catch it clean."
Brian Kidd grabbed Gattuso.
"Rino, you've got to shut down Gianfranco. The fullbacks will push up from the back to help, so wear him out as much as you can."
"Got it! I'll grab Zola and hold on tight!"
As a fellow Italian and a senior, but in the world of competition, Gattuso was ready to do whatever it took to win.
Yoo Sung-chul and Bridge nodded too, absorbing the plan to stop Gianfranco Zola's breakthroughs.
"Alright, we're up 1-0, but no getting cocky! One moment can flip this at Wembley. And the FA Cup doesn't do draws."
By FA rules, cup finals that end in draws don't go to penalties—they replay the match.
Adding another full game in this situation was impossible, so the team vowed to pour everything into the remaining 45 minutes.
Blackburn, leading 1-0 at halftime, kicked off the second half.
Chelsea, having poured so much into attack in the first half, kept pushing forward relentlessly.
Suddenly, Dalglish spotted their tactic and yelled to the players.
"Paul, Gareth!"
"!?"
"Counter Manchester!"
"!"
Counter Manchester.
This season, the team Blackburn had struggled most against was Manchester United.
They attacked without mercy, forcing the defense to run everywhere until they dropped from exhaustion.
So Dalglish had devised a tactic for teams that went all-out attack.
Bunch the players together. When they charge, swarm with zonal marking and boot the ball away.
Like a beehive, cluster up and rush en masse toward wherever they're coming from.
Then, the moment you steal it back, ping it long to the strikers up front.
It was an English-style lockdown: Dalglish's signature 4-4-2 long-ball tactic, but with a ten-man defensive block of midfielders and defenders, leaving just the two strikers ahead.
When Gianfranco Zola charged for a dribble, Gattuso stepped up.
Thud-thud- thwack-
Gattuso shrugged him off once more and surged forward, but Yoo Sung-chul was right behind. After shaking Yoo too, Paul Ince rushed in and cleared the ball.
Then they immediately hooved it straight onto James Beattie's head.
"No way you're breaking through!"
Paul Ince bellowed at the Chelsea players so his teammates could hear, asserting dominance.
Though plagued by scandals and decline in his later years, he was a charismatic captain once called England's governor.
This time, George Weah charged alongside Zola.
Chelsea, skipping wingers, pushed their fullbacks—Babayaro and Melchiot—wide to attack the flanks.
Duff and Shaun were vulnerable to dribbling but weak defensively; they got breached, and Gattuso covered.
Gattuso immediately fired a backpass, which captain Southgate received and launched forward with power.
James Beattie headed it down, and when Kevin Phillips took it on the dribble, Deschamps blocked. They sent it forward again.
No matter how Chelsea pressed, Blackburn cleared and hoofed it long, turning it into dog-training fetch. Chelsea's stamina slowly drained as they chased everywhere.
Then Vialli gestured from the bench, signaling a tactical shift.
At that moment, Zola and Weah—who'd been dribble-heavy—halted and switched to passes.
As Dalglish kept hoofing long balls, Chelsea shifted to short passes, gradually building possession in midfield.
Blackburn's defense held position, waiting for Beattie and Phillips up top. Then Zola slipped a sneaky pass to Di Matteo on the right-central.
Di Matteo dribbled infield; Gattuso and Duff closed him down, but he tried to switch back to Zola.
As Gattuso hesitated—feint!—he burst through, and Duff was skinned.
While Gattuso grabbed Zola, left-central midfielder Wise shook Paul Ince and sprinted full-tilt.
Di Matteo whipped in a cross. As Southgate leaped to block, Wise jumped too—elbow rising.
Crack-
"Guh!"
Wise's elbow caught Southgate's eye instantly. He crumpled, and the ball dropped.
Tweet- tweeeet!
The ref rushed over as Southgate clutched his face, checked the scene, and raised a yellow card.
"Ah, my bad."
"That bastard did it on purpose!"
"Wise, you fucking prick!"
Paul Ince and Gattuso charged; Wise didn't back down and raised his fists.
Tweet- tweeeet-tweeeet-
The ref whistled furiously, prying players apart and issuing warnings.
"No more pointless clashes, or you're getting another card."
"Damn it, did you even see that?!"
Paul Ince protested. Southgate's brow, now bandaged, was split open, blood pouring.
Southgate's injury.
Medical staff rushed in to assess as massive boos erupted—Blackburn fans hurling objects.
"Dennis Wise, you fucking prick!"
"You wanna go back to jail, asshole?"
"Come here, I'll smash your jaw!"
Chelsea's tough captain had racked up dozens of cards and tens of thousands in fines for rough play.
The ticking time bomb exploded. Southgate returned bandaged on the head.
As play resumed and time ticked, George Weah took the ball and passed to Wise.
Gattuso timed it perfectly and tripped Wise's legs, sending him sprawling.
Tweeeet!
Di Matteo and Deschamps desperately held back Wise as he jumped up to charge.
"What? Come on, you punk!"
"This Italian fuck!"
"Dennis, calm down—this is the final!"
Gattuso beckoned him on. Wise cocked his fist but Deschamps dragged him back, averting disaster.
Chelsea kept circulating the ball, inching forward.
As Gattuso moved to block Di Matteo, Deschamps—who'd been defensive—fired a pass.
Weah took it and dribbled. Clashing with Southgate, he feinted left toward the bandaged blind spot.
Shaking the instinctively diving Southgate, his pass found Gianfranco Zola's foot for a rocket that slipped past Schmeichel's hands.
It was the equalizer at the 31st minute of the second half.
"NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
We just needed 15 more minutes... We were holding so well!
As club owner, all I could do in this spot was cheer.
Southgate's condition worried me, and we got breached right then.
Zola roared in celebration; Wembley's Chelsea fans waved lion-logo flags, howling back.
Chelsea subbed off George Weah for a giant striker.
Tore André Flo.
Alongside Solskjær, Norway's top gun: over 190cm, dominant in the air and physical battles, top-tier in the EPL.
Chelsea came out committing to smash through with dribbles and muscle.
Dalglish countered with subs too.
He kept Southgate on but pulled Duff.
Gareth Barry entered as left midfielder for defensive steel.
Shaun Wright-Phillips came off for Jeff Kenna, pushing Yoo Sung-chul higher.
1-1.
"Vice Chairman, here they are."
Section Chief Park brought flags. I checked and grabbed them.
"I'm heading down to cheer now."
"I'll come with you."
I left the VIP seats with flags in hand, heading to the stands by the team bench.
"Blackburn, Blackburn!"
I hoisted a flag high, revealing Blackburn's chant.
(Again 1928, 72 years of waiting.)
Blackburn Rovers' FA Cup challenge.
Founders of English pro football, they'd won the FA Cup six times—but after the first in the 19th century, the last was 1927-28, their great-grandfathers' era.
I knew the history and prepared those flags. As owner, I waved them myself, cheering.
Cameras swarmed the moment Section Chief Park and I shook them.
Blackburn fans spotted me, murmured, then roared.
"Again 1928!"
"FA Cup win after 72 years since '28—let's do this, Rovers!"
"Blackburn lads, 72 years—go for the win!"
Nearly 80,000 at Wembley chanted "Again 1928" in unison from the Blackburn faithful.
The roar shook the pitch. Dalglish shouted it, and even captain Southgate on the field screamed till his throat bled.
"Again 1928!!!!"
With the captain's cry, our steel-willed Blackburn players charged like warriors.
7 minutes left amid end-to-end action.
Even Barry and Yoo from the flanks surged, slamming Chelsea's defense.
Last sub: Wayne Bridge off, Ian Wright on.
Ian Wright-James Beattie-Kevin Phillips: an all-in triple threat gamble up top.
Yoo marked subbed-on André Flo; Gattuso clung desperately to a fading Zola.
"Kevin!"
Thud-
Kevin Phillips took the ball against defensive anchor Deschamps.
Scoreless in League Cup and FA Cup finals so far.
But Dalglish went all-out in the FA Cup final: "Die together, hold till the end."
Lips blue, face ashen from exhaustion, Phillips charged Deschamps. French duo Desailly and Leboeuf rushed in.
"Urgh!"
Phillips gritted his teeth, squeezing every ounce of strength to burst through.
Powering past three, he slipped a shot through the split-second gap.
Bang!
The ball smacked the post and ricocheted—rushing Ian Wright fired it in.
Chelsea keeper De Huys punched it clear; Desailly grabbed it, but Beattie poked between his legs.
Desailly dove for a foul, but Phillips was there first.
"!!!"
Phillips struck again—the ball bulged the net.
"Foul! Foul!"
Desailly bulged veins, charging the ref; Chelsea swarmed him.
Wembley's 80,000 held breath, eyes on the ref's hands.
He shook his head firmly, pointing to center circle.
Tweeeet-!
Goal. Blackburn erupted. 2-1. Reversal.
Priceless winner; 90 minutes up, 2 added.
"Foul, foul! That prick Kevin shoved me!"
Led by Desailly, Chelsea mobbed the ref for foul, but he waved it off decisively.
"Damn it, just kick off and attack!"
Deschamps reined in protesting teammates, took the kickoff, and straight-lined with Zola and Flo.
Bloody-bandaged Southgate beckoned; Henchoz, Barry, Kenna rushed. Flo unleashed a long-range rocket.
Schmeichel dove, parrying it dead-on.
The ref blew.
Tweet- tweet- tweeeeeeeeet-
The final whistle echoed for all 80,000 at Wembley.
Bloody Southgate knelt on the pitch; Dalglish thrust fists skyward.
Blackburn Rovers had reclaimed the FA Cup after 72 years.