Chapter 53
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 53
Chapter Title: Charity Shield Results
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The match kicked off, and I quickly headed up to the stands to watch comfortably.
Amid the roaring crowd in the stands at Cardiff's Millennium Stadium, the ball zipped around at a furious pace.
Thud... thud-thud...
With the young guns parked in the center, it felt a bit off seeing two veterans, Haaland and Paul Ince, dictating play from midfield.
Right from the start, they worked the ball around, and Manchester United's Roy Keane charged in. At that exact moment, Paul Ince burst toward the center.
"!?"
At the same time, Haaland stuck tight to Keane, blocking him from intercepting the pass. Keane got tangled up with the suddenly aggressive Haaland and lost Ince.
In sync, Ince slipped the ball wide with Scholes right in front of him.
Duff took it and charged down the flank, but Neville shut him down.
From the throw-in, United launched their attack.
This time, Haaland glued himself to Roy Keane in the center again. Their early battle was intense.
Roy Keane had a fiery temper, but his role was to open up United's attacks from midfield with his massive frame and tireless work rate.
But with Haaland—nearly 190cm tall—stuck to his side the whole time, Keane's partner Scholes and the wingers Beckham and Giggs who should be pushing forward kept drifting into the center.
To counter that, Hainkes pushed the defensive line up high.
Hainkes kept jumping up from the bench, gesturing wildly at players all over the pitch, his face beet red as he vented his frustration from the kickoff.
Meanwhile, Ferguson watched the whole thing unfold leisurely from the bench, calmly chewing his gum.
Ferguson stayed composed watching the midfield scrap rage on early.
His assistant coach, Steve McClaren, was the one barking at the players, dictating their movements and positions.
"Keano, what's going on? Push forward calmly! Paul, help Keano out!"
McClaren encouraged the captain Roy Keane—who'd been shackled by Haaland—and chewed out Scholes before heading to Ferguson.
"Boss, looks like Blackburn's dead set on marking Keano man-to-man."
"Hmmm."
Ferguson kept chewing his gum, not even bothering to stand.
"Shall we shift Beckham centrally to help?"
"Leave it."
"!"
Just then, Haaland—marking Roy Keane—elbowed him during a challenge.
Tweet!
The ref swooped in and called the foul immediately. Keane exploded to his feet in rage, but teammates held him back before it escalated.
Haaland sauntered away like nothing happened.
"That Norwegian bastard's pulling the same dirty tricks from his Leeds days—can't hack it fairly, so he hacks them down with fouls."
Even in 'Dirty Leeds'—notorious for their foul-fests—Alf-Inge Haaland had a rep as a card magnet.
"Keano might lose his cool at this rate."
"You think so?"
Fire burned in Roy Keane's eyes; he looked ready to take on the whole pitch single-handedly.
"No matter how dirty they play, Keano's Keano. He's not getting pinned down by some B-lister like that."
The moment Ferguson spoke, Roy Keane whipped a free kick rightward.
Beckham collected it and drove forward. As Southgate rushed back from upfield, left-back Wayne Bridge moved to block Beckham.
Beckham eyed up the Blackburn defense, smirked, and lofted a right-footed cross anyway.
It pierced straight through a pack of defenders to the center, where Solskjær leaped for a header.
Schmeichel barely clutched it, then bellowed at his defenders.
"Peter hasn't lost a step yet."
The 37-year-old Schmeichel—whom Ferguson had brought in—still showed no signs of decline.
When he launched it long, Roy Keane charged again.
Haaland tried to block, but Keane shrugged him off with sheer power, stole the ball—even taking a shove—and linked with Giggs to break down the wing.
Finally piercing Haaland, Roy Keane became the attack's fulcrum.
Giggs took Keane's pass, crossed from the center, but this time Sweden's giant Melberg rose first to head it clear.
Right-back Yoo Sung-chul scooped it hastily to the middle, reigniting the midfield battle.
Ferguson held firm like a rock against Blackburn's pressure, sticking to his all-out attacking blueprint.
It stood in stark contrast to Hainkes' face turning an even deeper shade of red beside him, jabbing at positions with his hands.
Beckham kept nailing United's classic No. 7 crosses, but the goal stayed just out of reach.
With the score locked at 0-0 in this tense deadlock, the Millennium Stadium scoreboard showed cameras panning the stands and benches.
Then one camera spotlighted me in the VIP seats, clapping and cheering for Blackburn.
Instantly, massive cheers erupted from the Blackburn fans, and Ferguson—mid-chew—clicked his tongue.
"What's with that damn Lancashire clown? Why do they keep filming him?"
My face flashed briefly on the screen in front of 70,000 fans.
I waved, lifted the Blackburn Rovers scarf around my neck, and pointed at the logo. Boos and cheers split the crowd down the middle.
The match was dead even. Even to my eyes, Hainkes was provoking a midfield war as a counter.
But Ferguson ignored it, powering ahead with his usual all-out assault via Beckham and Giggs' dribbles and crosses from the wings.
Hainkes luring centrally; Ferguson refusing to bite, hammering his own attacks.
Then, in a central tussle, Roy Keane tripped Haaland outright.
Tweet—tweet!
Haaland shot up and grabbed his collar; Keane swung a fist in response.
"Wha—whoa?!"
Tweet-tweet-tweet!
Luckily, it whiffed—Haaland dodged—and as they nearly clashed, the ref blew furiously and yanked yellows for both.
"Come on, Roy Keane's scarier than Beckham or Giggs..."
He wasn't just a thug; every pass was a threat, slicing our attacks and killing momentum.
If Hainkes hadn't assigned a dedicated marker today, he'd have run riot.
The half ended in a frenzy of end-to-end action. Goalkeeper Figo let out a long sigh, shaking his head.
Blackburn locker room at halftime.
"Huff... huff... water, water!"
"Here."
Haaland—drenched in sweat and gasping—downed a bottle from Yoo Sung-chul in one go and demanded more.
"Alfie, how was Roy Keane?"
"That guy's a tireless tank. Hated him back at Leeds."
Hainkes soothed Haaland, who'd pinned Keane all half.
"Good work. You've done your job today."
"!"
"Rino, you held it together well up top. You're coming on right away for the second half. They won't risk elbows or stamps against a cheesehead like Keane."
"Got it, boss!"
Hainkes had used Haaland in the first half, now prepping Gattuso.
"Kevin, rough luck today. Save the fireworks for the league opener—Barry's coming on."
"!?"
Kevin Phillips—nursing an ankle issue in training—had been toothless, so Hainkes benched him boldly.
"Roberto, you're leading the line."
"Hmmm."
Haaland and Phillips out; Gattuso and Barry in. A three-mid trio of [Barry-Ince-Gattuso], with Baggio up top.
Duff and Figo flanked as wing forwards to support the lone striker Baggio.
While United ran a central two-mid, Blackburn added an extra body forward.
When the second half started, I clocked Phillips and Haaland subbed off for Gattuso and Barry.
"Wait, pulling the main gun already? Baggio as lone striker?"
Fantasy star or not, his real role was playmaker or second striker. Would it work?
No clue if it'd pay off, but it was Hainkes' call.
I'd brought in all these players and the manager—now I just trusted and cheered.
As the half wore on, United made changes too.
Scholes off, Nicky Butt on—glued to Roy Keane's side.
The midfield war reignited. Keane shrugged off his booking, barreling through Gattuso and Barry.
The ball broke right from the tussle; Wayne Bridge raced over, but Beckham got there first.
Beckham's cross... Solskjær's header.
Splash—
"Ah, damn it!"
11 minutes into the second half, United took the lead—score up on the Millennium Stadium board.
Solskjær celebrated casually after the opener; Beckham joined in.
Ferguson—sitting still till then—leaped from the bench, cheering Beckham with double thumbs up.
30 minutes in.
Trailing 1-0 from Beckham's cross and Solskjær's header, Ince squeezed out one last pass with all he had.
It threaded exquisitely past Nicky Butt. Roy Keane spun cursing, but Gattuso clung doggedly, yanking his shirt.
The ball from their scrap reached Luís Figo up front.
Dennis Irwin and Silvestre rushed to close.
Both famed left-footed defenders—come on, Figo...!!
Thud... thud-thud...
I could almost hear Figo controlling the ball.
No cross—he charged straight at them.
Where Beckham was the type to 'try collecting it from the wing and cross,' Figo was 'get out of my way!'—dribbling right to the byline.
Figo stormed central; Baggio shadowed, battling United's backline.
Just as a pass to Baggio seemed on, Figo unleashed another curling shot—
Splash—
ROOOOOARRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"Goal! Goal! GOAL!!!"
Luís Figo finished it himself.
A screamer of a curler for the equalizer. He sprinted to the Blackburn fans, ripped off his shirt, and roared.
Damn, cool as hell... though that chest hair... nah, that's Rovers' wild charm!
Figo's equalizer with 15 left made it anyone's game.
Charity Shield goes straight to penalties after 90—no extra time.
Hainkes seemed to plan for it, keeping exhausted Ince on till the end.
Subbed Duff for James Beattie instead.
Barry to the left, Figo right; Baggio-Beattie up top; Gattuso-Ince central.
United hammered with 10 left, but Schmeichel's two super saves in clutch moments held firm.
Tweet—tweet—TWEEEEET—
Full time: 1-1.
Penalties straight away. My palms were soaked with nerves.
Getting this far is huge.
If no winner in 90, snag it on spots.
Thud—
United first.
No. 1: Subbed Dwight Yorke—preseason rust had him benched, but...
Splash!
Cool as ice into the net, back to his line.
Our No. 1... oh god, Baggio!
Roberto Baggio—with his infamous penalty trauma—stepped up first.
'Blackburn's using Baggio?!'
'94... '94... Brazil vs. Italy...'
'UFO shot, penalty fool Baggio!'
United fans jeered wildly as Baggio lined up.
But Baggio placed it calmly, sprinted, and struck.
A short, sharp kick arced over Barthez's tall frame, ripping the net.
Slotting it home, he hushed the crowd with a finger to lips on his way back.
Pure fantasy star swagger.
No. 2.
United: Roy Keane.
Blasted at Schmeichel like 'block it or not, it's thunder'—Schmeichel guessed right but couldn't stop it.
Blackburn: James Beattie.
Deep breath, slotted it coolly. Barthez dove right; ball went left. Goal.
No. 3.
Solskjær converted.
Blackburn: Southgate.
Another with trauma—Euro '96 semi vs. Germany, missed and became public enemy No. 1. Could he hold up?
Captain Southgate fiddled with his armband, steeled himself, charged, and nailed it.
Roaring skyward, fists pumped—overcoming demons.
No. 4: David Beckham.
Tense-faced, he smashed a right-footed penalty. Schmeichel dove the same way.
Thwack—
"Saved it!!! HE SAVED IT!!!!"
The Millennium Stadium erupted; Beckham clutched his head, slumped.
Blackburn No. 4: Figo.
Sauntered up, slotted home easy.
No. 5.
United: Nicky Butt. Straight in.
Butt screamed it wasn't over, but our finale... Paul Ince.
"Hainkes, you cruel genius."
If he'd saved Ince for last eyeing penalties, that's a sledgehammer to Ferguson.
United's old midfield general in Blackburn colors placed the ball.
Cameras caught Ferguson on the bench—face as red as Hainkes', gum-chewing in overdrive.
Ince ran up calmly; his final shot grazed Barthez's hands but bulged the net anyway.
"RAAAAAHHH!!!! Champions! CHAMPIONS!!!"
Penalties: 5-4 Blackburn.
Ince's decider sparked a pile-on celebration for the Charity Shield win.
We won.
Right to the wire, rubbing it in Ferguson's face with Ince's penalty dagger.