73 - The Final Victor in the Slugfest
Blackburn's locker room was buzzing with heat for the final. "Everyone, listen up. This match is gonna be an all-out brawl of pure attack from both sides."
Heynckes steadied the players while pointing at Duff. The guy had created tons of chances with his dribbles today, but Gerrard shut him down every time, and now his chronic cramp had kicked in.
"Good work, Duff. Kevin."
Kevin Phillips's eyes lit up as he jumped to his feet. He'd been boiling inside on the bench for such a crucial game, but this was his moment.
"Beattie and Kevin up top. Roberto, you'll have to shift to the wing—think you can handle it? You'll be facing Gerrard."
Baggio moved to the wing position.
"Gareth, you good to go?"
"Have to be, boss. Can't have the captain sitting this out."
Southgate, who'd been sidelined for the season after Vieri stamped on his back last time, stood up. He'd been subbed for Henning Berg and slotted into central defense.
"45 minutes. We settle everything in that time. Let's go, Rovers!"
The Blackburn squad rose, flames of resolve in their eyes. With two subs already made, one slot left, sweat beaded on Yoo Sung-chul's face. But all he could do was cheer from the bench.
Kevin Phillips and Southgate entered the fray. Liverpool subbed out Anelka for Smicer too.
Second half kicked off with Blackburn attacking. Ince flicked a light pass forward and bolted, while on the left wing, Baggio trapped the ball—only for Gerrard to charge in relentlessly. But Baggio nutmegged him along the sideline and cut inside, timing a perfect mid-range strike. The keeper punched it away, and Smicer cleared.
Liverpool's counter. McAllister grabbed the ball and fed Gerrard. With Baggio elite in attack but weak defensively, it was a split-second breakaway. Gattuso lunged, but Gerrard shrugged him off and lofted a cross to Heskey. Southgate leaped for a towering header clearance, and Hollands collected. But Liverpool's line had pushed up, lying in wait.
McAllister intercepted Hollands's pass and sent it to Dietmar Hamann. Hamann dribbled, passed left to winger Danny Murphy, but Melberg charged in to block.
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"Fucking corner here? Nerve-wracking..."
Gerrard took the corner himself. Southgate marked Heskey tight, Melberg on Owen. As the ball floated in amid leaping bodies, it wasn't a head that rose first—it was a foot. Tiny Owen exploded upward for an overhead kick.
"Whoa, fuck..."
Unbelievable goal. Not a header in that chaos, but a pinpoint overhead kick. 3-2. Puskas-level acrobatics—you had to respect it.
55th minute. Plenty of time left. Blackburn methodically built from the middle. Ince charged at Liverpool—whom he hated almost as much as United—slipping a pass through Smicer's legs right to Kevin Phillips's feet. He smashed it home in one motion. 3-3.
Phillips sprinted with arms wide. The scoreline was insane.
Liverpool subbed Heskey for Robbie Fowler, gearing up for all-out attack. Exhausted Paul Ince, after his assist, panted toward the bench.
Number 6, Yoo Sung-chul. Here he comes!
Yoo subbed for Ince, pairing with Gattuso in a double pivot—Heynckes's plan to clog the middle and exploit the flanks. Houllier's counter: Fowler for Heskey, central overload.
Kickoff. Fowler targeted Gattuso immediately. Yoo rushed to help, so Fowler switched to Owen beside him. Owen dribbled through, fed Gerrard, who clashed with Gareth Barry. They tangled fighting for the ball. Gerrard couldn't break through, passed back to right-back Babbel—and Yoo pounced to intercept.
Babbel desperately tried to win it back, but Yoo already fed Baggio!
"Yes! Clean cut!"
Baggio on the left wing snatched it and surged. Low on stamina, he skipped the dribble for a big cross. Beattie's header, cleared by Westerveld—right to Figo bursting past his marker.
67th minute. Figo made it 4-3, pulling away again. My cigarette dropped; I shot up, chanting Figo's name with the fans. World-class worship material. What a buy.
78th minute. Both sides gassed, fans' voices fading. Liverpool squeezed every last drop in the dying minutes when Gattuso caught Gerrard's foot and tumbled.
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Ref sprinted over, yellow for Gerrard. Gattuso clutched his leg in agony.
"Can't get hurt now, can't..."
Medics checked him—looked bad. But Gattuso grabbed them, staggered up, and limped back on. No subs left; pure grit to stay in.
Limping but trapping the ball, Gattuso passed to Figo. Figo burst on a surprise dribble; Smicer barreled in with a foul.
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Baggio took the free kick direct—Westerveld's save. Ball fell to Blackburn attackers; Phillips struck again, but Westerveld dove to punch. There was Gattuso. Gritting through the pain, shoving into Liverpool's defense for the shot. Third time's the charm—net rippled. 5-3.
Gattuso forgot his injury, leaping wild. UEFA Cup in sight.
90th minute. Liverpool still belting YNWA, never quitting. Full time whistle, but only 1 minute added.
"59...58...57..."
The longest minute ever. Liverpool attacking, Gerrard broke down the side, cross deflected onto Owen's foot.
"Fuck!!!"
5-4 Liverpool. Schmeichel flubbed it momentarily; Southgate barked at the defense to focus.
Restart in stoppage. Liverpool rampant. Extra time goal adds another minute—bad vibe.
One minute gone, another added. Owen broke again; Yoo slid in with a tackle.
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Yellow for Yoo. He silently jogged back to midfield, ignoring it, waiting for Liverpool's free kick.
Gerrard lofted long; Fowler lunged for the last chance—but Southgate headed clear first...
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Over.
"Whoa, fuck, that was close..."
One hell of a 90 minutes. Reversals on reversals, Owen with a hat-trick. But Blackburn won—historic 5-4.
Fireworks for the win and UEFA Cup erupted; reality hit late.
"Yeah, champions. Champions!"
I bolted from my seat toward the pitch.
Blackburn celebrated the UEFA Cup; Owen collapsed sobbing on the field. Hat-trick in the final and still lost—gotta feel for him. Tough foe, no wonder he's Wonderboy...
Heading down the tunnel to the pitch, my phone rang.
"Yo, Dae-hyun, that's massive!"
"Dae-hyun? Gimme the phone. Hello?"
"Dad?"
"That team you run won, huh?"
"Yep, the stadium's going nuts."
Was Dad finally opening his eyes to soccer?
"Thanks to you, Daeyang Distribution's entire stock is 50% off."
"...?!"
"You said it'd sell out guaranteed—one goal per 10% discount, remember?"
"Uh... yeah, that rings a bell..."
"You tanked our new marts and convenience stores' profits with your ball game. Got it?"
Hey, it was killer marketing to hype the launch... but five goals?
"Anyway, brace yourself when you get back. You own any profit hole."
Line went dead.
"Daeyang Distribution's grand opening will go down in history with this promo..."
Big sales are standard for launches—deal with the fallout later.
"Mr. Lee!"
"Boss!"
Heynckes and Southgate grabbed my hands, dragging me onto the pitch.
UEFA president Johansson presented the trophy, Blackburn Rovers etched proudly.
"Last game of the season—passing grade?"
"More than!"
Heynkes bookended the season with Charity Shield and UEFA Cup triumphs. Shook every player's hand, encouraging them—including Yoo Sung-chul.
"Great job, Sung-chul."
"Knew I wouldn't play."
"You'll be a national hero back home. Confed Cup prep too."
"Yes sir, I'll deliver!"
Yoo savored his career peak, spraying champagne with both hands amid cheers.
Trophy handed over; Southgate hoisted it high—fireworks boomed again.
As medals distributed, Southgate brought the trophy to me. Reporters swarmed.
"Mr. Lee, Blackburn's boss. Congrats on the win!"
"Thanks! Truly!"
Brits, Germans, Spaniards, Italians, French—even Japanese and Korean press shoved mics my way. This trophy from Southgate? Heavy as hell.
"This must be the weight of victory. Damn, this thing's heavy."
"You made the moment of the season—what's next?"
"Season's wrapped—one goal left: party time!"
I wrapped Yoo's discarded Daeyang Global t-shirt around the trophy. Mimicking Southgate, I lifted it high—cameras flashed like mad.
Get the shot—Daeyang's name hitting sports pages worldwide.
Solid season. Time to enjoy.
