"City take it short," Peter said as the corner routine began. "They're looking for a second phase rather than throwing it straight into the crowd."
Jim watched the movement closely. "United have the height advantage, so this makes sense. Work the angle, drag one defender out, then deliver from a better position."
The ball eventually came into the box at waist height.
Maguire misjudged the first clearance.
Agüero reacted quickly and found a shooting chance.
"Agüero!" Peter called.
But the effort lacked power.
De Gea gathered it cleanly.
Jim exhaled. "That nearly became a problem because Maguire doesn't deal with the first ball properly. United get away with one there."
Every time City put the ball into the penalty area, United fans felt their hearts twitch.
Who could blame them?
Maguire had that strange duality about him. One moment, he looked like a defensive god. The next, he looked capable of creating disaster out of nothing.
And the most terrifying part was that nobody knew which version would appear.
The fourth official raised the board on the touchline.
Manchester United were making their move.
Luke Shaw replaced Ashley Young.
McTominay replaced Rashford.
"Mourinho responds," Peter announced. "Luke Shaw comes on for Ashley Young, and Scott McTominay replaces Marcus Rashford. United are tightening the belt."
Jim said, "He's seen the issue. City were starting to get cleaner possession on the flanks, especially after De Bruyne came on. These changes give United more defensive legs and more structure in midfield."
"And just as importantly," Peter added, "it breaks City's rhythm at the exact moment they were beginning to build belief."
On the sideline, Guardiola cast a deep glance at Mourinho.
He felt that his old rival had raised his tactical level again since winning the Champions League last season.
More importantly, this was not the same fiery, provocative Mourinho from a decade ago.
The current version was calmer, more composed, and much more willing to study the opponent deeply rather than simply forcing the match into his own preferred pattern.
How should it be described?
He no longer clung stubbornly to his old philosophy.
Was it compromise?
No.
It was evolution.
Guardiola was the same.
Football had entered an era of rapid tactical development, and their ideas were rising with it, spiralling upward as each man pushed the other to think differently.
'Today may be very difficult.'
Guardiola sighed silently.
Then he immediately returned to the touchline and began gesturing frantically, his hands moving so quickly that it almost looked like he was performing hand seals in Naruto!
The match slipped into the seventieth minute without anyone quite noticing.
The score remained 2-0.
After bringing on McTominay and Shaw, Manchester United gradually stabilised their defensive rhythm. City's passing became more anxious.
Safe passes carried no threat.
Threatening passes were rarely safe.
It sounded like nonsense, but De Bruyne understood the logic perfectly.
When he received the ball again, he chose a vertical through pass without hesitation.
Against United's steel wall, safe passing would not be enough. Only a ball that pierced the defensive lines could create the kind of chance City needed.
Otherwise, they would simply pass their way toward defeat.
The ball sliced through United's first defensive line.
Just as it was about to pierce the final one, David Luiz arrived and intercepted.
De Bruyne's passing intention had been subtle, but Sané's run was too clear to ignore.
David Luiz set himself once more and drove his right instep through the ball.
It flew toward Ling in the attacking half.
This time, Ling could not win the first ball easily.
Kompany applied heavy pressure from behind and even called Fernandinho over to help. The two of them boxed Ling in, refusing to let him bring the ball down cleanly.
Kompany won the header and sent it back into United's half.
De Bruyne collected it, then cut inside sharply.
People often said De Bruyne could not dribble past opponents, but that was mostly because his passing, shielding, and ball control were so good that he rarely needed to. When he had to carry the ball, he was more than capable of using rhythm changes to create space.
And if people insisted on comparing dribbling ability, he was certainly stronger than Antony from São Paulo.
A few sharp shifts of tempo opened the angle.
Then De Bruyne struck the ball with the outside of his foot.
"De Bruyne bends it through!" Peter's voice rose at once. "That is an outrageous pass, curling between Matic and David Luiz!"
Jim reacted just as quickly. "That is world-class vision. He's chosen the most dangerous route because it's the only one that reaches Agüero."
The ball moved as if fitted with a motor, carving out a vicious curve and slipping through the narrowest possible lane.
Agüero was moving.
But to avoid the United defenders, De Bruyne had chosen a route perilously close to goal.
De Gea read it instantly.
He rushed out, threw his body forward, and clutched the ball firmly in his arms before Agüero could reach it.
Agüero was sent tumbling over him.
But there was no penalty, not even a foul.
"De Geaaaaaaaaaaa!" Peter called. "Brave, sharp, and exactly when United needed him."
Jim added, "That's excellent goalkeeping. The old criticism has always been that he prefers staying on his line, but there he reads the danger early and attacks the ball. If he hesitates, Agüero gets there."
"Well done!"
Ling gave his second compliment of the match.
He had always felt De Gea was better than André Onana, yet in the future, somehow, he would end up without a club.
Now, with Ling's intervention, perhaps things would not turn out that badly.
De Gea's face was buried in the grass, but a smile spread across it.
He stayed down for six full seconds before slowly getting up to take the goal kick.
Time-wasting.
For Manchester United now, every legal second mattered.
Some people would call it unsporting.
But being too sporting rarely won football matches!
...
There were ten minutes left in regular time.
Manchester United's defensive intensity did not drop. If anything, it became even tighter, more compact, and more stubborn.
The red shirts squeezed the space in front of their own penalty area until Manchester City's passing lanes felt trapped in mud.
Slow.
Heavy.
Ineffective.
As the minutes drained away, frustration began to eat at the Manchester City players.
When De Bruyne's through ball rolled out of play beyond Sané's reach, Leroy Sané finally lost his temper.
He spread his arms and snapped, "How am I supposed to get that? You put so much weight on it that even if I ran faster than Bolt, I still wouldn't reach it!"
Sané's temper had never been good.
De Bruyne's was not exactly gentle either.
Perhaps it had something to do with being excluded by his peers as a child.
Perhaps it had something to do with the death of his best friend, who had died in a car accident on the way to meet him.
Whatever the reason, when matches became suffocating, De Bruyne could become irritable in a way completely different from his usual quiet personality.
"What do you want me to do, then?" De Bruyne snapped back, anger flaring in his voice. "They've packed the midfield, and you're not dropping back to help us. If I don't take risks with the pass, where is the chance supposed to come from?"
"Then take risks properly," Sané shot back. "Couldn't you take a little weight off it?"
He was getting heated now.
Sané had always been fiercely competitive, and there was already a personal edge to anything involving Jeremy Ling.
The outside world had been comparing them for months, saying he would never reach Ling's level, never match his impact, never stand on the same stage as an equal.
Sané had wanted to use this Champions League final to prove otherwise.
But now, it looked as if he was about to lose again.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four times.
Five times.
Five defeats to the same opponent in one season.
Sané could not accept that.
He did not want to accept that.
"If you think it's so easy," De Bruyne said, clearly done with the argument, "then drop into midfield yourself, receive the ball, and dribble past everyone."
At that moment, the fourth official raised the LED board.
Manchester City were making a substitution.
Sterling for Sané.
After being barked at repeatedly by De Bruyne, then seeing his number go up, Sané completely lost control of his emotions.
He waved his hands in fury and spat, "Fuck it. Pass to whoever you want. I'm done."
The entire Manchester City team froze.
What's happening?
Walking off like this in a Champions League final was almost unthinkable.
Vincent Kompany's temples throbbed violently.
He had never imagined something like this could happen in his Manchester City team, with him still wearing the armband.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Kompany's roar cut through the noise and silenced them all.
He pointed toward the Manchester City supporters in the stands, his face flushed with anger.
"You are wearing the Manchester City shirt! You owe this club and those fans everything you have! Not excuses. Not complaints. Not standing around with your arms spread!"
His voice grew heavier.
"If Manchester United can score two goals in stoppage time, why can't we?"
The City players stared at him.
"What makes us worse than them?"
Kompany's eyes were burning now.
"Have we lost to Manchester United so many times that you've started thinking it's normal? If that's the case, why even play them in the future? Why not just forfeit before kick-off?"
No one answered.
"You are some of the best footballers in the world. The manager spent hundreds of millions bringing you here, not so you could point fingers at each other in a Champions League final, but so you could win the trophies Manchester City have never won."
He swept his gaze across them.
"Look at yourselves right now. Forget letting the fans down. The people you're letting down most are yourselves."
His voice became even sharper.
"Lose to Manchester United five times in one season, and everyone here, including me, becomes a joke in European football."
Kompany pointed from player to player, then jabbed his finger at his own chest.
"From now on, whenever people mention you, you, and you, they will say, 'Those are the players who were trampled under Manchester United's boots. Those are the men who set a record nobody else wants.' That shame will follow us for the rest of our careers, and even after we retire, people will still bring it up."
Amid the roar of the Wanda Metropolitano, the Manchester City players fell into a long silence.
They no longer had the heart to blame each other.
Instead, they truly began thinking about Kompany's words.
Why did they play football?
Money.
Fame.
Honour.
Dreams.
In the end, it came down to those things.
But judging by how they had acted moments earlier, they had no right to speak about any of them.
"From now on," Kompany said, his voice finally softening slightly, "stop throwing your hands up. Stop sighing. Stop blaming your teammates."
He paused.
"The boss told me before I came on that the meaning of effort is not only success. It is doing everything possible so you leave with no regrets."
He looked at each of them one last time.
"If you don't want to spend the rest of your lives living in Manchester United's shadow, then pour every last bit of strength you have into these final ten minutes."
Not far away, Ling had heard the whole speech.
He honestly wanted to applaud.
There was no mockery in that thought.
It was pure admiration.
That speech had been brilliantly delivered, at least eighty percent as rousing as Mourinho at his peak.
No wonder Kompany would become a head coach in the future.
Ling silently stored the speech away in his mind, just in case he might need it one day.
Then he turned toward the players behind him and waved.
"If you don't want to be remembered as the team that threw away a Champions League final to a miracle Manchester City comeback," Ling said, "then fight with everything you've got and protect this win until the very end."
Kompany: "..."
He was already using it?
Unlike the silence from Manchester City, the Manchester United players answered loudly.
"Yes, Captain!" Maguire shouted the loudest.
The Champions League trophy.
The greatest dreams of his life were the World Cup, the European Championship, the Premier League, and the Champions League.
Now that he had already won the latter two, were the first two really that far away?
With the player resources of the British Empire, winning the World Cup was surely only a matter of time.
As for the European Championship, Maguire had already started treating it as good as won.
"Hehehe," Maguire muttered, grinning almost to his ears. "How should we celebrate after winning the Euros next year?"
Wan-Bissaka hurriedly covered his mouth.
"Don't you know the boss hates people celebrating before the job is done? If he hears you talking like this, you'll spend a few days with the youth team next season."
Maguire looked utterly confused.
"I was talking about the European Championship."
Wan-Bissaka: "..."
The trophy wasn't even close enough to dream about yet, and he was already planning the celebration.
"Shame our striker is Harry," Wan-Bissaka muttered, apparently infected by Maguire's nonsense. "If we had Ling up front for England, I think our chances would be much better."
Hearing this, Maguire suddenly felt a sense of foreboding.
Back when he had chatted with Ling, Ling had mentioned that Kane's fate seemed too rigid, making it hard for him to win major trophies in the future.
Maguire had originally planned to ask Pogba to introduce him to his witch doctor when the Euros came around.
Wait, no.
He could just ask Ling then.
He had seen news about Croatia once, saying they had visited a temple in 2017 and then gone on to become runners-up at the World Cup in Russia.
Maybe there was something to it.
...
After that brief interlude, Manchester City completed their substitution as well.
The match resumed.
The intensity remained high, but City had not fully recovered their rhythm yet. For a while, they played more like individuals than a team.
On the sideline, Mourinho rubbed his temples and looked at Guardiola with something close to pity.
He had encountered similar situations too many times before: the distribution of minutes among Real Madrid's superstars, the betrayal of his Chelsea dressing room, all the little cracks that appeared when results stopped protecting the manager.
That was why he knew how important dressing-room stability was to success. Sometimes, it mattered even more than tactics.
Take Luis Enrique's so-called "leash-the-dog" title run at Barcelona, or the two dominant machines in the Bundesliga and Ligue 1.
A stable dressing room could make everything else easier.
Manchester United had also shown signs of unrest before.
It had happened after Ibrahimović left and Ling was suspended. United's results had dipped, and the squad had started dealing with playing-time disputes.
Pogba's desire to play as an attacking midfielder had resurfaced, while Rashford also wanted to start more often.
That period had given Mourinho plenty of headaches.
Fortunately, Ling returned in time and suppressed the noise.
His status was special, and his ability was strong enough that no one could question him.
After that, United returned to the right track, grew steadily stronger, and collected trophies one after another: Club World Cup, League Cup, FA Cup.
Suddenly, Mourinho thought of a question.
Did he count as a "leash-the-dog champion"?
Definitely not.
He still had confidence in himself.
Meanwhile, Guardiola had moved from the technical area back to the bench, watching the friction inside his own team with visible helplessness.
Results were the best way to stabilise emotions.
Last season, Manchester City had at least held on to the FA Cup.
This season, they were on the verge of ending empty-handed. If the players' mentality did not start shaking, that would be the truly strange thing.
Even Guardiola himself was struggling to keep steady.
If not for his years of coaching experience, a young manager might have had his confidence shattered by this kind of season.
"Such great players," Guardiola muttered bitterly, "and none of them are mine."
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.
So he threw another water bottle.
Arteta sighed silently.
He was already thinking about how he would deal with Manchester United when he coached Arsenal next season.
Park the bus?
Arsenal's players were not built for that. (Right)
Play beautiful football?
They would probably concede four or five against Manchester United.
Arteta curled up slightly on the bench, his frown growing deeper.
He really had terrible timing.
Just as he was about to start coaching Arsenal, he had run straight into the most difficult era possible: Mourinho's Manchester United, Guardiola's Manchester City, and Klopp's Liverpool.
Arsenal had no hope of winning the league for the next three years.
No.
Five years.
As for relying on one player's extraordinary performance to win the Champions League the way Manchester United had last season?
Arteta did not even dare to dream that far.
"Sigh."
Arteta looked bitterly toward the pitch, where Manchester City's players seemed to have awakened and were slowly regaining control of the rhythm.
Of course, that was also because Manchester United had ceded possession and focused almost entirely on protecting the midfield and defensive line.
With one minute left in regular time, Manchester City circulated the ball in their own half, trying to draw United's shape forward.
United did not move.
When Kompany carried the ball out from the back, Ling immediately pressed him.
The Belgian's long passing was decent, and it was better not to give him time to pick a pass. T
here was always a chance he could drop one behind the back line.
What if Maguire made a mistake and let the ball run through?
But Pogba behind Ling was strolling a little.
Kompany saw the opportunity and played a through ball into Gündoğan in the right half-space.
"Kevin!"
Gündoğan shifted it sideways before McTominay could close him down.
Without even needing a clear line of sight, De Bruyne flicked the ball delicately with his right foot.
Thwack!
The ball traced a beautiful arc toward the left side of the penalty area.
Waiting there was a dinosaur.
Sterling.
The Englishman of Jamaican descent erupted with terrifying speed, instantly leaving the exhausted Wan-Bissaka behind.
In the blink of an eye, Sterling carried the ball into the penalty area and faced the covering David Luiz.
He did not really touch the ball.
Instead, he used rhythm alone, slowing and shifting just enough to tempt David Luiz into sticking out a leg.
Sterling knew his own dribbling was limited. He could not perform a chain of quick feints in tight space the way smaller, more technical wingers could. So he chose something simpler.
Pure rhythm deception.
Shorter players often had quicker footwork, and Sterling's frequency was even faster than Ling's.
The rapid movements left David Luiz momentarily uncertain.
Defenders always had the instinct to stick out a leg.
It was almost unavoidable, like closing your eyes when a fist flew toward your face.
Training could reduce the reaction, but in the speed and chaos of a match, some movements came before thought.
David Luiz's leg shot out almost involuntarily.
"Agh!"
Sterling went down after the contact, crying out in pain as he tumbled across the turf and rolled several times.
A sharp whistle followed.
Peep!
The referee pointed straight to the penalty spot.
Ling's brow furrowed deeply.
He had not been far from the referee, perhaps ten metres or so, and his angle had been similar.
What he saw was David Luiz making contact with Sterling.
Maybe Sterling had gone looking for the penalty.
But the contact was real.
Even if it was slight.
Manchester United players immediately surrounded the referee to protest, while Manchester City players formed a protective ring around him.
Of course they did.
This was their final hope of a miracle.
Score the penalty, pull one back, then find another in stoppage time and drag the match into extra time.
Once both teams were reset, no one could say for certain who would come out on top.
The argument on the pitch grew heated, and the stands split into two storms of noise.