Chapter 417: Escape from the Den
The Millwall fans in the stands erupted, booing Manchester City with ferocious glee. Those closer to the pitch hurled abuse at O’Neill and the others, their shouts sharp, loud, and impossible to ignore. The tension crackled like electricity across the stadium.
The fourth official, sandwiched helplessly between the two fiery managers, waved his arms frantically. "Both of you! Return to your technical areas! Anyone who leaves their area again will be sent to the stands immediately!" His voice was sharp, but in the mayhem, it barely registered.
And yet... chaos only escalated. Harris and Mourinho, each convinced the other was the instigator, inched closer, fists twitching, words flying faster than anyone could follow. Staff from both sides leaned in, trying to intervene—but in the swirl of flailing arms and heated glares, it was as if everyone had forgotten the game entirely.
Finally, with a decisive blow of his whistle, the referee stepped in. The crowd fell silent, sensing the storm about to hit. He strode forward, pointing a finger at both managers. "Red card! Both of you—straight to the stands!"
O’Neill was still swearing as Mourinho and the others held O’Neill back, reluctantly pulling him toward the technical area.
Millwall manager Harris, on the other hand, waved his hands, raised his head like a victorious rooster, and marched back. In truth, he knew in his heart that as long as the referee decided to count the goal, no amount of noise could change the result.
It was just that earlier push that had provoked his emotions. Now he regretted it. With that red card, he would not be able to celebrate on the field. This was not the 1982 World Cup in Spain, the absurd era when referees could be pressured to change the score because the crown prince of a small West Asian country threatened to leave the match.
The situation was becoming increasingly unfavorable for Manchester City. With a goal in hand, Millwall could completely withdraw and defend their half of the field, using their brutal defense and home-ground momentum to block City’s counterattacks and maintain the 1–0 lead until the final whistle.
This was the scenario that Mourinho did not wish to see the most.
After O’Neill and Harris both received red cards, the assistant managers had no choice but to step in. For City, it was Mourinho’s second time managing the team—the first being when O’Neill got injured and had to be taken to the hospital for treatment.
Back in the locker room, Mourinho stood before the magnetic tactics board, his expression tight with concentration. The players, still flushed from the pitch, gathered around, some breathing heavily, others wiping sweat from their brows.
"Listen carefully," Mourinho began, pointing to the board. "We switch to a 4–3–3. Mark, you swap with Andrea. Shevchenko, you take Pires’ position. Thierry, you for Frank."
He paused, scanning the room to make sure everyone understood. "I know it’s not ideal—we’re a goal down—but we adjust. We stay compact and deep, drawing Millwall out of their comfort zone. When they commit forward, we hit them on the counter—quick, precise, and relentless. Every pass, every movement has to create space and exploit their gaps. Stay disciplined, stay sharp, and stay confident."
Mark frowned slightly, muttering under his breath, but Mourinho’s sharp gaze caught him. "I say this once again, this isn’t about opinions. It’s about execution. If you follow your positioning, support the midfield, and time your runs, we’ll create openings." He tapped the board decisively. "When Millwall commits forward, we strike. Every counter counts. Communicate. Move as a unit. Keep your discipline, and the chances will come."
The room was silent for a moment. Then one by one, players began nodding, murmuring acknowledgments.
When the match resumed, Millwall’s performance seemed to confirm what his had in mind just now. They deliberately reclaimed their defensive line and then used vicious and brutal defenses to stop the City’s counterattacks.
Zidane was fouled twice by Maurice Doyle within just 15 minutes. When he stood up limping, the punishment for the perpetrator was nothing more than a verbal warning from the referee. This enraged the City players, and their anger was only further fueled by the Millwall fans’ incessant booing, laughter, and jeering from the stands.
Luckily, English football fans were not like their Italian counterparts, who often lit flares during matches. Otherwise, the stands would already be burning and filled with smoke.
Richard, who saw this, frowned. In his mind, the match was becoming increasingly rough.
And it wasn’t just tough for City—it was the same for Millwall too. For example, Van Bommel had just intercepted a pass with what looked like a questionable sliding tackle. He quickly rushed forward as if to seize control of the ball, but instead used his upper arm to shove Maurice Doyle hard in the ribs. The impact was so heavy that the unprepared Doyle could only collapse to the ground!
The referee blew his whistle, and the surrounding Millwall players rushed up. City players also joined in. There was a loud hiss from the stands.
Richard immediately dialed Carl Moran, who, fortunately, picked up. With the noise in the stands growing by the minute, Richard didn’t waste words. He hung up and sent a text: "Find a quiet spot!"
A moment later, after a brief "yes" from Carl, Richard called again. "Listen carefully. Spread the word to every City fan you can reach — they need to leave the stadium at once. We’re abandoning the match."
Carl froze. "What?"
"Look around you," Richard snapped. "The Millwall fans are getting restless. We can’t risk casualties. By the 80th minute I want every single City supporter out of The Den. If necessary, we’ll reimburse their tickets. And if you pull this off, I’ll approve your tifo as City’s emblem next year — I’ll also greenlight the ’Blazing Squad’ proposal. That’s my promise."
Moran wanted to argue, but Richard’s words made him swallow his reply. "Yes, sir. I’ll do my best."
As soon as the call ended, Richard dialed Jimmy Rouse, the City kit manager, ready to give the next set of instructions.
On the pitch, it was pure chaos.
"This bastard!" Mourinho shouted from the sidelines, scolding the Millwall players. "Isn’t this exactly what Millwall wants? He’s too immature!"
Thanks to the referee’s hurried whistle and a few level-headed players from both sides, a full-scale fight was avoided. The referee called out Thuram and issued him a yellow card.
The Millwall players were furious with this decision. They believed a red card was deserved for such an intentional foul. The referee ignored their protests and instead called Doyle aside, offering a few words of admonishment. Doyle thought the matter had ended there and kept complaining—only for the referee to suddenly raise his hand and flash a yellow card in his face!
The Millwall players immediately surrounded the referee in anger, while the booing from the stands shifted and rained down on him instead.
Watching from the stands, Richard snorted. "They’ve already gotten what they wanted with a cheap shot, and they still act like it’s nothing. From the manager to the players, to the fans—every last one of them is a son of a bitch."
PHWEEEEE~
The final whistle cut through the air. Millwall’s players erupted in celebration, leaping into each other’s arms, laughing, shouting, some even shedding tears of joy. How satisfying it must have been to defeat the reigning Premier League champions on their own turf. The victory was more than a result—it was pride, blood, and identity.
A few Millwall players instinctively looked for handshakes, but froze when they noticed something strange. The City players weren’t lingering. They weren’t exchanging jerseys or applauding the crowd. Instead, they were rushing straight down the tunnel.
"..."
What was this? Had Manchester City truly been so shaken that they couldn’t even remain on the pitch after the match?
Millwall’s football hooligans were infamous across England—considered among the most brutal and dangerous, rivaled only by a handful of other firms. Not every Millwall supporter was a hooligan, of course, but when enough had been drinking, even God Himself couldn’t guarantee the safety of the visiting side.
In truth, even Richard didn’t know whether the government ban on alcohol was strictly enforced among Millwall fans. He wasn’t certain if the CCTV inside The Den even worked 24/7. But given the Molotov cocktails, tear gas, and violent clashes that had occurred there in the past, he wasn’t about to take risks.
After all, who could guarantee that once the players left the stadium, they wouldn’t be ambushed by the Bushwackers?
Regardless of gender or age, anyone who supported the opposing team could become a target.
And once you understood what kind of people Millwall’s hooligans were, you could understand why Richard was being so cautious. This was exactly why hooliganism was so dangerous—and why Richard was determined to eradicate every trace of it from Manchester City.
"Oh Man City, you thought you’d win,
Oh Man City, you thought you’d win,
But down The Den, you got done proper,
And you won’t come back again!"
It echoed and echoed, the taunt growing sharper, nastier, each repetition stabbing at the City players hurrying off the pitch. Some banged the advertising boards with their fists. Others ripped their scarves from their necks and swung them overhead, spittle flying as they sang.
The irony, however, was cruel. Just as they thought they could turn tonight into a night of pure mockery against the freshly crowned champions, their eyes drifted toward the north-east corner of the stadium—the section of the Dockers Stand reserved for away fans.
It was already empty.
"What the fuck?"