章節 16: Against Chelsea 4 (End)
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....
"Moore, header!" the commentator called out, his voice rising with anticipation.
"The ball goes in!!!"
"Goalgoalgoal~~~"
"The 21-year-old central defender has made up for his earlier mistake with a stunning, powerful header that equalizes the score for Leicester City!" The crowd erupted in a frenzy, tens of thousands of voices combining into a deafening roar as the moment unfolded.
Amid the joyful chaos, Moore raced toward Tristan, who had assisted him. The pressure that had built up in his heart after an earlier misstep dissipated with that single, glorious moment.
With adrenaline coursing through him, Moore threw his arms around Tristan in a big hug, excitement radiating from him. "Thank you! Tristan, thank you!"
"Great header! I knew you would head the ball in!" Tristan responded, smiling, though he felt a twinge of surprise at Moore's success.
'Just how did you pull that off?' he thought. Moore had often struggled to convert headers into goals during practice; his success rate was dismal at best, often struggling to score even three out of ten opportunities.
Yet, against all odds, he had found the back of the net from this free-kick opportunity.
It wasn't entirely unexpected, however. With David Luiz and another central defender, Cahill, tightly marking the more threatening Morgan, Moore had found his moment. Chelsea's right-back, Ivanovic, was preoccupied with Vardy, which allowed Moore to slip into a prime position, unnoticed.
"Maybe a bit of luck was involved," Tristan mused, reflecting on the situation. Luck, after all, was part of the game.
"This goal was perfectly orchestrated, from Mahrez's feint to the precise arc of Tristan's cross," the commentator praised, capturing the essence of the moment. "I'm sure Pearson has drilled this kind of set-piece tactic in training. Most of the credit goes to Tristan for that flawless delivery!"
The celebration continued, the atmosphere electric as fans rejoiced in the thrilling equalizer, their team alive with hope and momentum.
Pearson couldn't contain his excitement on the sidelines the moment the goal was scored. His heart raced as he glanced over at the Portuguese man across the way, a hint of pride breaking through his focus. 'This is what we've been working for! Tristan's talent is shining through at just the right moment,' he thought, savoring the electric atmosphere of the stadium.
Meanwhile, Mourinho's expression darkened as he watched his once-stalwart defense crumble under the pressure of a well-executed set piece. His mind raced as he processed the implications of the goal. David Luiz, while possessing a blend of strengths and weaknesses, had faltered once again.
The Brazilian was known for his impressive speed and agility among defenders of his size, as well as his aerial prowess and ability to contribute offensively. But there were times when his impulsiveness in going for the ball betrayed him, and this was one of those instances.
'Not again,' Mourinho thought bitterly. 'Why does this keep happening? I thought we had addressed these weaknesses in training.' It was precisely why he often relied on the more seasoned Terry to partner with Cahill in the league. The slip-up was frustrating, and it cost them the lead far too early in the match.
Yet, years of coaching experience taught Mourinho a valuable lesson: the more errors like this occur, the less pressure he could afford to place on his players. As an away game, pushing them too hard would only deepen their anxiety—impatience and a lack of composure were the last things he needed on the pitch.
Thus, the "Special One" took a deep breath and refrained from scolding his players. Instead, he clapped his hands and cheered them on. "Hey, guys, it's okay! It's their home ground. If the score is tied, it's not the end of the world—it's just a fresh start."
"Focus! We will win this game!" His encouraging words hung in the air, slowly lifting the weight of frustration off the Chelsea players' shoulders.
Lampard, the captain, joined in, applauding his teammates with renewed energy. "Guys, cheer up! The game has just begun, and we still have plenty of time!" His voice rang with optimism, crucial in maintaining their morale during this tough away match.
As the crowd's deafening cheers filled the King Power Stadium, Lampard's thoughts briefly shifted. He scanned the field, his brow furrowing at the overwhelming support for Leicester City. The noise of tens of thousands of fans was impossible to ignore, and he knew how easily it could rattle a team.
'We can't let this affect us,' he reminded himself. 'Stay calm and execute our game plan. We have the skills to turn this around.'
...
In the VIP stands, as they witnessed their son's beautifully curved cross lead to the equalizing goal, Tristan's parents leapt from their seats, joy bubbling over. They joined the other Leicester City fans in a chorus of cheers, waving their scarves high.
"Good shot!"
"That's a great pass, son!"
"Come on, one more goal!"
Their excited and proud exclamations seemed to pierce through the noise of the stadium, almost reaching Tristan's ears on the field. After celebrating with his teammates, he turned and waved to the VIP stands, offering a quick greeting to his parents.
Seeing this gesture, Ling and Julia felt a swell of pride, but it was the Leicester City fans in the VIP area who erupted into even louder cheers, mixed with the enthusiastic screams of female supporters. Although he had played less than five matches for the first team, Tristan was quickly establishing himself as the new idol of Leicester City, thanks to his handsome looks and impressive skills.
'He really is becoming a star,' Ling thought, beaming with pride as he watched his son on the field.
'This is just the beginning!'
In the die-hard fans' stand, William, a key member of Leicester City's largest fan organization, the "Fox Society," watched Tristan with growing admiration as he waved to the crowd. Suddenly, an idea sparked in his mind, and his eyes lit up.
He turned to his good friend Bob, also part of the Fox Club management, and said eagerly, "Bob, I have a good idea!"
Bob, a thin middle-aged man in black-framed glasses who looked like a university professor, turned without hesitation. "What's the idea?" he asked, still buzzing from the excitement of the game.
"I think we should come up with a special song for Tristan!" William suggested, his voice filled with enthusiasm.
At this, Bob spun around, his eyes gleaming with inspiration. He grasped William's shoulder and exclaimed, "That's absolutely brilliant! This is 100% a good idea!"
"We'll recruit some fans to come up with it right after this game!"
Back on the pitch, with the score now tied thanks to Moore's header, both teams were effectively back at square one. Leicester City players, buoyed by the home advantage, felt a renewed sense of determination. The King Power Stadium, filled with fervent Foxes supporters, was a fortress, and no one could easily claim victory here—not even the Premier League giants.
Chelsea's initial plan to seize an early lead had crumbled, leaving them scrambling as Leicester City surged with confidence. With momentum swinging in their favor, Leicester began to ramp up the pressure. However, Chelsea swiftly transitioned into a defensive stance, retreating into their own half. Only strikers Torres and attacking midfielder Oscar occasionally pressed forward, leaving the rest of the squad to fortify their defense.
As Chelsea relinquished control, Leicester City seized the initiative. As the midfield commander, Tristan was now the most active player on the field, looking to replicate his earlier success by teaming up with Mahrez to exploit Ashley Cole's vulnerabilities.
'This is going to be fun,' Tristan thought, remembering their earlier combination play. Yet Mourinho, ever the tactician, wasn't about to let them have free rein. He signaled for Hazard to drop back and assist Cole, while Lampard also retreated to shore up the midfield. Chelsea's defense tightened, becoming a near-impenetrable wall.
Tristan, however, remained unflustered. He moved fluidly, passing the ball to create space and looking for opportunities to exploit. Sometimes, he dropped back to receive passes from the defense; other times, he ventured to the wing to engage in quick passing plays with the wingers. For a brief period, the pitch became a showcase for Tristan's exceptional passing skills, blending short passes, long balls, and outside-of-the-foot deliveries that left fans and commentators alike astonished.
"Leicester City has taken command at home, surprising those who anticipated an easy Chelsea victory!" the commentator enthused, capturing the shift in momentum. "Young No. 22, Tristan, is like a tireless machine, omnipresent on the field."
The Leicester City fans erupted into song, their team anthem echoing through the King Power Stadium. The joyous sound filled the air, a testament to their unwavering support. They could hardly believe their eyes as they witnessed their team suppressing Chelsea on their own turf—something they had never seen before.
Although Chelsea boasted a lineup filled with famous names, most of their players were once celebrated stars now grappling with the toll of age and a concerning lack of offensive power. The forward line, in particular, was a glaring issue.
Fernando Torres, once a lethal striker, had struggled since arriving at Stamford Bridge as a marquee signing in the winter transfer window of 2011. Over the past three seasons, he had not once reached double digits in league goals. This season was particularly bleak; more than halfway through, including his Champions League and cup appearances, he had managed a mere six goals. The golden boy who had once set the Premier League alight with Liverpool now felt lost amid the shadows of his former glory.
His backup, Demba Ba, was equally ineffective, forcing the team to lean heavily on the 32-year-old Samuel Eto'o to salvage victories with sporadic contributions. Fortunately, Chelsea had a knack for turning games around, often relying on their defenders—led by the stalwart John Terry—to chip in with crucial goals. Tristan remembered that it wouldn't be until the following summer that Mourinho would reinforce his squad with key signings like Diego Costa and Cesc Fàbregas, alongside the return of the iconic Didier Drogba. These moves, combined with the emergence of a more mature Eden Hazard, would eventually help Chelsea reclaim the league title.
But that was a story for another day. In the current match, Tristan sensed a flicker of hope. If they could avoid conceding a counterattack goal to Chelsea, a victory was within reach. However, he hadn't anticipated that the first setback would come from his own team.
With Leicester City establishing control over the rhythm of their attack, midfielder Dean Hammond—a recent transfer from Southampton—began to feel the pressure to shine. Tristan's recent performances had lit a fire under him, filling him with an unexpected sense of urgency. This was his opportunity to impress the head coach, and he was unwilling to let Tristan steal the spotlight.
As Tristan retreated to the midfield, Hammond, instead of passing, looked to make an ambitious long pass, sending the ball soaring towards Chelsea's defensive line. Tristan's eyebrows raised in surprise as he watched the ball arc through the air, hoping it would find Vardy, who was sprinting forward.
But before Vardy could reach the ball, a white figure leaped into action, intercepting it with a powerful header. "Long pass! Cahill heads it out of danger, and Matic seizes control!" the commentator announced. "Chelsea have a chance to counterattack!"
Matic quickly scanned the field and passed the ball to Hazard, who was charging down the left flank. From the sidelines, Coach Pearson shouted, "Get back! Don't let him pass!"
As Hazard surged forward, the Chelsea players—Torres, Oscar, Lampard, and Willian—followed suit, all pressing toward Leicester City's goal. "Damn it, everything I feared is happening!" Tristan thought, cursing under his breath as he sprinted back to defend.
In an instant, the dynamics of the game shifted. Hazard, with his quick, decisive dribbling, left Leicester's right-back, De Wright, in his wake. Within seconds, Chelsea's swift counterattack was fully underway.
Reaching the edge of the penalty area, Hazard assessed the situation before sending a pinpoint cross with his left foot. "Hazard dribbles down the wing! Passes De Wright! Here comes the cross!" the commentator exclaimed as the ball soared toward the center of the box.
In that moment, Torres, wearing the number 9 jersey and still quick despite his recent struggles, made a desperate run. He stretched his leg to make contact with the ball just as it reached the penalty area, sending it flying toward the far corner of the goal.
As the ball sailed towards the net, Torres felt a surge of confidence, believing it was destined for glory. Chelsea fans jumped to their feet, certain a goal was imminent. But just as the ball slipped past Schmeichel's left hand, it ricocheted off the goalpost with a loud clang, sending it bouncing back into play.
Schlupp, sprinting back into position, was quick to clear the danger, sending the ball out of bounds before Chelsea could capitalize on the rebound. The stadium erupted into a collective gasp, and the momentary euphoria among Chelsea fans transformed into a chorus of disappointment.
Torres stood frozen, disbelief etched on his face as he processed the missed opportunity. Even Mourinho on the sidelines could only hold his head in his hands, wondering what might have been. The thought crossed his mind: "If it had been Didier, that goal would have been a certainty."
His tactical approach had always relied on having a strong focal point in attack—someone who could hold the ball, distribute it, and battle defenders. Unfortunately, neither Eto'o nor Torres fit that mold anymore.
Yet, after the initial disappointment, Mourinho quickly regained his composure, applauding his players for their swift counterattack. "Nice effort! Well done! That's it!" he encouraged.
For Leicester City's players and supporters, the tension was palpable. Some older fans in the stands fumbled for heart medication to calm their racing pulses. As Tristan made his way back to his position, he couldn't help but admire Torres's effort—he was still a formidable presence, despite his struggles.
Even though the counterattack had ended in disappointment, it served as a stark reminder of Chelsea's attacking prowess. Tristan felt a renewed determination settle within him; if they were to defeat Chelsea at home, they needed to staunch the flow of counterattacks.
While Tristan wasn't pleased with the quality of Hammond's pass, he refused to voice his frustrations. As a midfielder, it was natural to attempt bold plays, and mistakes were part of the game. He wasn't one to complain under pressure.
However, his silence didn't prevent others from expressing their opinions. Captain Morgan approached Hammond, his voice low but firm. "Dean, that pass was too casual! You should have played it to Ling to help organize the attack!"
Hammond, realizing his error and feeling the weight of Morgan's authority, nodded sheepishly. "I know, that was my fault," he admitted, the weight of being a newcomer heavy on him.
Satisfied with the acknowledgment, Morgan patted him on the shoulder and returned to his position.
After the restart, Chelsea's right winger Willian sent the ball back to the defense, looking to regroup for another attack. But Leicester City was unfazed by a possible positional battle. With two strong central defenders adept at intercepting and defending, they were ready for anything Chelsea might throw their way. Lampard's long-range shot from outside the penalty area proved fruitless, signaling the end of Chelsea's attack.
As the match progressed, both teams found themselves locked in a stalemate. Leicester City maintained control, carefully passing the ball among themselves while Chelsea pressed from time to time, retreating to a defensive stance.
With each passing minute, Leicester City's possession surged to a staggering eighty percent. Yet, most of their passes remained short and safe, with few attempts to break through Chelsea's organized defense.
Time ticked on, and the game grew increasingly tedious. Still, Leicester City fans remained supportive, embracing the prospect of holding Chelsea to a draw at home. They began to sing and engage in human waves in the stands, fueling the atmosphere with a sense of camaraderie and hope.
"Beep~beep~~"
With Paul Tierney's whistle, the first half ended!
Mourinho trotted into the player tunnel first, his expression a mix of contemplation and frustration. He had expected a more dominant display from his Chelsea side.
Pearson stood on the sideline, waiting for his players to walk off the field, high-fiving each of them as they exited. The pride in his eyes reflected the satisfaction he felt with their performance in the first half. His team had held their ground against a formidable opponent, and it felt like a turning point.
In the stands of the Chelsea fans' area, Jorge Mendes, clad in a sharp black suit, focused intently on the blond-haired young man sporting the No. 22 blue jersey. His thoughtful gaze followed the player's every movement on the pitch.
Jorge Mendes, a Portuguese football super-agent, is known for representing some of the biggest names in the sport, including Cristiano Ronaldo, Di Maria, and Falcao. He also represents the "madman" Mourinho himself.
Originally, Mendes had come to King Power Stadium to discuss transfer signings for the winter window with Mourinho. However, the emergence of Tristan caught him completely off guard—a delightful surprise that he hadn't anticipated.
Tristan had already piqued Mendes' interest with just half of his performance. The sharp instincts of the agent recognized something extraordinary in the young player. From Mendes' perspective, this young man from Leicester City possessed the makings of a future superstar.
Youth implies untapped potential. Good looks suggest substantial commercial value. Skill on the pitch opens the door to top clubs and the promise of competitive accolades. To top it off, Tristan had the advantage of an English household registration, making him a highly coveted prospect. Such rising stars always attract attention, and Mendes was ready to position himself as the agent to capitalize on this burgeoning talent.
"But how can those amateurs compete with me?!" Mendes mused, his confidence brimming. He was convinced that even if Tristan already had an agent, his reputation and connections would easily sway the player to join his roster. If the young star lacked representation, that would only enhance Mendes' opportunity to secure a fantastic deal.
With this thought in mind, Mendes raised an eyebrow and dialed a number on his phone:
"Hello, Santos. I need you to help me investigate a player right now."
"The No. 22 of Leicester City, his name is Tristan Hale."
"Look into who his agent is, his background, and details about his contract."
Back in the home team's locker room, Pearson's first words rang out, filled with enthusiasm:
"Guys, I want to say, you did a great job in the first half!"
The players looked around, beaming with pride, encouraged by their coach's recognition.
"However," he continued, "the game isn't forty-five minutes; it's ninety. If we want to win this match, we have to stay focused in the second half!"
Seeing his team actually suppress Chelsea in the first half—something he had hardly dared to hope for—Pearson felt a surge of ambition. He yearned for victory. After all, Leicester City had not won a single match against Chelsea in their last five encounters. He was determined to break that cycle and become the first coach to lead Leicester to triumph over Chelsea!
Motivated by this goal, Pearson rallied the players. After commending their efforts, he turned to the tactical whiteboard beside him, marker in hand:
"Tristan, try some diagonal long passes into the space behind their central defenders; that'll give Jamie a chance to make a run."
"Mahrez, increase your dribbling down the wing and create set-piece opportunities."
After meticulously outlining the responsibilities and tactics for each player, Pearson clapped his hands and gathered everyone in a circle in the middle of the locker room:
"Guys, this is our home turf!"
"Let's repay the fans who cheered for us with a victory!"
At his cue, the players erupted into a loud, unified chant, echoing the spirit of the Foxes:
"Forward, Blue Fox!!!"
The fifteen-minute halftime break flew by, and both teams returned to the pitch, ready for the second half.
"Welcome to Sky Sports for the FA Cup fourth round," the commentator announced. "In the second half, Chelsea made personnel adjustments."
Notably, Mourinho was quick to make changes. He first swapped out the starting left winger, Hazard, replacing him with André Schürrle, who had just joined from Leverkusen in the summer. Next, the underperforming attacking midfielder Oscar was substituted for the more defensively capable Ramires, enhancing Chelsea's midfield presence alongside Matic. Lampard was pushed from midfield into a forward position, joining Torres as a double striker.
With this shift from a 4-2-2-1 to a more aggressive 4-4-2 formation, it was clear that Mourinho intended to press for a win, refusing to settle for a draw at King Power Stadium.
For Mourinho, this match was less about the FA Cup and more about momentum. With an aging squad and a grueling schedule ahead, he prioritized the league and Champions League. Hazard's physical condition had become a concern, and losing him to injury would be catastrophic for Chelsea's title ambitions.
This was the reason behind the changes and the urgency in Mourinho's tactics. If the game remained undecided after 90 minutes, a replay would disrupt their already tight schedule and sap the players' energy. Therefore, in this match, it was all or nothing.
...
As the game resumed, Pearson watched Mourinho make substitutions and shift to a double forward role, initially believing Chelsea was finally ready to attack and seize control of the match. However, when he saw Hazard on the bench with ice packs on both thighs, realization washed over him. Mourinho's changes weren't about taking the initiative—they were strategic withdrawals.
Pearson's heart raced with newfound hope. It seemed that Mourinho was signaling a retreat rather than an offensive push. He recalled his research: Chelsea hadn't played a 4-4-2 formation in the last half-season. This was confirmation that Mourinho might be conceding the game.
In contrast, Leicester City had a deeper bench and, with Tristan emerging as a key asset, their midfield reserves could easily handle the demands of both league and cup competitions. The Leicester players were fueled by a strong desire to win, their morale soaring above that of the Chelsea stars.
With optimism bubbling within him, Pearson leaned toward his assistant coach, Walsh, who was seated beside him. "Steve, I get the feeling that the Portuguese manager is planning to throw in the towel. What do you think?"
While Pearson was buzzing with excitement, Tristan on the pitch noted Mourinho's substitutions and tactical shift. It struck him as both surprising and amusing. "Live on the spot? Just as expected—he is Guardiola's lifelong enemy!"
As the whistle for the second half blew, Chelsea's lineup shifted to a high-pressing formation, with Torres and Lampard leading the charge, supported by Schürrle and Willian on the flanks and a spirited Ramires racing forward like a bolt from a bow. The change caught the Leicester City players off guard, but Tristan quickly stepped up to showcase his midfield leadership.
"Focus!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Give me the ball!"
He moved to create space, urging his teammates to rally around him. Despite the slight skill disparity, Tristan's command inspired unity and determination among the Leicester squad. Each player pushed themselves, running tirelessly to bridge the gap in physicality with sheer will.
Leicester City struggled to retain possession, but the team managed to maintain the ball against Chelsea's newfound aggression. The Blues had abandoned their cautious play, now launching relentless attacks characterized by low, powerful crosses from the wings.
In the 49th minute, Chelsea seized the ball and initiated an attack from the right flank. Willian deftly maneuvered, creating room for a sharp 45-degree cross. Morgan, anticipating the play, leaped to clear the ball from danger.
Minutes later, in the 57th minute, Chelsea pressed again, this time from the left. Schürrle darted past an exhausted De Wright and curled a left-footed cross into the box. Lampard, despite the interference from Moore, managed to get a header on it, but the ball sailed wide of the goal.
"Chelsea has clearly shifted their approach this half, pressing aggressively and bombarding Leicester's defense with wing crosses," the commentator noted. "Leicester City's defense is beginning to look precarious."
But the tide was about to turn. As the clock ticked toward the 85th minute and the score remained 1-1, the atmosphere in King Power Stadium became electric. Leicester City was pushing forward, sensing an opportunity. Suddenly, Tristan found himself in the right place at the right time.
With a sharp burst of pace, he received the ball just outside the box. The crowd held its breath as he took a touch to settle it. Tristan glanced up, spotting the corner of the net, and in a moment of brilliance, he unleashed a powerful shot that arced beautifully into the goal.
"GOOOOAAAL!!!" the commentator exploded. "Tristan has done it! What a phenomenal strike from the young star! The stadium erupts!"
The fans went wild, their cheers echoing through the stands, and even the bench leapt to their feet in disbelief. Pearson's heart raced as he watched the celebration unfold—this was their chance, their moment to shine. As teammates surrounded Tristan, their joy was infectious, sending waves of excitement throughout the stadium. Leicester City had taken the lead, and with it, their hopes of advancing in the FA Cup soared.
"Unbelievable! It's that man again—No. 22, Tristan! This is his second goal in the FA Cup, and let's not forget his second assist! An 18-year-old, dominating both the goal-scoring and assist charts in just two games? I've never seen anything like this! Absolutely unreal!"
Amid the deafening cheers of the fans, Tristan stood near the corner flag, arms wide open in triumph, before leaping into the air with a fierce uppercut celebration. His teammates rushed toward him, engulfing him in a whirlwind of ecstatic hugs, knowing he had just delivered a stunning blow to Chelsea. The stadium was alive with energy, and the crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch.
Schmeichel, usually calm, was bouncing in front of his goal, fists pumping as he shouted in celebration. But it was Tristan's moment—his name echoed through the stands as the Leicester City faithful couldn't contain their excitement:
"Tristan, you beauty!"
"That was incredible!"
"Super Tristan! What a strike!!"
On the sidelines, Nigel Pearson was beside himself with joy. He punched the air, letting out a roar of triumph: "YES! That's it!"
He turned to Steve Walsh, giving him a vigorous high-five: "Steve, our plan worked to perfection!"
Pearson had told Tristan to exploit the spaces behind Chelsea's defense with long balls, but the young midfielder had gone above and beyond. With skill, timing, and confidence, Tristan had netted what looked like the game-winner.
As Pearson watched the young player get mobbed by his teammates, his admiration only deepened. What a talent—sharp, humble, and capable of making big moments happen. This was a player he could build his team around.
Up in the stands, Tristan's parents were on their feet, overcome with pride and emotion. Julia was crying tears of joy, her hands trembling as she tried to process what her son had just achieved. His father, usually composed, had jumped to his feet, shouting with pride: "That's my boy! That's my boy!"
And seated nearby, Mendes, watching from the executive box, was on his feet as well. His hands clapped slowly but with intent, his eyes gleaming with admiration. He had been watching Tristan closely, knowing the boy had immense potential. Now, seeing this moment of brilliance, Mendes knew he had to make his move soon. This kid is going to be special, he thought, as a grin crept across his face. Tristan wasn't his client—yet. But this was a player worth pursuing.
Meanwhile, Chelsea's players stood in disbelief, glancing around at each other, unsure of how they had let this happen. They had come into the match fully expecting to dominate. Instead, they found themselves staring down the prospect of defeat against a Championship side.
The Foxes fans were now in full voice, drowning out Stamford Bridge with their jubilant chants, as Chelsea's stars looked lost and rattled. Could we really be losing this? they wondered, as the clock edged toward the 85th minute and the reality of their situation began to sink in.
At this moment, a familiar voice with a slight Portuguese accent came from the sidelines:
"Guys, cheer up!"
Chelsea's players turned their heads to see their white-haired manager, Mourinho, tapping his watch repeatedly, his voice booming over the noise of the crowd:
"Time! We still have time! It's only 85 minutes now, and we still have five more minutes plus stoppage time to equalize! Don't give up!"
Mourinho's shouts cut through the fog of disbelief surrounding his players. They had been rattled by Tristan's stunning goal, but their manager's reminder snapped them back into the present. The game wasn't over yet.
Chelsea's captain, Frank Lampard, immediately took charge. He sprinted to retrieve the ball from the net and placed it at the center circle for the restart, shouting to his teammates:
"Come on, we can still get back into this! Keep pushing!"
However, as the game kicked off again, Chelsea's players were hit with another wave of frustration. Leicester had retreated, parking the bus to protect their precious 2-1 lead. Every single Leicester City player was now camped inside their own half, defending with their backs to the wall.
Mourinho, pacing the touchline with his hands on his hips, could only grimace. How ironic, he thought. He had built a reputation on this very tactic—defensive solidity, soaking up pressure, and killing off games. And now, it was being used against him by a Championship team.
Leicester's manager, Pearson, had no such qualms. He had ordered his players to fall back and defend at all costs. They weren't here to entertain; they were here to win. His side had the lead, and he had no intention of giving Chelsea an inch.
With all eleven Leicester players behind the ball, Chelsea's options were severely limited. The tight spaces in the final third stifled their attempts to play through the middle, and they were forced to resort to crosses and long balls into the box. But without a towering target man, Chelsea struggled to find any joy. Torres was isolated, and even Lampard, pushing forward, found himself frustrated as Morgan and Moore cleared every ball that came their way.
As the clock ticked toward the final whistle, Chelsea grew more desperate. They sent wave after wave of attacks down the flanks, but nothing worked. Leicester's defense stood strong, their resolve unshakable.
Pearson, sensing the urgency, made his final substitutions in the 88th minute, bringing on fresh legs to replace the exhausted Vardy and De Laet. Every second was crucial now, and Leicester City was determined to hold on.
In the dying moments of injury time, Chelsea won a corner. As the ball was whipped in, Schmeichel came out confidently, punching it clear. The Foxes fans roared their approval. Moments later, Nugent took the ball to the corner flag, shielding it expertly and wasting precious seconds, drawing fouls and frustrating Chelsea's defense further.
Mourinho's men were out of ideas, running out of time. With every passing second, their chances of an equalizer faded.
"Beep! Beep! Beep!"
The referee blew the final whistle, and it was over. Leicester City had done it.
As referee Paul Tierney blew the whistle to signal the end of the match, the FA Cup fourth-round clash came to a dramatic conclusion!
In the immediate aftermath, Leicester City's coaching staff erupted in celebration, hugging each other with unrestrained joy. On the pitch, the players rejoiced in their own ways—some raised their arms, shouting triumphantly to the heavens, while others dropped to their knees, roaring in celebration.
Among them, Tristan stood tall, a smile of satisfaction on his face as he raised his right hand, waving in the direction of the stands where his parents sat. For Tristan, this victory wasn't just about the result—it was a deeply personal moment. With his parents watching him live for the very first time, this win, capped off by his crucial goal, was the best gift he could have given them for everything.
As the stadium buzzed with excitement, it became clear that this game wasn't just another FA Cup tie—it was a moment destined for the history books. Under Pearson's leadership, Leicester City had achieved something monumental: they ended a five-game losing streak against Chelsea and secured their first-ever victory over the Premier League giants.
This was a night that would be remembered for years to come for fans of Leicester City.
.....
[Sometimes I hate the decisions I make. I made the stupid ass choice to remove the stupid U21 European Tournament chapters because why the fuck would someone seen as the best player in the Premier League at the age of 19 go play against kids. If you read the chinese novel you know what I'm talking. I get that system but shit don't make sense. Why the fuck would the FA and coaches even allow that to happen? What if that kid gets injured? Dude is already carrying the national team on his team; why should he do it for the youth level when it doesn't matter? So you know what I did, decided to write chapters by myself and make sure everything matches. At this point, I'm pretty sure the FBI thinks I'm stalking Barbara Palvin. Thank God for the wiki cause fuck this shit.]
每周推薦票狀態
-- 推薦票
榜單 
-- 推薦票