Become A Football Legend Chapter 403: Match ball

The Frenchman drifted across the attacking third with that loose, elegant arrogance he carried when the match opened up for him. He slipped one reverse pass toward Haaland that De Ligt cut out at the last moment, then clipped another delicate ball over Shaw’s shoulder that Haaland almost brought down before Bayındır rushed out to collect.

United were barely threatening by then. Amorim’s side had retreated almost entirely into damage limitation, Bruno Fernandes still gesturing for teammates to step out, still shouting, still trying to preserve some structure, but even his voice seemed swallowed by the Etihad.

City kept coming.

In the 85th minute, Bernardo Silva received possession between the lines and rolled it into Cherki in the final third. Cherki took it on the half-turn and began to strut toward the edge of the box, the ball never more than a few inches from his left foot. Bruno Fernandes stepped out to meet him, frustration visible in every movement, but Cherki slowed as if inviting the challenge. One stepover shifted Bruno’s weight, and before the United captain could plant himself again, Cherki nudged the ball away from his reaching leg and opened the passing lane.

Haaland had already found the pocket.

He stood just inside the edge of the penalty area, level with De Ligt, waiting for the pass without needing to wave for it. Cherki saw him and, with the outside of his left boot, slipped the ball cleanly through the gap.

Haaland did not take a touch.

He did not need one.

The pass arrived across his body, and the Norwegian struck it first time with his left foot, lashing a low shot through De Ligt’s legs and into the bottom corner before Bayındır could properly set himself.

The net snapped back.

The Etihad erupted again.

Lukas stood from the bench immediately, clapping above his head with a wide grin as Haaland turned away toward the supporters, arms out, laughing like a man who had just added his own signature to an afternoon already overflowing with them. Cherki pointed to Haaland, Haaland pointed back to Cherki, and for a moment the whole City team seemed to celebrate the goal less like a sixth in an already finished match and more like proof that the entire squad had arrived at the same conclusion: the derby belonged to them completely.

Peter Drury rose with the noise. "Haaland makes it 6! Manchester City have turned the derby into a statement of the most brutal kind. After two defeats, after all the questions, after all the noise around this team, they have answered with a pounding victory over Manchester United."

Gary Neville’s voice was quieter now, almost weary. "It’s a humiliation. There is no other word for it. 6-0 in a derby, and it could have been more. City have been sharper, stronger, quicker, braver. United have been completely taken apart."

The big screen cut briefly to Rúben Amorim on the United bench.

He sat back in his chair, arms folded, his face pale with frustration as he shook his head slowly. Carlos Fernandes leaned toward him and said something, but Amorim barely reacted. There was nothing left to adjust. Nothing left to rescue. His team were simply waiting for the final whistle to release them from the Etihad.

The final minutes passed with City in complete control. A few minutes were added on, but Anthony Taylor did not allow the afternoon to drag unnecessarily. United moved the ball backward, then sideways, then backward again, and when another loose pass rolled harmlessly into City’s half, the referee brought the whistle to his mouth.

Full time.

Manchester City 6–0 Manchester United.

The Etihad exploded one final time.

City’s bench emptied almost immediately. Substitutes, staff members, analysts and coaches spilled toward the edge of the pitch, not in wild disorder, but with the unmistakable release of a team that knew it had needed this result. After two consecutive league defeats, after a week of questions, after all the talk about pressure, rhythm and confidence, they had not simply won the derby. They had buried it.

Lukas rose from the bench with his jacket zipped halfway up, and before he had even stepped properly onto the grass, Foden grabbed him from the side and pulled him into a hug. Bernardo came next, laughing as he slapped both hands against Lukas’ shoulders, while Doku shouted something about the first goal and mimicked the bow toward the supporters. Haaland arrived last and wrapped one heavy arm around Lukas’ neck, dragging him into the middle of the group as if he were personally responsible for presenting him to the stadium.

"Three goals, two assists," Haaland shouted, grinning down at him. "In your first derby. You are not normal."

Lukas laughed, trying to push him away.

"You scored too."

"Of course I scored. I am normal."

That made half the players around them burst out laughing.

Guardiola came across then, clapping as he approached. He pulled Lukas into another hug, shorter than the one at the substitution but just as firm, then held him at arm’s length and looked at him properly.

"Enjoy it," Pep told him. "These days do not come often."

Lukas nodded.

"I will."

Pep patted his cheek once before moving through the rest of the squad, hugging Haaland, gripping Rodri by the back of the neck, pointing toward Donnarumma, applauding Khusanov, then calling everyone together with both hands. City gathered near the centre circle, players in kits, substitutes in jackets, staff in tracksuits, all of them slowly turning toward the South Stand as the noise swelled again.

The whole squad began walking as one.

Rodri and Bernardo walked side by side, talking quietly, both still smiling at the suffocating midfield performance they had produced. Khusanov received a long hug from Dias, who kept saying something into his ear while pointing toward the United half, reminding him how many counters he had killed before they ever became dangerous. Gvardiol and O’Reilly clapped the supporters together, while Donnarumma lifted both gloves above his head and soaked in the applause from behind the goal.

The players reached the stand and applauded the fans.

The fans answered by singing louder.

Lukas stood slightly behind the group at first, holding the match ball under one arm, almost unsure where to place himself in the middle of it all. Then Foden noticed and pulled him forward by the sleeve. Bernardo joined in, pushing him toward the front row of players, and Haaland grabbed the match ball from under Lukas’ arm just long enough to hold it above his head like a trophy. The supporters roared even louder, and Lukas, embarrassed now, reached up to take it back while his teammates laughed around him.

"Lift it!" Doku shouted.

"It’s a ball," Lukas said, laughing.

"It’s your ball," Foden replied. "Lift it."

So Lukas did.

He raised the match ball above his head, and the Etihad gave him another ovation.

For a moment, every City player around him simply clapped along with the crowd. There was no jealousy in it, no distance, no sense of one boy being separated from the rest. It was the opposite. They surrounded him, pushed him forward, celebrated him because his performance had become their statement too. Rodri clapped with a proud smile. Haaland kept pointing at him. Bernardo bowed theatrically beside him, copying Lukas’ earlier celebration and making the supporters laugh.