Football Dynasty

Before the FA Cup match, and after a brief two-day break, Manchester City resumed training in preparation for yet another tough fixture—this time at home against Leeds United.

George Graham had returned to football management with Leeds in September 1996, following the end of his ban. He took over after the fifth game of the season, replacing the long-serving Howard Wilkinson.

O'Neill made no effort to greet Graham. In their earlier encounter at Elland Road, City players had been subjected to racist abuse from the Leeds supporters. When the backlash came, instead of condemning the behavior, Graham tried to excuse it—creating an irreparable rift between the two managers.

Now, on the touchline, O'Neill stood with his hands in his coat pockets, visibly anxious. His thoughts raced: the risk of injuries, the psychological strain on his players, and yet—how could he not yearn for that elusive league title? The dream was within reach, almost tangible.

As the match kicked off, he watched the opening exchanges and lowered his head with a faint, self-deprecating smile.

If they could remain patient and control the tempo, chances would surely come. But just like in their previous game, the City players charged forward from the first whistle—wild, unrestrained, like horses breaking loose, desperate to overwhelm their opponents.

That intensity came at a cost. Their pressing lacked sharpness, their recovery runs were slower. It was clear from the opening minutes: they had been running on fumes. They had gritted their teeth and forced their way to this point, but physically, they were reaching their limit.

Leeds, by contrast, were calm and calculated. Whether Graham had set them up to park the bus or hit on the break, they were tactically prepared—and soon City were caught off guard.

Using the clever interchanging runs of four attackers, Leeds exploited City's stretched shape during a lightning-quick counterattack. They carved through the defense with ease, and when the ball struck the back of the net, City's players froze in disbelief.

In the stands, stunned silence.

They conceded?

"Wow! Leeds have scored first! What a shocker here at the City of Manchester Stadium! Only twenty minutes gone, and the home side finds themselves behind. But surely there's still plenty of time—City's attacking firepower is second to none!"

On most days, O'Neill wouldn't panic after an early goal. But today, looking at the tight jaws and furrowed brows of his players, he felt deeply uneasy.

He motioned downward with both hands—urging calm.

Conceding early wasn't the end of the world. In fact, in some matches, it could help settle nerves. But his players were far too fixated on winning. They had come this far purely through grit and willpower, and that obsession was starting to erode their composure.

After the restart, City threw themselves forward again—this time with even more urgency. They produced flashes of quality and looked dangerous in spells, but their decision-making in the final third was rushed and frantic. The more desperate they became, the more wasteful they were.

Frustration mounted. Defenders began pushing high to support the attack. Gradually, the team's shape dissolved into chaos. Their formation had become dangerously aggressive—almost reckless.

Robertson pulled O'Neill aside, puzzled and frustrated. "Why don't you yell at them to wake up?" he asked. "If they had followed the tactics we laid out before the match, this wouldn't be happening."

O'Neill shook his head, then gently patted Jansen on the shoulder. "Don't forget, most of them are still young," he said calmly. "They're just too eager to win—too confident in their own ability. If I start shouting now, I'll only stir up tension. That's the last thing this team needs right now."

"But that doesn't mean we just ignore the game plan!" Robertson insisted.

O'Neill gave a small, knowing smile. "John, haven't you ever been young yourself? There's a saying you should think about: 'If you aren't reckless when you're young, then what's the point of being young?'"

He bore no resentment toward the players. In fact, he found their behavior almost endearing. He remembered being young—arrogant, rebellious, thinking he was invincible just because he had a bit of talent.

The weight of truth always hits hardest when you're young. And right now, the pressure was mounting: dreams of winning the title, endless praise from outside, a string of victories, the comfort of home advantage, an unbeaten run, the glory of the League Cup. All of it had overstimulated the players in such a short span of time.

But as long as they could still focus once the whistle blew—as long as their passion wasn't completely misdirected—he remained grateful. What mattered most to him wasn't punishing their mistakes, but guiding them gently back onto the right path.

Thankfully, disaster was avoided. In the end, the unexpected hero of the match emerged: Rio Ferdinand, the center-back.

One assist and one goal.

One of the goals came when Ferdinand launched a long pass from the back, which was brilliantly finished by Henry. The second came from a set piece—a well-placed corner taken by Pirlo.

Across England and Europe, pundits and commentators alike sang Ferdinand's praises for his commanding performance. But what no one realized at the time was that this very match would spark an obsession—Leeds United, and George Graham in particular, became fixated on the young defender.

Leeds United made their first bid of £8 million—but it was swiftly rejected.

A second offer, this time for £10 million, was also turned down.

Within the span of just a few days, Leeds United had already submitted two formal bids.

Thanks to the transfer window system—which at the time hadn't yet been strictly formalized—clubs still had a degree of flexibility in signing players during the season. The modern "transfer window" rules, as we know them today, did not yet fully exist.

Clubs could buy and sell players throughout most of the football season, with only a few registration deadlines in place (such as the March deadline, after which new players couldn't be used in the final stages of league or cup competitions). This meant that managers had more freedom to respond to injuries or dips in form by making mid-season acquisitions almost any time they wished.

And the climax came just a day before the FA Cup final against Chelsea—Rio Ferdinand was absent from training, a development that definitely disrupted City's stability as they prepared for the final.

Sure enough, in the end, they lost 1–0 against Chelsea.

As soon as the final whistle blew and City walked off the pitch defeated, murmurs began to turn into speculation. Reporters quickly gathered, not just to dissect the 1–0 loss, but to probe a glaring omission.

"Martin, the big question on everyone's mind—where was Rio Ferdinand today? He wasn't on the bench, not even in the stands. Was he injured? Suspended? Dropped?"

"Given how crucial this match was, surely a player of Ferdinand's quality would have made a difference. Are there internal issues going on that you're not disclosing?"

"There are rumors of a falling-out—care to clarify? Was this a tactical decision, or is there more going on behind the scenes?"

"Fans are confused, Martin. How do you justify benching your best center-back on the biggest day of the season? Was this a disciplinary matter?"

"Is this the beginning of the end for Rio Ferdinand at Manchester City?"

O'Neill, carefully choosing his words, then answered, "I understand there's been a lot of noise about Rio's absence today. Let me be clear: it wasn't a decision taken lightly. We evaluated several factors leading up to the final, and in the end, we made the call that was in the best interest of the team under the circumstances."

Richard, overhearing the back-and-forth exchange between O'Neill and the press, was quietly fuming.

What were the media thinking?

Why were they so fixated on framing City's FA Cup final loss to Chelsea as solely the result of Rio Ferdinand's absence? Did they really believe one missing player was the reason for the defeat?

Had they forgotten that the squad still boasted the likes of Ronaldo, Henrik Larsson, Neil Lennon, and several other supremely talented players? It was insulting—not just to the team, but to the entire campaign they had fought through together.

To reduce such a hard-fought journey to the absence of a single defender felt like a shallow narrative, unworthy of the occasion.

What infuriated Richard even more was what came after the FA Cup defeat. Out of nowhere, Pini Zahavi—one of the most powerful agents in football—showed up at Maine Road, forcefully pushing for Rio Ferdinand's transfer to Leeds United.

Ferdinand had originally made his debut with West Ham Youth and first caught attention during a loan spell at Bournemouth. At the time, Rune Hauge had been the key figure managing his rise. He was also the one who facilitated Ferdinand's initial move from West Ham's youth to Manchester City.

So when Pini Zahavi suddenly appeared and began speaking on Ferdinand's behalf, Richard was stunned. Since when had Rio changed agents?

If it were still Rune Hauge, discussions might have been possible. But with Zahavi involved? There was no room for compromise.

Shortly after, Leeds United submitted a third bid—this time worth £12 million. Richard responded immediately, raising the price to £15 million—a record-breaking fee for a defender at the time.

"Have we had any luck reaching Rio or his family?" Richard asked Marina Granovskaia.

She shook her head. "They're refusing all contact."

Richard nodded grimly. With no other option, he gave the green light to accept Leeds United's fourth offer: £15 million. The deal, formally brokered by Pini Zahavi, was finalized.

"The sooner you're gone," Richard muttered to himself, "the better."

O'Neill, upon hearing the news from Marina, stormed into Richard's office without knocking. The usually composed manager looked furious.

"There wasn't much choice. He's gone silent. His camp refuses to speak to us. Zahavi came with a £15 million offer—"

"But Rio was our player. One of our most important ones. You've just sold a cornerstone of this team days after a devastating cup final loss—and without so much as a meeting?"

"He didn't want to stay," Richard replied coldly. "When his new agent shows up without warning, the decision's already been made. And don't pretend this wouldn't disrupt everything. If a player wants out and hides behind his agent and family, what are we even holding on to?"

O'Neill shook his head in disbelief. "That's not the point. Decisions like this—on key players—should always come through footballing channels first. I—"

"You were too close to this one," Richard cut in, silencing what O'Neill was about to say.

O'Neill's jaw tensed, but he didn't respond. The room fell into a heavy silence—the kind that only exists between two people who both believe they're right.

After a few seconds, Richard slowly rose from his chair.

"I respect that more than you know," he said, his voice softer now, almost reflective. He paused, then he looked O'Neill square in the eyes and continued, firm and deliberate: "But no player is bigger than the club."

Richard wasn't just talking about Ferdinand anymore. He was laying down his philosophy, the unshakable foundation of how he ran the club.