Kickoff.
Juninho D'Alessandro stood on the sidelines, arms folded, eyes locked on the pitch with sharp focus.
He had arranged a 4-3-3 formation, with the three new summer signings forming a strong central spine. The rest of the players were seasoned League One and League Two veterans.
Feld, the visiting side, took the opening kick.
Boom!
The ball was rolled back to midfield, officially starting the match.
Just as Feld's center returned the ball, he heard the thunder of sprinting footsteps behind him—a few gusts of wind zipped past.
What the hell?
The center was momentarily stunned but didn't think much of it, slowly jogging toward Morecambe's half.
But Juninho's strategy was already in motion: high pressing from the first whistle.
In just a month, Morecambe had already honed this tactic to near perfection.
Six of Morecambe's front and midfield players surged into Feld's half, quickly locking into their pressing zones, swarming toward the man on the ball like a pack of wolves.
Feld's midfielder, just receiving the pass, was immediately overwhelmed—there wasn't a single safe outlet in sight.
And then, barreling straight at him, was a 6'4" striker with fire in his eyes—Ibrahimović.
Boom!
Panicking, the midfielder turned and played a rushed pass toward his backline.
But as soon as he released the ball, his heart sank.
That same towering striker didn't stop—he kept sprinting, charging down the backline like a predator hunting prey.
Before the defender could properly receive the ball and return it to the keeper, Ibrahimović was already there.
With a quick reach of his long leg—
Tap!
He poked the ball away!
Danger!
Every Feld player on the pitch felt a chill. A turnover in midfield was one thing, but in the defensive third? Disaster!
Now it was just Ibrahimović… one-on-one with the goalkeeper.
Boom!!
The Swede didn't hesitate—he struck it from the edge of the box.
The ball rocketed off his boot like a heat-seeking missile, straight toward Feld's goal.
Whoosh!!
The net bulged violently.
The goalkeeper stood rooted to his line, frozen in disbelief.
"Ooooohhhh!!!"
Morecambe Town Stadium erupted.
"Ibra! Ibra! Ibra!!"
The small stadium held only 5,000 fans, but the sound was thunderous. With no roof or sound insulation, the roars echoed freely into the Lancashire sky.
Ibrahimović ran toward the corner flag with a smirk, resting one hand on it as he looked over the crowd like a king claiming his land.
On the sideline, Juninho checked his watch and grinned.
"Fourteen seconds."
That's all it took—from kickoff to goal.
Every goal has a bit of luck, sure. But this one?
It was pure tactics and raw talent.
"Do you think that broke a league record?" Juninho asked, turning to Ryan on the bench beside him.
Without an assistant coach yet, Juninho had brought the long-time club staffer to sit as acting team leader.
Ryan didn't reply right away. He was too stunned, still absorbing the relentless chants and the sight of Morecambe's players celebrating like Premier League champions.
"Ryan?" Juninho repeated louder.
Ryan finally snapped out of it and nodded stiffly. "I… I think it did."
What left him speechless wasn't just the goal—it was the sheer unity of the team in those 14 seconds.
The perfect press.
The perfect steal.
The perfect finish.
He'd worked at Morecambe for decades, but never had he seen his club play like this.
And Feld? They weren't a bottom-feeder—they were a solid upper-mid-table side in the National League.
Yet Morecambe had torn them apart from the opening whistle.
Ryan glanced at Juninho.
Sure, Morecambe had the most expensive squad in the division thanks to his deep pockets—but building a squad was one thing. Getting them to play like this? That took vision.
It was then Ryan realized: Maybe he had underestimated this young Brazilian.
He's not just a rich owner.
He's a true football mind.
And, thank God, he belongs to Morecambe.
---
Back on the pitch, Ibrahimović had finished celebrating and jogged back to the center circle, waiting for Feld to restart.
Beep!
The ref blew his whistle. Feld's striker passed the ball back again.
But Morecambe didn't let up.
The same suffocating press swept forward again.
This time, Feld's midfield didn't dare hesitate—they quickly hoofed the ball forward, desperate to avoid another ambush.
But there was no forward in position—no one to collect it.
The Morecambe defense easily intercepted and regained possession.
Another turnover.
It was a vicious cycle. Feld didn't have time to build up or organize.
Long passes led to quick losses. Short passes were stolen by the press.
It was complete domination.
---