Juninho stepped out from the tunnel and made his way to the away team's technical area at the DW Stadium, home of Wigan Athletic.
This was the first time he had ever set foot in a stadium of this size, in front of such a massive crowd.
The roar from the stands crashed like waves, and he couldn't help but yearn for even grander stages.
Camp Nou. Bernabéu…
Just imagining what it would be like to lead a team out at one of those iconic grounds sent a surge of adrenaline through him.
"One step at a time," he reminded himself. "Someday, we'll walk onto those pitches."
Suddenly, another thought popped into his mind.
"Right... Morecambe's home ground."
It was tiny — just 5,000 seats.
If the club kept rising, that little stadium would soon look out of place.
"I'll need to raise funds someday and build a proper one."
But he shook those thoughts aside for now. His focus returned to the match ahead.
He hadn't changed the lineup for today's clash — not many choices anyway. He stuck with the most familiar formation, the central spine that had carried Morecambe so far this season, supported by solid wings on either flank.
This was Morecambe's strongest eleven.
And in a match like this, it only made sense to go all out.
Juninho had watched footage of Wigan Athletic's recent games and studied their tactics closely.
Their approach was fairly straightforward.
They played long balls into their towering striker Jones — a 1.9-meter-tall forward who'd scored 9 goals in 11 matches, second top scorer in League One.
Their whole strategy revolved around getting the ball to him, often using crosses from the wings or flick-ons from long balls.
Juninho had a simple counter to that.
Vidic.
The experienced center-back, also 1.9 meters tall, would be glued to Jones all game, neutralizing him with strength, timing, and elite positioning.
Unlike Jones — a seasoned League One journeyman — Vidic was different.
He had real talent.
There was a reason one would become a Manchester United legend, and the other would fade into obscurity.
As long as Vidic locked down Jones, Wigan's primary route to goal would be cut off.
As for their ground game?
Juninho was confident in Morecambe's high press and sharp transitions.
Wigan wouldn't stand a chance if it came down to that.
---
Soon, players from both sides took to the pitch and gathered for the coin toss.
Wearing the armband for Morecambe was none other than Zlatan Ibrahimović, his fierce presence unmistakable.
Wigan's captain was Jones, who tried to use his towering frame to intimidate.
But the moment he came face-to-face with Ibrahimović, he instinctively swallowed his words.
The intimidation game didn't work here.
He completed the coin toss in silence and jogged back to his half, faking confidence.
At least he wouldn't have to mark Zlatan directly.
Morecambe were awarded the kickoff.
Zlatan stood in the center circle, ready to start.
The rest of the Morecambe players used the final seconds to bounce on their feet, get their adrenaline flowing, and sharpen their focus.
BEEP!
The whistle blew.
Zlatan nudged the ball back to Ronaldinho.
Ronaldinho took it in stride and sent it out to the full-back.
At the same time, Wigan's front line pushed forward to press.
But they didn't go all the way. Their press was shallow — just enough to disrupt, not enough to leave themselves exposed.
This was typical of League One and League Two teams. They rarely dared to commit to a full high press.
They feared getting picked apart.
Boom. Bang. Bang.
The sound of boots meeting ball echoed throughout the ground.
Morecambe calmly passed it around the back and midfield, not rushing, just probing and shifting Wigan's shape.
This wasn't aimless possession.
Moving the ball from left to right forced Wigan's defense to slide — and when a gap appeared, just a sliver of space…
Boom.
A pass could split the lines.
One second too slow from a defender, and Morecambe would pounce.
Time ticked by.
Morecambe continued to control possession.
Wigan barely pressed — a few gestures, nothing serious. It felt like a stalemate on the surface.
---
In the VIP stands, Bournemouth's club owner Wood leaned back and sneered.
"Is this their new tactic?"
He turned to the other owners, mocking what he saw.
"In Brazil, I think they call this 'parking the bus,' right?"
A nearby club owner, who had spent time in Asia, chuckled.
"Actually, it's more like the old proverb about a turtle hiding in its shell."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Wood raised a brow.
"No courage. Playing it safe. No guts."
"Hah! Isn't this the Morecambe that was supposed to play flashy attacking football?"
Wood scoffed and gestured toward the pitch.
"Look at them now. Can't even threaten Wigan. All that hype, and this is what they show against a real team?"
At first, the other owners nodded politely.
But slowly, their attention shifted — not to Wood, but back to the pitch.
Something had changed.
Wood, realizing he was losing his audience, turned back as well.
And then he froze.
His eyes widened.
Ibrahimović.
The towering striker was charging toward goal — one-on-one with the keeper!
"What the hell happened?!"
Wood jumped to his feet in disbelief, staring at the pitch.
---