The match continued.
Morecambe was on the counterattack!
Ronaldinho surged forward from midfield, showcasing dazzling South American flair—slick footwork, sharp body feints, and effortless balance!
He danced past two Wigan Athletic midfielders in quick succession, leaving the crowd gasping as he charged toward the danger zone.
His performance lived up to his £10 million price tag—pure gold in midfield.
The Wigan fans watching from the stands couldn't help but cry out in disbelief.
But just when it seemed promising, Ronaldinho played the ball out wide to Beach on the left. Unfortunately, Beach's cross was too close to the keeper, who leapt and cleanly snatched it out of the air.
Possession switched again.
This was typical British football—fast-paced, high-impact, end-to-end action.
As soon as they lost the ball, Morecambe pressed hard in the final third.
They locked down all of Wigan's passing lanes and marked every outlet in their opponent's half, leaving the goalkeeper no choice but to launch it long.
Boom!
The Wigan keeper finally opted for their familiar tactic—looking for target man Jones with a big hoof downfield.
To their credit, Wigan were still a League One side; their long balls were accurate and efficient.
Following a quick back-and-forth, the ball once again soared toward Jones.
Back in Morecambe's half...
Jones watched the ball drop from the sky with a serious expression—but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
Aerial duels were supposed to be his specialty.
Losing one challenge was fine—but losing twice? Not in front of a home crowd. That'd be humiliating.
But deep down, he wasn't confident.
That defender from Morecambe—Vidic—had monstrous strength and bounce. The power Jones had felt earlier left him genuinely shaken.
Where on earth did this beast of a center-back come from?
As the ball descended, Jones clenched his jaw and positioned himself, determined to redeem himself.
He shut his eyes and leapt with everything he had.
But just before he could reach the ball—
Boom!
A thunderous impact struck from above.
An overwhelming force crashed into his back, shoving him off balance. Jones nearly stumbled to the ground.
It was Vidic again.
Dominating in the air once more, the Morecambe defender claimed the high ball cleanly.
Jones landed hard, frustration etched across his face. Confidence shattered.
He glanced back at Vidic—scowling, towering, relentless—and made a quiet decision: avoid him at all costs.
He jogged away toward the wing, trying to shake off the pressure.
But it didn't help.
No matter where he ran, Vidic shadowed him like glue—sticking close like a phantom that wouldn't go away.
The League One top striker's composure slowly cracked. His face darkened, his movements grew stiff, and his patience thinned.
On the sidelines…
Juninho stood near the dugout, a subtle smile playing on his lips.
He wasn't surprised.
One day, Vidic would be facing off against legends—Henry, Van Persie, Drogba—and never once back down.
A League One striker?
That was hardly worth losing sleep over.
"This match is 80% in the bag," Juninho said casually, eyes still fixed on the pitch. "League One teams aren't that tough after all."
"Really, Mr. Lane?"
He turned to Ryan, Morecambe's long-time assistant manager.
Juninho still remembered—when he had first taken over, Ryan had doubted him at every turn.
But look at Morecambe now.
How much had changed in just a short time?
"Ahem…"
Mr. Lane cleared his throat with an awkward cough, then gave a small nod. "It's all thanks to you."
"Hahaha..."
Juninho chuckled with his hands behind his back.
Sometimes, teasing the old-timers at the club was more fun than winning matches.
"Mr. Lane," he said, eyes scanning the players in red, "how far do you think this team can go in the future?"
He was genuinely curious. Did the old man finally believe?
"I… I'm not too sure."
Ryan hesitated, then gave a rare smile.
"But with you here, Juninho… I have a bit of hope now."
"I just want to see Morecambe reach the Premier League before I die."
Juninho looked at the man, touched.
He turned back to the pitch, a quiet fire in his voice.
"Not just the Premier League," he said. "When Morecambe earns the right to stand toe-to-toe with the giants… I want you standing next to me on the sidelines."
"To witness it all."
"Haha..."
Mr. Lane laughed and waved him off. "Let me live that long first!"
Juninho smiled too, saying nothing more.
But deep down—he meant every word.
For this loyal club man who had served for decades with unwavering dedication—
Juninho genuinely hoped...
That one day, he could bring this old warrior to football's greatest stages.
To Milan. To Turin. To Camp Nou. To the Bernabéu.
And there, amid the roar of tens of thousands, they would stand side by side, chatting and laughing on the touchline of giants.
Meanwhile, in the VIP stands...
More than a dozen club owners sat in awkward silence.
The mood was heavy. No one wanted to speak first.
After a long while...
"Uh..."
One of the more famous owners finally forced a smile.
"You've all been talking nonstop, so I didn't want to interrupt."
He cleared his throat. "That defender marking Jones today—Vidic, right? Morecambe just bought him for €4 million this summer."
At that, many owners scowled.
"Four million? For a defender? In the IPL?"
One of them shook his head in disbelief. "Do they even know what cost-effective means?"
"That's just reckless spending."
"Not exactly," the first owner replied with a chuckle. "Didn't you read the full report? That defender's only 19 or 20."
The entire VIP box went silent.
Now that changed everything.
To dominate like that at his age?
Barring injury or decline, Morecambe could flip him for double or triple in a few years.
Each owner had the same question buried in their mind—though none dared ask it out loud:
Where the hell did the Morecambe boss find these monsters?
And more importantly...
Can he introduce me to his scout?
---