Wigan Athletic backfield.
Panic washed over the faces of the three defenders.
They backpedaled nervously, their eyes darting in every direction, unable to decide where to focus.
A three-on-four situation—this was nightmare-level defense.
No matter how tight they marked, there was always going to be a gap.
Their only hope was that a Morecambe player would slip up or lose control... but relying on a mistake from the opponent? That was a terrible feeling.
Especially when Morecambe's front line was built around a deadly dual core—Ibrahimović and Ronaldinho—with two blazing wingbacks flanking them.
This was a lineup capable of breaking dreams.
Bang... bang... bang!
Ronaldinho drove the ball forward with a few sharp strides, closing in on the arc of the penalty area.
One Wigan defender, knowing he couldn't back off any further, stepped out to intercept.
But by doing so, he left a gaping hole behind him.
Ibrahimović, sensing the opportunity, darted straight into the space.
Ronaldinho instantly understood. With a quick body feint to the right, he tricked the defender into shifting his balance.
Boom!
The moment the defender's weight was off, Ronaldinho slotted a perfect through ball into the path of the sprinting Ibrahimović.
By the time the deceived defender recovered, Ibrahimović was already one-on-one with the goalkeeper.
And there was no hesitation.
He planted his supporting foot, twisted his hips, and unleashed a thunderous right-foot volley.
The shot flew low and hard into the far corner—unstoppable.
The Wigan goalkeeper barely reacted before the net bulged.
2–0.
Ibrahimović and Ronaldinho raced toward the corner flag, arms raised in triumph.
Their celebration was wild, electric—as if declaring war on the entire football scene across the British Isles.
Together, they were worth £17 million.
And that was more than enough to tear through the defenses of most teams in the UK.
Silence engulfed the stadium.
Wigan Athletic supporters stared in disbelief as Morecambe players celebrated on their turf.
Some fans, unable to bear the humiliation, stood up and began leaving.
An early exit.
The clearest signal of disappointment.
On the pitch, several Wigan players sat dejectedly on the turf, eyes vacant.
On the touchline, head coach Brad stood still, chest heaving, his face devoid of expression.
Behind him, the assistant coach let out a long sigh.
They were tied to Brad's fate.
And that substitution earlier? It could cost him everything.
If Brad fell, so would his coaching staff. Whether another League One club would take a chance on them… no one knew.
Beep!
The referee restarted the match with a center kick.
But the damage was done.
That substitution had backfired horribly.
Wigan could've survived into the 60th or 70th minute.
But now, trailing by two, morale shattered—they were half-dead.
And Brad? He couldn't reverse his mistake now. No coach would publicly admit fault mid-match.
Pride wouldn't allow it.
What usually followed was blame-shifting and excuses—poor pitch conditions, bad luck, refereeing decisions—anything to avoid exposing tactical incompetence.
So the players dragged on.
But Morecambe kept pressing.
Ronaldinho, perhaps feeling especially confident, was on fire.
His passing became more frequent—and more accurate.
His samba-style footwork repeatedly embarrassed Wigan's midfielders.
Alone, he dismantled their midfield.
By now, Wigan's midfielders weren't even trying to win back possession—they were solely focused on containing him.
Inside the massive DW Stadium, the atmosphere was strange.
The remaining home fans found themselves clapping.
Not for Wigan.
But for Ronaldinho.
He was putting on a show.
Halftime arrived.
After a brief rest, the teams returned.
And though Wigan had those fifteen minutes to regroup, nothing changed.
Ronaldinho still ruled the midfield.
Clap clap clap clap...
The fans rose again, applauding his magic.
A sign of ultimate respect.
Ronaldinho had won them over.
And then, in the 67th minute, the third goal came.
A textbook counterattack.
Vidic launched a long ball from deep in the backfield.
Beech sprinted down the wing, controlled it near the end line, and delivered a smart pullback across the box.
Ronaldinho was waiting.
This time, he didn't miss.
With calm composure, he buried the chance into the net.
The crowd erupted into applause once more as Ronaldinho celebrated with his signature gesture—two sixes with his hands, wrists twisting as he danced to the corner flag.
Clap clap clap...
This was admiration. Pure and simple.
Even the Wigan fans couldn't hide their awe.
"Why can't we have players like that?" someone muttered from the stands.
"Because we have no money," an older fan beside him answered, pointing at Ronaldinho. "Morecambe spent ten million to bring him from South America. You think our stingy owners would ever do that?"
"But what about youth development? Can't we bring up our own stars?"
The old fan shook his head.
"Even if we did, the big clubs would snatch them up before they ever got a chance here."
"You'll understand one day. When you get to my age, you stop dreaming."
The younger fan went quiet for a moment.
Then he asked, "So… what kind of club can become stronger?"
The old man smiled faintly, eyes drifting to the red shirts on the pitch.
And he said, softly but surely:
"A club like Morecambe."
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