sound.
The DW Stadium buzzed with tension. Rows of Wigan supporters stomped, chanted, clapped—a roar that rose like smoke. It wasn't even the biggest ground in England, but to Juninho, it still felt like a stage worthy of real football.
His eyes drifted upward, catching the swell of the crowd.
One day, he thought, it'll be Camp Nou. Or the Bernabéu.
Those names still held a kind of weight—cathedrals of the game, each soaked in history and expectation. To coach there wasn't just about reaching the top. It meant proving that a kid with a mixed passport and no footballing dynasty behind him could still chart the course.
Step by step.
But then his thoughts landed back home—Morecambe. The Mazuma Stadium. Just over 5,000 seats. Tight. Intimate. But too small.
If we keep rising, it's going to look like a local pub stage at a national concert.
He filed the thought away.
Eventually, we'll need to find real money. Build something better. Something lasting.
For now, the mission was simple: beat Wigan.
Juninho hadn't rotated. No tricks. No experiments. He'd gone with their best eleven, the core that had built this improbable run. Strong spine. Balanced wings. High pressing instincts drilled into muscle memory.
Wigan's playbook was straightforward—old-school English directness.
Get it to Jones, the big number nine. Launch long. Win the knockdown. Work it wide. Cross it back in. Repeat.
Nine goals in eleven matches. Ranked second among League One scorers. A hammer up top.
But Juninho had already written the answer in his mind:
Vidic.
Same height. Sharper timing. A mind two passes ahead.
Stop Jones, and Wigan collapse on themselves.
Vidic had been briefed—shadow him, choke him off, don't give him an inch. It was less a match-up, more a dismantling waiting to happen.
Juninho glanced at the sideline. The players were already heading out. Captains to the center circle.
Ibrahimovic—fierce, towering—was Morecambe's voice. On the other side, Jones.
Jones walked up with puffed shoulders, trying to play the role of the alpha. But the moment he faced Ibrahimovic square on—broad chest, unreadable expression—his eyes flickered.
He swallowed. Quietly. Then nodded, said nothing, and jogged back to his half.
Juninho smirked. He just met the storm before the kickoff.
The whistle blew.
Ibrahimovic tapped it back to Ronaldinho, who turned on the ball and sprayed it wide. Wigan didn't press hard—just kept a shape, sat in mid-block, enough to limit progress but not enough to expose the backline.
Juninho read it instantly.
They're afraid of the press. We break one line, and they're exposed.
Morecambe moved the ball patiently. Short exchanges. Clean angles. The tempo was controlled, deliberate. Luring Wigan out, step by step.
The passes aren't the plan, Juninho thought. They're the setup.
Every lateral switch dragged Wigan's shape. Every moment one of their full-backs was a second late, Juninho's mind lit up a path.
Still, on the surface, it looked static. Uneventful.
In the VIP seats above the halfway line, Bournemouth owner Richard Wood leaned forward in boredom.
"This is what everyone was hyping up?" he muttered. "Looks like they're just hiding back there. No ambition."
A nearby club director smirked. "You mean playing cautious?"
"No, I mean gutless. I thought they were supposed to be a free-scoring, fearless team. They look scared."
He laughed louder, waving toward the pitch. "Let's see how pretty passing works against a proper team."
But the chuckles around him started to thin.
Gradually, more of the owners turned away from his words and stared down at the field.
Wood paused, sensing the shift.
Then he looked up.
What he saw made him sit upright.
Ibrahimovic had broken free.
Morecambe's striker was alone, barreling down the center of the pitch, only the keeper left to beat. There'd been no long ball, no flashy dribble—just one perfectly timed run behind a backline that hadn't noticed until it was too late.
"What—what just happened?" Wood stammered, standing without realizing it.
The crowd was already rising with him, noise swelling again, louder this time.
On the touchline, Juninho remained still.
Arms folded.
Expression calm.
He'd seen it coming long before anyone else.
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