Minute four.
The ball was at Ibrahimovic's feet, and Wigan's back line was frozen.
One pass had changed everything.
Juninho's plan had unfolded in less than two seconds—Morecambe's slow rhythm baited Wigan into sleepwalking through their opening press. But then Ronaldinho, quiet until that moment, split the defensive line with a knife-edge pass.
Wigan were caught in transition. Their midfield hadn't recovered. A gaping lane opened just behind the right-sided center-back—a seam of space that Ibrahimovic had been waiting to exploit.
He accelerated.
Juninho's eyes didn't move. He'd seen it all unfolding two passes earlier.
From the corner of his eye, Ibrahimovic spotted the defender trailing. Still meters away. The timing was perfect.
One touch to settle. One glance at the keeper.
Wigan's goalkeeper hesitated—just a beat too long. He didn't step up, didn't close the angle, didn't commit.
By the time he made his move, Ibrahimovic had already swung his leg.
Boom.
A low, curling drive off the laces. Fast. Clean. Precise. The keeper lunged left, but it was already too late. The ball ripped past his fingertips and kissed the back of the net.
The stadium let out a collective gasp—part shock, part disbelief.
Silence followed.
Then a ripple of frustration from the home fans.
It wasn't just a goal. It was how it happened. Against a League One opponent, Wigan had conceded in four minutes.
Ibrahimovic didn't even hesitate—arms out, chest forward, gliding toward the corner flag like a plane descending.
At the corner, he clenched his fist, jumped, and hammered the air in celebration. Teammates swarmed him.
In the VIP suite, Wood was speechless.
A few seats down, a League Two club owner leaned in. "Their number ten made that pass. Split the line clean. That wasn't luck."
"Individual brilliance?" someone asked.
"More than that," said a League One exec, still frowning. "It was the rhythm. They lulled Wigan in. Then flipped the tempo like a switch."
Now the eyes turned.
Toward Wood.
"Mr. Wood," one of the owners said, smiling. "You were just giving us your tactical analysis…"
"Yeah," another chimed in. "Didn't you say Morecambe couldn't break down a real side?"
Wood's collar suddenly felt a size too small. He wiped the sweat from his temple and forced a tight smile.
"Well... it happens. Even top-tier teams can slip up early against a lower-league side. Bit of luck, bit of sharp finishing. That's football."
The words came out dry. His back itched with sweat.
He could feel the embarrassment clinging to him. When was the last time anyone put me on the spot like this?
A few of his old allies offered half-hearted cover.
"It's still early."
"Wigan will respond."
"Jones just needs one chance…"
But no one spoke loudly. No one wanted to be the next fool caught flat-footed.
Back on the pitch—
Beep.
The whistle restarted play. Jones took the kickoff himself, pushing it forward and charging straight at Morecambe's half.
Juninho didn't flinch.
He watched Jones go—and watched Vidic begin his quiet pursuit.
Jones ran hard, then peeled off to the left as a long ball floated toward him. Classic Wigan play: one pass into the striker, players swarming off his shoulder. Four attackers sprinting into position. Only three defenders back.
The crowd stood up again. Expectation.
Jones leapt.
So did Vidic.
Jones twisted midair, trying to flick the ball wide to a teammate.
But something was wrong.
He felt it the moment he left the ground—Vidic's body against his, firm and perfectly timed. He was forced off balance, not by brute strength, but by positioning. Leverage.
Thump.
Vidic won the duel cleanly. His header wasn't just a clearance—it was a guided missile, right to Ronaldinho's feet.
Ronaldinho didn't pause. He turned on the half-volley and surged forward with three red shirts flying up alongside him.
Jones landed hard and looked back.
Vidic was already jogging away, not even looking at him. Unbothered. Efficient.
The crowd groaned again.
Some fans dropped back into their seats, muttering.
Jones swallowed his frustration, but it sat heavy in his throat.
They knew this was coming. They planned for me.
And it showed.
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