The match restarted with little urgency from Wigan.
Ronaldinho's brilliance had drained the life from the home side, and now the rest of Morecambe played with a rhythm and lightness that was impossible to contain. Confidence had spread like wildfire. Every player was sharper, braver, looser.
Even Ibrahimovic.
The towering striker, typically a symbol of brute strength and aerial dominance, was stepping over the ball at the top of the box, attempting flashy feints usually reserved for wingers.
Juninho watched from the sideline, expression flat.
He's enjoying himself too much.
And with that joy came mistakes—awkward footwork, misplaced touches, an almost comedic stumble in the penalty area that left Ibrahimovic grinning to himself in embarrassment.
But Juninho didn't mind. The game was theirs.
Then came the 85th minute.
Fatigue should've been settling in. Players should've been slowing down.
Ibrahimovic did the opposite.
He picked up his energy again, chasing passes with fresh legs, dropping deep to receive, pushing into the box again and again. He wanted another goal.
And everyone on the team could see it.
So they started feeding him—every wide ball, every diagonal, every second pass. All roads led to the big man up front.
It was the 90th minute when the final chance came.
Beech drove down the left wing, shaking off his man and curling in a cross from the byline.
But it wasn't perfect.
The ball dropped awkwardly—no arc, no lift. It was falling short, almost directly at Ibrahimovic's midsection. Too low for a header. Too high for a clean volley. Too fast for a settled touch.
Beech grimaced and waved in apology. Wasted it.
But Ibrahimovic was already smiling.
He didn't need the ball to be perfect.
He leapt.
A taekwondo-trained black belt. A six-foot-five frame defying gravity. He spun mid-air and extended his leg in a whip-like motion—
Boom.
The sound echoed off the stands.
The sole of his boot struck the ball cleanly. A flying volley. The kind of strike that didn't belong on this level—or even in this league.
The ball rocketed past the keeper and slammed into the far side of the net.
4–0.
The crowd exploded.
Some fans stood with their hands on their heads. Others clapped instinctively, still trying to process what they'd just seen. A striker that big shouldn't be able to move like that.
Monster.
Ibrahimovic ran toward the corner flag, dropped to his knees, and slid across the turf in full celebration. Arms wide. Chin high.
This was his moment.
A strike so outrageous, so signature, it could only belong to one name.
From now on, when people spoke of spectacular finishes—they'd speak of that goal. Ibrahimovic's goal.
---
The applause lasted longer than the replay.
Even Wigan supporters joined in.
Not out of joy—but respect.
They'd come hoping to watch their side progress. Instead, they'd watched a footballing lesson—and a highlight that would circle the internet before they even got home.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Full time.
No stoppage time needed. The scoreline told the story:
Morecambe 4 — Wigan Athletic 0.
A League Two side had come to a League One ground—and delivered the biggest upset of the League Cup's second round.
Juninho didn't pump his fists or shout.
He simply nodded once to his players as they gathered near the bench. Calm. As always.
This was only the beginning.
They were going to the third round. Premier League opposition was next.
---
Post-Match Press Conference
Juninho sat to the right. Wigan manager Brad to the left.
The contrast was stark.
Juninho looked untouched—relaxed, hands folded, the hint of a smile. Brad looked hollowed out. Disheveled. Eyes darting. Jaw tight.
First question—direct and sharp.
"Mr. Brad, can you explain the decision to switch to a back three?"
Brad hesitated. "We've trained with that system... normally it works well."
He forced a half-smile. "But maybe today, players weren't in the best condition. The system didn't come off."
A polite answer. Hollow.
Another reporter rose. Female, sharp-eyed, poised.
"Mr. Brad, speaking plainly, what does it feel like to lose four-nil to a team two divisions below?"
Brad blinked. "Next question."
"We've worked with your club for years," the reporter pushed, unfazed. "Is this how you handle pressure—on the field and off it?"
"I have the right not to answer," Brad barked.
"Of course," she replied sweetly, "but you also have the responsibility to show leadership—unless, of course, you plan to dodge that the way your midfield dodged the ball tonight."
"Enough!"
Brad exploded, slamming the desk as he stood and stormed out. His assistant scrambled after him.
The room remained quiet—then broke into muffled laughter.
Juninho watched him go.
Then glanced sideways at the woman with a slight smirk.
Most poisonous heart? Maybe. But deadly accurate.
He adjusted his mic.
"Any questions about the football?"
--