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Chapter 39 - Chapter 39 - Park the Bus? One Long Shot is All It Takes

While Wenger sat at Colney grappling with reality, another legendary coach on the British Isles was reacting in his own way.

At Carrington, inside Manchester United's coaching office, Sir Alex Ferguson frowned as he reviewed a scout's report.

"Morecambe?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Can't we just buy the kid?"

His assistant shook his head. "It's not that simple. They won't sell. And even if they did, the valuation would be massive. No one's tested these players in the top flight yet. The risk's too high."

Ferguson tapped his fingers on the table, considering it.

"Well," he muttered, "when they climb a few leagues... we'll be waiting."

That was the plan—for now. Wait. Watch. Hope they didn't explode in value too quickly.

But he knew as well as anyone: in football, the window to strike can vanish fast.

---

Seven Days Later

Morecambe Town Stadium – League Two, Matchday 15

The stands were jammed to capacity. All 5,000 seats filled. Red flags. Chants echoing across the coastal wind. This was no longer a sleepy club.

On the pitch, Morecambe were back in action—this time hosting third-place Vale Lane, a solid team, no strangers to promotion pushes.

But instead of coming to play, they came to survive.

Vale Lane lined up in a pure 5-4-1, sinking deep into their own half from minute one. Every man behind the ball. No shame, just strategy.

The message was obvious:

"We're not here to win. We're here not to lose."

---

Juninho D'Alessandro stood quietly near the touchline. Arms folded. Focus razor-sharp.

This was new. No opponent had dared bunker this deep against him before. Not even Wigan.

Now it begins, he thought. This is what happens when teams stop trying to beat you and start trying not to be embarrassed.

But dominance came with a new set of problems.

For forty-five minutes, Morecambe passed. Pushed. Knocked at the wall.

But Vale Lane's low block refused to crack.

The scoreboard: 0–0.

---

Halftime. Inside Morecambe's dressing room.

The air was tight. Players sat, slightly agitated, heads down.

Juninho entered last, clapped his hands, and calmly took center.

"Alright," he said, "first time facing a parked bus, huh?"

A few nods. Some embarrassed silence.

Juninho nodded back. "Good. Then let's talk."

He pointed at the whiteboard.

"They've jammed the middle. Five at the back. No space to play inside. So why are we still trying?"

No one answered.

"Ibrahimovic," he called out. "What are your strengths?"

The striker straightened. "Height. Aerial duels."

Juninho pointed again. "Exactly. So stretch the field. Stop crowding the middle. Go wide. Use the wings. Twenty crosses a game—if even one lands right, you'll punish them."

A few players began to nod.

Juninho turned to Ronaldinho and Ibrahimovic. "You two—can both hit from range."

"Yeah," Ronaldinho said, cracking a small smile.

Juninho's eyes gleamed. "So shoot. Don't hesitate. If they want to sit in the box, make them pay for it."

---

Second Half.

The players returned with purpose.

The instructions were simple:

Wide. Fast. Direct. Shoot on sight.

In the 49th minute, it happened.

Ibrahimovic received a pass near the halfway line. Turned. Looked up. No pressure.

He took a single touch to his right foot—and let fly from thirty meters.

The ball screamed through the air. Low. Dipping.

The Vale Lane keeper backpedaled, misjudging the trajectory. He barely blocked it with his chest, stumbling backward.

The ball spilled.

And Beech, Morecambe's fullback, had already smelled blood.

He burst into the box, got there first, and buried the rebound past the keeper's outstretched glove.

1–0, Morecambe.

---

The stadium erupted.

After forty-nine minutes of suffocation, the red tide broke through. Flags waved. Flares lit. And on the touchline, Juninho remained expressionless—except for the smallest upward curl of his mouth.

Because this was the moment that mattered.

When a team faced something it hadn't seen before—

And found a solution anyway.

---

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