Football Dynasty
Chapter 312: Losing is not an Option

Chapter 312: Losing is not an Option

It can be said that Martin O’Neill’s time at Wycombe Wanderers was a resounding success. After taking charge in 1990, he led the club to fifth place in the Football Conference in his first season. The following year, he improved on that by securing second place. In the 1992–93 season, O’Neill made history by guiding Wycombe into the Football League for the very first time. He then led them to a second consecutive promotion via the Division Three play-offs.

During his tenure, O’Neill also brought home the FA Trophy, won three Conference Shield titles, and claimed victory in the London Five-a-Sides tournament—cementing his legacy as one of the most successful managers in the club’s history.

One would think that with such achievements, O’Neill and his staff would be unfazed. Yet even they were feeling the weight of the moment—finally experiencing firsthand the immense pressure that comes with chasing the third-most prestigious silverware in English football.

Never mind them—this was Manchester City’s first cup final, and perhaps their biggest achievement in over 20 years.

Still, the staff weren’t panicking. Instead, they were taking it all in stride, easing the pressure by reminding themselves: they would go into the final with their best.

For Richard, there was one thing he had to ensure above all else—that the coaching staff knew exactly what their priorities were. Correct content is on NovelFire.

Thanks to the pressure he’d been applying in the background, the atmosphere around the staff had become tense. No one knew whether they should be helping the players relax or pushing them to focus more intensely.

The first option risked complacency, making the players underestimate their opponents. The second could lead to overexertion, possibly paralyzing their instincts and creativity under pressure.

Caught between those two extremes, O’Neill decided to call a meeting with his entire coaching staff.

Everyone gathered understood the weight of the situation, but when O’Neill asked for suggestions, the room fell into uncertain silence.

No one had an answer. Like him, this was the first time any of them had prepared a team for a cup final at Wembley.

After a long discussion, they reached a conclusion: it was better to add the side of caution. Instead of risking a flat, uninspired performance, they would fire the players up and send them out with unshakable determination. If anything, they would overprepare rather than underdeliver.

In the locker room after training, O’Neill set the tone in his own way.

As the players rested in the locker room, O’Neill played a hauntingly powerful piece of music: "Blanca’s Song."

Once linked to wartime Europe, it had since been reimagined as the iconic "The Mass" by Era—a composition that stirred the soul and ignited something primal within. It was emotional, intense, and unrelentingly powerful—the kind of music that summoned focus, courage, and the will to fight.

For most of the squad, the upcoming final was the biggest match of their careers—a chance at their very first trophy as professionals. For O’Neill, it was an opportunity to earn his first silverware as a manager as Manchester City.

The stakes couldn’t be higher—not just for them, but for the thousands of fans who had waited, believed, and suffered for decades.

After twenty long years, could Manchester City finally break the drought and lift a trophy on the final Sunday of March, 1997?

On Saturday, after the final training session, Ricahrd returned to his parents’ flat in London and spent the night there. The next morning, dressed sharply in a tailored suit, he was kissed on the forehead by his mother and embraced by his father before heading out.

"Are you sure you don’t want us to come?" Richard asked softly.

"We really did want to," his father added with a helpless smile, "but your mother already promised to attend the local community party..."

Ricahrd smiled warmly and nodded. He understood—and he didn’t press them.

He stepped calmly out of the house and into the waiting car, where his bodyguard and Marina were ready to take him to Wembley.

"Elis invited us to watch the match together," Marna mentioned casually. "There’s a small gathering afterward too. Want to accept?"

Richard scoffed. "No chance. I’m not sitting next to some old man with cancer."

"I thought you two were on good terms?"

"Please," Ricahrd replied, rolling his eyes. "He only talks to me to get under Ken Bates’ skin. The way he looks at me—like I’m just a tool to play with. Just because he has money, he thinks the world revolves around him. Give it a few years—our family will be richer than he ever was."

The "Ellis" in question was Doug Ellis, the long-time owner of Aston Villa. A powerful tycoon with investments in nearly twenty different industries, Ellis was known for flaunting his wealth, but not for splashing it on his football club. His approach to Villa had always been frugal, focused on self-sufficiency rather than glamour.

Now nearing seventy and battling prostate cancer, Ellis still loved to parade his fortune—cruising around in a cherry-red Rolls-Royce and flashing his status wherever he went. Just six months earlier, he had invited Chelsea chairman Ken Bates on a luxury yacht trip. But Bates, ever blunt, insulted the food in front of everyone. Ellis was humiliated, and a bitter feud ensued.

In the fallout, Ellis began courting Richard—who had also butted heads with Bates at a recent roundtable. To Richard, it was all a game: a convenient way to get back at Bates while playing nice with Ellis. He smiled when necessary, feigned politeness, but it never meant anything. It was just politics.

But today wasn’t a day for politics. Correct content is on NovelFire)

This was a final—Manchester City versus Aston Villa. Silverware on the line. Emotions running high. And Ricahrd knew exactly what would happen if he shared a box with Ellis. If Villa won, Arthur might break something in frustration. If City won, Ricahrd would celebrate without restraint—and Ellis wouldn’t take that well.

So Richard had already made up his mind.

This wasn’t just another game. This was history. This was legacy. This was what every City fan had dreamed of for twenty long years.

Shortly after noon, traffic began to clog the northbound roads from East London to North London.

The reason?

City and Aston Villa supporters were on the move—streaming toward Wembley Stadium in northwest London. The iconic venue, with a capacity of over sixty thousand, was set to be packed to the rafters. Tickets allocated to both clubs had long sold out, and even the scalpers couldn’t keep up with demand. Fans, desperate for a glimpse of history, arrived in droves—ticket or no ticket.

For Aston Villa, the final was another shot at silverware. Though they once stood atop Europe—crowned champions fourteen years ago—that glory felt like a distant memory. Their last major success came in 1994, lifting the League Cup. Now, just three years later, they were back in the final again, chasing a familiar prize.

Unlike City, who had cruised past relatively modest opposition en route to the final, Villa had battled through a series of strong, high-caliber teams. Their path had been hard-earned—and their presence at Wembley was no fluke.

The contrast between the two runs to the final had only amplified the stakes.

Now, Manchester City—currently third in the Premier League—were set to face Aston Villa, who sat fifth. It was a true clash between rising forces. They might not have the global prestige of United or Liverpool, but today, they were the giants.

As the team buses rolled into Wembley’s perimeter, Ricahrd stared out the tinted windows. All around, a sea of blue greeted them—City supporters waving scarves, chanting, cheering, even those without tickets simply wanting to be close to the action.

Stepping out of the car, Ricahrd deliberately waited for the City team bus to arrive.

With a soft hiss, the vehicle came to a halt, doors swinging open.

When he spotted O’Neill stepping down, Richard approached him quietly, his tone serious.

"I could live with losing—for myself," he said. "But for them? Losing is absolutely not an option."