Football Dynasty
Chapter 318: League Cup Celebration

Chapter 318: League Cup Celebration

Five minutes before the match ended, as chaos began to swell at Wembley Stadium, Richard was momentarily stunned—but quickly snapped into action. He turned sharply toward Marina and Miss Heysen, giving them urgent instructions.

"Quick, ask the Wembley staff for a microphone!"

Better safe than sorry. This was their first major trophy in decades—he couldn’t risk it being tarnished by disorder.

He remembered the scenes when Manchester City was promoted to the Premier League years ago. The fans nearly caused a riot at Maine Road. That memory sent a chill down his spine.

He knew what could happen next.

If the fans’ euphoric pitch invasion turned into a clash with security or police, it could spiral into a disaster. He couldn’t leave the field with the players either—not when it could cast a shadow over the victory and stain Manchester City’s moment of triumph.

He had to act. He had to take a stand.

Richard swiftly urged Miss Heysen and Marina to coordinate with the Wembley staff. Fortunately, they were already aware of the issue—but when they heard Richard asking for a microphone, they hesitated.

Still, people began to move—quickly, efficiently, like a well-drilled relay team. And soon enough, the microphone was placed in the hands of O’Neill and Robertson, leaving both men speechless at first.

That was, until they saw the note—the speech Richard had written out.

Their expressions changed immediately. Only then did they realize how serious the situation truly was.

"Fuck, why are they taking so long?!" Richard muttered under his breath.

Then finally, he heard it echo across the stadium speakers:

"Stop it! You motherf*ckers, stop it! Hey, you—get your hands off her! And you—what, are you trying to kill him? EVERYONE STOP IT, NOW!"

Only then did Richard let out a long sigh of relief.

Once O’Neill began to address the crowd, a hush fell over Wembley. Manchester City fans, mid-celebration, froze in place. Slowly, they scanned their surroundings. When they noticed police and security wrestling fellow supporters to the ground, they didn’t charge or retaliate—they simply stared.

Especially Carl Morran, who suddenly realized something that made his eyes widen. ithout a second thought, he sprang to his feet and immediately mobilized his team, and thousands from the Blue Squadron sprang into action, assisting the police and security staff.

Fierce, unblinking gazes locked onto the officers, staff, and under that silent pressure of Blazing Squad, the rebels began to falter. One by one, they backed off, unwilling to remain isolated in the sea of emotionally charged fans.

Then came O’Neill’s voice—firm but sincere—projecting through the stadium speakers.

"Sir please, why are you targeting City fans? Why? This day—this moment—belongs to them.Sir, I respect your duty, but please, show us a little understanding. For us, its twenty years. That’s how long this club has waited—not just for the fans here, but for their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents. This championship belongs to them. Don’t stop their celebration. Let them come forward. Let them express the joy in their hearts. We are not thugs. We are not hooligans. We are football people—people who have waited far too long for this moment."

His voice rang out with such raw honesty that it struck a chord in every City supporter. Heads nodded slowly. Tears glistened in eyes. The energy in the stadium shifted—calm, but deeply moving.

The police and security forces, now standing to the side, glanced at one another—unsure of what to do next. The pitch, moments ago teetering on chaos, was still. Fans stood close together, not in frenzy, but in unity.

O’Neill continued, his tone softer now.

"Whatever you want to do—hug the players, sing and dance, take a photo to remember this day—it’s all okay. But please, look after one another. Watch out for the elderly, keep the little ones safe.Let’s make this moment not only unforgettable—but beautiful. Whether others love us or hate us, let’s show them: we are City. The purest fans in the world. Thank you."

As his final words echoed across the ground, the response was immediate—and deeply human. Fans on the pitch began to form orderly circles. They clapped, chanted the names of their heroes—Manchester City, O’Neill, and every player who had given them this dream.

From the stands, even some Aston Villa supporters—those who had stayed behind—joined in the applause.

The older ones among them understood. They had felt this once too—fourteen years ago—when Aston Villa reached the summit of European football. Some had taken blades of grass from the pitch as keepsakes. Moments like these couldn’t be staged. They weren’t rehearsed. They came from the soul.

And now, history was unfolding for Manchester City.

The entire stadium erupted in a wave of applause—joyful, thunderous, and real.

Up in the other VIP box, Keith Wiseman—who had moments earlier worn a look of dread—finally allowed himself to smile. He began to clap, just as his assistant leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Wiseman nodded, his excitement growing.

After all, men like him—FA officials, league executives—they existed to protect and promote English football, to keep it profitable and beloved.

And suddenly, he saw opportunity.

Not in glorifying the pitch invasion—but in reframing the narrative.

Here was a club breaking a 20-year drought. Here were fans, not rioting, but celebrating with grace, emotion, and passion. Here was football in its purest form.

Photos of fans lifting each other in joy, singing arm-in-arm, embracing players, laughing through tears—it all had the potential to become something unforgettable.

Turning crisis into celebration—that was the real art. This was, naturally, an incredibly attractive moment for marketing English football.

The pitch, though filled to the brim, had become a sea of joy. Families and girlfriends of the players stood nearby, beaming with pride, while some of the single players let young fans ride on their shoulders, creating a touching and heartwarming scene.

When the awards ceremony began, the Aston Villa players were the first to approach the City bench, with Brian Little bringing up the rear.

The forty-something head coach intentionally shook O’Neill’s hand once more and said sincerely,"Today, you and your team not only won the match—you’ve earned the respect of the world."

O’Neill smiled but said nothing. At that point, he had lost track of where his suit had gone—likely whisked away by some overenthusiastic fan.

As he and his players stepped into the champion platform, they received their championship medals. O;eill was the last to walk up, and various football luminaries greeted him with warm words of praise.

Most of it was encouragement—and admiration.

When Wiseman of the FA finally stood before him, he bent down, shook O’Neill’s hand, and whispered,"You nearly gave me a heart attack back there."

O’Neill smiled and replied,"I’ll do my best—not looking to turn something good into something bad."

"All right," Wiseman chuckled. "Looking forward to seeing you here next time."

"Yes, thank you."

Wiseman and O’Neill continued chatting for a while before Wiseman finally stood upright and walked over to present the English League Cup trophy to Manchester City’s captain, Zanetti.

However, Zanetti refused to celebrate alone. In the end, he, vice-captain Ronaldo, and Neil Lennon each held a side of the trophy. To be honest, the League Cup trophy looked a bit small—especially with all three of them gripping it—creating a rather comical sight.

The three captains—one on the left, one on the right, and one in the back—turned to their impatient teammates and asked in unison, "Ready?"

Their teammates, medals hanging proudly around their necks, waved their arms enthusiastically. After exchanging a glance with Zanetti, the captains raised the trophy high together.

"The 1996–1997 English League Cup Champions are: Manchester City!"

The anthem of champions echoed through Wembley. Fans looked up at the VIP boxes, their emotions overwhelming them. Some wept openly, others simply stood frozen, tears brimming in their eyes. This was more than football—it was history.

O’Neill loosened his tie and quietly descended the steps. He knew this was the players’ moment to shine. They deserved it. A clever coach understands when to step back, to let his players bathe in the glory rather than stealing it for himself.

But just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, someone grabbed his shoulder.

He turned—and there was Ferdinand, laughing.

"Where do you think you’re going, boss?"

"What?"

Before O’Neill could even respond, Ferdinand bent down, scooped him up by the legs, and grinned, "You’re not getting away!"

The big boys—Zambrotta, McNamara, Larsson, and Materazzi—joined in, hoisting their manager high into the air. They charged back onto the pitch, followed by a cheering trail of players.

"Hahaha!" Robertson and the others couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the scene.

O’Neill was speechless. Were they really treating him like a trophy now?And yet, once they reached the center of the pitch, he was tossed into the air—up and down—as the players reveled in joy.

On the bus ride home, O’Neill was the last to board after meeting briefly with Richard. He smelled of alcohol, his clothes still damp from celebration. Just as he stepped on, Larsson poured champagne into the trophy and drenched him from behind.

Though physically exhausted from the grueling match, the players’ spirits remained high. They posed with the trophy, took endless photos, and sang all the way.

When O’Neill stepped aboard, he raised his hands.

The players quieted instantly, all grinning.

"You all have two days off. Report back for training Wednesday morning. Then everything goes back to normal."

The announcement sparked cheers. Ferdinand shouted from the back, "Boss, you coming tonight?"

As the squad’s biggest partygoer after Ronaldo, Ferdinand had already organized a celebration for that night. It would include the players’ families—not a wild night, but a warm gathering.

O’Neill shook his head and smiled. "You lot enjoy yourselves. I’ve got my own plans."

The players laughed knowingly—some with mischief in their eyes—but didn’t press further. As head coach, it wasn’t his place to crash player parties unless things got out of hand.

And if it were one of those parties?

He might crash it just to drag them all out.

Tonight, though, his celebration would be quieter.

A private moment.

A meeting with Richard.

At the office.