Chapter 61: Youth Has No Limits
If London is the heart of Britain's economy, then football in Britain has always belonged to the northwest.
Manchester and Liverpool are the two most successful football cities in British history.
That's why their clash is known as the Northwest Derby, or more commonly, the Red Rivalry.
But the capital has never bowed to the northwest. That long-standing tension birthed the notion of a North-South divide in English football.
In recent years, Arsenal had become the face of London football.
But ever since Abramovich took over, Chelsea had risen rapidly, looking to replace Arsenal as London's true kings.
Because of that dynamic, this League Cup semifinal second leg—United visiting London to face Bayswater Chinese—wasn't just a clash between two clubs. It also carried undertones of north vs. south.
That was clearly reflected in the Loftus Road stands.
When referee Rob Styles blew the whistle and pointed to the spot, the stadium erupted—not just in boos, but also cries of:
"TRAITOR!"
Rob Styles was a southerner, born in Waterlooville, just north of Portsmouth.
So when a southern referee awarded Manchester United, the pride of the north, a penalty—London fans felt betrayed.
Yang Cheng heard the chants, but he couldn't spare them attention.
His players were still protesting—insisting it hadn't been a foul.
But Styles stuck to his call.
Cristiano Ronaldo stepped up.
With Van Nistelrooy injured, he was now United's designated penalty taker.
He stood at the spot, eyes locked on Joe Hart. One deep breath. Short run-up.
Goal. 1–0.
Loftus Road erupted in thunderous jeers.
Yang Cheng felt a pang of frustration, but his face didn't change.
"Huddlestone still lacks agility and physicality," Brian Kidd sighed.
That goal came from his inability to track Saha, who turned him inside out.
Huddlestone was 1.92 meters tall—but still only 18 years old.
He hadn't filled out yet, and his mobility wasn't sharp.
Big players often lack flexibility.
Huddlestone had simply failed to stick with Saha, who broke into the box.
If Andreasen had been on the pitch, things might've gone differently.
He had done well in the first leg.
But a recent injury ruled him out, and Yang Cheng wasn't willing to risk him.
"And if his defensive awareness were sharper, he could've cut Saha off earlier," Yang Cheng added.
Kidd nodded.
He had deep respect for Yang Cheng's eye for detail.
And Huddlestone? His flaws weren't a big deal—he was still just a kid.
Real footballers aren't game stats.
There's no such thing as a "talent ceiling"—that's gaming nonsense.
Truth is, most players have similar natural ability—the difference is in how they're nurtured.
Is raw pace a talent? Then what about self-discipline? Stamina? Football IQ?
Or emotional intelligence—like José Fonte's. Doesn't that count?
What about someone like Martin Rowlands?
After stagnating for two years at Brentford, no one thought he'd ever be worth £3 million. Then he exploded at Bayswater.
Was that innate talent?
No. It was tactical fit and the support of teammates.
Take Gareth Bale and Theo Walcott—both came from Southampton's academy.
They were even roommates.
Back then, Walcott broke into the first team earlier. Bale struggled.
Walcott got a big-money move to Arsenal, went to the World Cup, became a star.
Bale?
He barely made it at Spurs and was hit with setback after setback.
So… was Walcott more talented?
But what happened after?
Walcott's early rise couldn't stop Bale from surpassing him.
What happened?
Was it their skill sets? Physical gifts?
No.
Yang Cheng knew the real reason.
Walcott went to Arsenal.
Wenger never developed him properly.
Under pressure to finish top four and manage revenue, Wenger never had the time or resources to maximize Walcott's potential.
He played him on the wing to stretch defenses with speed. That was it.
It didn't matter if the name was Walcott, Lennon, or someone else—it was a plug-and-play role.
Walcott was one of many talented young players who fizzled at Arsenal.
Wenger signed dozens of them.
All showed early brilliance, only to fade.
Why?
Because Arsenal couldn't afford to invest long-term in youth.
Giving minutes is not the same as development.
Growth is about making mistakes—and fixing them.
Take Aaron Lennon.
This season, he played on the right wing. Yang Cheng wanted him to establish a foundation.
Next year? He'd try him as an inverted winger, on the left, even as a forward—build his versatility.
Lennon was a classic English winger—quick, but not technically refined.
No problem.
Yang Cheng had technical coach Danny McGrain working with him now.
Raw technique might be fixed, but linking actions and rhythm could be trained.
Huddlestone was the same.
He needed to develop physically. Improve defensively.
But that's the beauty of being young—anything is possible.
…
After Ronaldo scored, Yang Cheng immediately adjusted the defensive shape.
Huddlestone stayed deeper. Koscielny, who loved to step up, now focused on covering Huddlestone.
If Koscielny pushed, Huddlestone dropped.
This was all pre-planned.
After scoring, United pushed harder—looking to end the tie in one blow.
Bayswater stumbled briefly but soon settled.
United gained more control.
Players like Ronaldo started to buzz.
In the 23rd minute, Ronaldo was fouled by Modrić on the right—free kick. He took it himself but sent it wide.
Four minutes later, another surge down the right. Ronaldo earned a corner.
Quick routine. Neville crossed. Ferdinand tried to get on it.
Fonte beat him to the header—cleared.
Roy Keane pounced on the rebound—blocked by Huddlestone.
United were circling. Smelling blood.
Yang Cheng stood still on the sideline, calm as ever.
He had expected this.
That penalty was their only major mistake.
From the 30th minute on, United's best chance came in the 36th—a Ronaldo long shot that had the whole stadium gasping.
Still, Yang Cheng didn't flinch.
He just stood and waited.
The commentators chuckled.
"This young coach looks like he's been stunned by United's pressure."
Since the 30th minute, Bayswater hadn't managed a threatening attack.
Until the 42nd.
Modrić escaped Keane's marking and sent a diagonal ball to the left.
Ribéry brought it down, advanced, and squared to Lambert just outside the box.
But Ferdinand intercepted.
Groans echoed through Loftus Road.
But the home team counter-pressed immediately.
Ribéry chased Ferdinand. Lambert closed in.
Ferdinand calmly evaded Lambert and spotted Ribéry. He passed to Keane.
But Modrić had closed the space.
No one noticed that on the right, Aaron Lennon was sneaking up on Heinze.
Yang Cheng stood frozen, hands clenched at his sides.
Because he saw Ribéry explode forward the moment Ferdinand passed the ball—targeting Sylvestre.
…
From December 26th to January 26th—33 days.
In those 33 days, United had played 6 league matches, 2 League Cup, and 2 FA Cup games.
10 matches in 33 days.
Two players had logged the most minutes—9 full matches each.
Heinze and Sylvestre.
Roy Keane had played 8—also full matches.
It was a brutal stretch.
And even elite players get tired.
Take Sylvestre.
He kept glancing at the clock.
He just wanted the half to end—get that 15-minute break.
By the 40th minute, he was relieved.
Ribéry's attack seemed to end when Ferdinand won the ball.
He exhaled.
It was nearly 43 minutes.
Almost halftime.
One more clearance and it's over.
His mind drifted.
Ferdinand passed to Keane, who, under Modrić's pressure, returned it to Sylvestre.
The Frenchman wasn't focused.
By the time Keane shouted a warning, the ball was already rolling toward him.
He looked up—
And there was Ribéry, charging straight at him.
Sylvestre panicked.
Instinctively, he tried to trap the ball with his left, planning to swing it upfield.
But Ribéry lunged in, sticking out his right foot.
The ball bounced off him—behind Sylvestre.
Ribéry spun and chased it down, changing direction effortlessly.
Sylvestre twisted, gave chase—but it was too late.
The winger had already broken into the box.
Sylvestre kept inside, trying to cut him off.
But this was Ribéry.
Scar-faced. Relentless.
He slowed down just enough to fake a shot.
Sylvestre bit—slid in.
Ribéry stopped dead, pulled the ball back.
Sylvestre slid right past, crashing to the turf.
Ribéry took one more step, squared up, and fired with his left.
The ball screamed past Howard's outstretched hands—
And buried itself in the back of the net.
For a full second, Loftus Road fell silent.
Then—
Absolute eruption.
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