Chapter 71: A Historic First Title
In the heart of Chelsea's fan section, Roman Abramovich stood stiffly upright.
His fists clenched, jaw tight, fury simmering beneath the surface.
He felt like a joke.
Before the match, he'd stood in Chelsea's dressing room making bold promises—vowing to throw a grand championship celebration aboard his yacht, Ecstasea.
Now?
He'd popped the champagne too early.
In the final moments of the game, Mourinho had flooded the pitch with five attackers.
Throw in Lampard, and they essentially had six offensive players.
They were pounding on Bayswater Chinese's penalty area like a siege.
Drogba missed a sitter.
Kežman's volley was parried by Neuer.
Lampard's long-range effort flew wide.
Even with five minutes of added time, Chelsea couldn't break them down.
"What the hell—did these guys take something?" Abramovich fumed.
His squad was full of battle-tested, world-class players.
And every one of them had cost him a fortune.
If last season's FA Cup loss had been down to Ranieri's incompetence—then what now?
Mourinho had just won the Champions League with Porto.
He wasn't incompetent.
They were leading the Premier League by a wide margin—that wasn't fake, was it?
So how could they not handle Bayswater Chinese?
"That 24-year-old coach… he really might be a genius," murmured Chelsea chairman Bruce Buck.
Abramovich turned, startled.
Buck wasn't one for empty praise.
But it made sense.
What other explanation was there?
That Chelsea were terrible?
They were dominating the Premier League. If Chelsea were terrible, what did that make Arsenal, United, or Liverpool?
Bad tactics?
Unlikely. The game plan and in-match adjustments were sound.
Chelsea controlled the entire match, pressed Bayswater Chinese for most of it.
But still—they lost.
This wasn't about luck.
This wasn't a fluke.
Bayswater had earned it.
They'd created four dangerous free-kick chances—and converted one.
Simple as that.
Yang Cheng was brilliant.
But Abramovich couldn't accept it.
This was supposed to be his first trophy since buying Chelsea.
And now, just like that, it slipped through his fingers.
If it had been lost to another Premier League side, fine.
But Bayswater Chinese?
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.
Worse yet, he could smell the danger.
If Bayswater Chinese were really this good, their promotion to the Premier League was almost certain.
And once they were up there, their debt problems would ease dramatically—and buying their stadium plot would become a nightmare.
Abramovich didn't just want to win.
He wanted to turn Chelsea into the most dominant club in the world.
And cramming them into Stamford Bridge?
Unacceptable.
...
The moment the final whistle blew, the players of Bayswater Chinese—after 90 minutes of pure grit—exploded with energy.
They sprinted across the pitch, roaring and celebrating in wild ecstasy.
"Full time!"
"Congratulations to Bayswater Chinese!"
"They've defeated Chelsea 1–0 to win the 2004–05 League Cup!"
"This is the first time in Premier League history that a non-PL team has won the League Cup!"
"It's the first national-level title in Bayswater Chinese's club history!"
Their fans were going berserk in the stands, waving flags and screaming in disbelief.
Meanwhile, Chelsea players sat slumped on the pitch in devastation.
Their supporters were silent.
Their long-awaited trophy was gone.
In the crowd, Adam Crozier, seated among Bayswater fans, couldn't help but be swept up in the wave of emotion.
He stood up, pumping his fists, cheering wildly along with them.
He genuinely admired what Bayswater Chinese had accomplished.
Since the Premier League's formation, no lower-division team had ever done this.
And in this era of Premier League dominance, such a feat might never happen again.
But then, Crozier's smile froze.
Because somehow, for reasons unknown, his face had appeared on the stadium's jumbotron.
Shit.
The former FA chief instinctively tried to duck—but it was too late.
He'd been spotted.
How the hell did they know I was here?
These cameramen have laser vision or what?
Still, Crozier didn't overthink it.
Every live broadcast scans the crowd for reactions. It's how celebrities get caught all the time.
He hadn't bothered to disguise himself.
So yeah… unlucky.
He gave a sheepish smile and shook his head.
It's just a football match, right?
"I think your fan merchandise strategy could use some work," he offered, turning to Xia Qing and Lin Zhongqiu.
"You see how uniform the Chelsea crowd is? All those blue shirts, scarves, commemorative gear—when they lift their scarves, it creates this incredible visual for TV cameras."
"Those scenes are infectious. Visually powerful."
"But you guys? Your fans are too few, and they're wearing all kinds of random stuff."
"You've got no brand identity."
Crozier actually sounded disappointed.
"Yes, we're still pretty unprofessional in that area," Xia Qing said humbly.
Lin Zhongqiu added, "We just didn't anticipate it. Last summer, we thought we'd be lucky to get 5,000 fans per home match. Now we're sold out every week."
Crozier chuckled. "Well, sure—Loftus Road isn't exactly massive. And London? Millions of people."
"But your hardcore fanbase is small," Lin said.
"Listen," Crozier leaned in. "In London, most clubs do have loyal followers—but the majority of people? They're not that attached. What they want is a good afternoon out—maybe bring the family, have a few pints, watch a good game."
"Whether it's QPR or Bayswater Chinese doesn't matter."
"Whoever's fun to watch—that's who they'll support."
"The 80/20 rule—if you can get 20% diehards, that's already amazing."
Xia Qing suddenly recalled Yang Cheng had said something very similar before.
And he'd also said that London, with its size and population, had massive untapped potential.
"Oh—and one more thing. Your digital engagement strategy is terrible."
Crozier looked genuinely disappointed again.
"All those Chelsea fans who couldn't get tickets—they bought them through your club. But did you even get their emails?"
A pause.
"I mean simple stuff—a free membership where they leave their name, email, maybe a mailing address. That way in the summer, you can email them fixtures, updates, promo codes…"
Xia Qing and Lin Zhongqiu exchanged awkward glances.
They… hadn't thought of that.
Xia Qing wasn't officially in the role yet, and she was more focused on finance and accounting.
Yang Cheng had been buried in football.
And Lin?
He looked utterly embarrassed.
Crozier didn't even need confirmation. From their faces, he already knew.
Still, thinking about it, it wasn't too surprising.
Two years ago, this club was in League Two. On the brink of bankruptcy.
Who would've thought that in less than two years, they'd beat Chelsea in a League Cup Final?
It made Crozier think back to what Xia Qing had said before the match.
As he turned his gaze back to the pitch, Adam Crozier saw a rather amusing scene unfold.
The award platform had already been assembled on the sideline.
FIFA President Sepp Blatter was in attendance as a special guest.
FA Chairman Geoff Thompson and Chief Executive David Davies were also present to assist with the trophy presentation.
On the Chelsea side, José Mourinho led his players up to collect their runners-up medals.
Meanwhile, for the victorious Bayswater Chinese, Brian Kidd was the one leading the team to the podium.
And where was Yang Cheng?
He stood alone, off to the side, watching quietly.
Crozier couldn't help but burst out laughing.
Finally, a moment where he looks a little humbled.
Without a coaching license, Brian Kidd was still Bayswater Chinese's "official" head coach.
...
"You really need to hurry up and get your coaching license!"
After the ceremony, Geoff Thompson walked over to Yang Cheng with Sepp Blatter by his side.
Clearly, the FA Chairman was frustrated that Yang Cheng still hadn't formalized his status.
"I genuinely haven't had the time to take the course," Yang Cheng said with a helpless smile.
"I don't care," Thompson grumbled. "If this goes on, the FA is going to be in a very awkward position. The media are already mocking us."
Blatter chuckled. The situation was, admittedly, rather funny.
A head coach who hadn't even earned his license, and yet just led a Championship team to a League Cup title?
What would happen if he actually made it to the Premier League?
"I saw the report from your win over Manchester United when I was in Zurich," Blatter said with a nod. "Young and impressive. Keep it up!"
"Thank you," Yang Cheng replied politely.
Though he had no particular fondness for Blatter, the man held immense power in world football. He couldn't afford to offend him.
Once the FIFA and FA officials had departed, the players swarmed over.
Modrić held the League Cup trophy aloft. Neuer cradled the Man of the Match award in his arms.
The young German goalkeeper was stunned.
He hadn't imagined that in his very first final—with a brand new team—he would win MVP honors.
And against Chelsea, no less!
At just 18 years old, he was bursting with adrenaline, completely fired up.
"You deserved it. You were phenomenal tonight. We're all proud of you," Yang Cheng told him.
The players around them all nodded in agreement.
In football, respect is earned on the pitch.
Without Neuer's heroic saves tonight, Bayswater Chinese would have likely conceded to Chelsea—and the trophy would be gone.
Even though he barely spoke the language yet, Neuer had won over the locker room.
That trust would be a huge boost for him going forward.
Yang Cheng let the players enjoy the celebration.
He moved through the joyful crowd on the pitch until he found Xia Qing and Lin Zhongqiu near the edge of the field.
To witness the team win a national cup before returning home—it was a dream moment for Lin.
Xia Qing congratulated Yang Cheng warmly.
At this point, she couldn't even pretend to understand her junior anymore.
"Where's Adam Crozier?" Yang Cheng asked curiously.
He had heard during halftime that Crozier had come to the match.
"As soon as the final whistle blew, he left. Said he had things to do," Xia Qing said, trying to hold back a laugh.
Clearly, he didn't want to get caught on camera.
"I didn't think he'd actually show. I was hoping to have a word," Yang Cheng said with a half-laugh. "He ran fast."
Coward. Probably terrified of being spotted by the media.
Xia Qing nodded.
Though Crozier had stepped down from the FA, he still had plenty of influence and connections.
And with Royal Mail in turmoil, the last thing he needed was a bad headline.
"He really is talented, though," Xia Qing added. "Just now, he pointed out quite a few things—very sharp observations."
Yang Cheng wasn't surprised.
If Crozier weren't that capable, Yang wouldn't have gone to such lengths to recruit him.
Still, his willingness to attend the final was a very good sign.
"We'll take it slow. When we make the Premier League, I'll sit him down for a proper chat."
Yang Cheng believed one thing:
With enough persistence, no wall is unbreakable.
"I'm already looking forward to him joining the team," he said, turning away with a relaxed smile, radiating a quiet but absolute confidence.
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