Chapter 69: Mourinho, You're Still Too Green!
So this is what it's like to face the Premier League leaders.
Standing in front of the goal, Manuel Neuer took in the pace and pressure of the match, and couldn't help but be impressed.
This was his first real taste of what it meant to go up against a Premier League champion-caliber team.
Bayswater Chinese had held out for only 15 minutes before the momentum completely shifted.
The midfield trio of Makélélé, Tiago, and Lampard was simply overwhelming.
Just like in the 18th minute—when Lampard pushed forward with the ball and Huddlestone had no choice but to commit a foul, giving Chelsea a free kick from the center of the pitch.
Neuer quickly gauged the distance—about 28 meters out.
Because of the language barrier, organizing the wall fell to José Fonte.
But Neuer noticed that two Chelsea players were hiding inside Bayswater's red-shirted wall, which immediately raised a red flag in his mind.
He adjusted his position slightly.
Sure enough.
As the referee blew his whistle, Lampard sprinted up—and the two blue shirts inside the wall darted aside, revealing a gap.
Lampard's strike flew straight through it, rocketing toward the goal.
But Neuer had anticipated this.
He dropped low, threw his body forward, and smothered the ball cleanly.
A wave of groans rippled through the crowd.
Chelsea fans probably blamed Lampard for shooting it straight at the keeper.
But what they didn't know was, it was Neuer's positioning that made it look easy.
Because he had read it so perfectly, it seemed as if Lampard had fired it straight into his arms.
The save looked routine.
There was no applause.
Neuer rolled his eyes internally—but quickly tossed the ball out to restart play.
Bayswater's counterattack failed to materialize.
Modrić lost the ball almost immediately after entering Chelsea's final third—Makélélé robbed him cleanly.
Chelsea countered instantly.
The ball was played forward.
Drogba won the aerial duel and nodded it down to Tiago.
Then came Lampard. Then Robben.
Quick, flowing passes tugged Bayswater's back line left and right.
When the ball came back to Lampard, he slipped a beautiful through ball behind the defense.
Gasps swept through the stadium.
Some were gasps of joy. Others of fear.
Drogba darted into the gap, bursting past Fonte with shocking acceleration for such a big man.
Fonte felt a chill down his spine.
He hadn't expected Drogba—this physical powerhouse—to be that fast.
He was already half a step behind.
We're finished!
But just as Fonte and Škrtel turned to chase in despair, a green blur shot out from the goal line.
Neuer.
Charging to the left side of the penalty spot, he launched into a full-stretch dive, arms outstretched, and intercepted Lampard's pass cleanly before Drogba could pounce.
Drogba had to leap over him mid-stride to avoid a collision.
The stadium gasped again.
Even Bayswater's own players were stunned.
It wasn't Neuer's debut, but in earlier Championship matches, the team had dominated so thoroughly that he'd barely been tested.
And in his first outing, he'd even conceded two goals.
But now, in a high-stakes final?
He was a wall.
The contrast with Joe Hart was becoming clear.
Hart preferred to hold his line, excelling at reaction saves.
Neuer? He attacked the ball—and he was damn good at it.
That save had been dangerous—but deeply satisfying.
More gasps rippled through the stands.
This time, it was Bayswater fans who were thrilled, and Chelsea fans who were rattled.
Fonte couldn't help but grin in relief. He jogged over, hauled Neuer to his feet, gave him a thumbs-up, and patted his head.
Škrtel came over next, clapping his shoulder.
Then came Danny Collins. And Huddlestone.
Sometimes, a new player didn't need words to earn respect.
A save like that said everything.
…
But Chelsea came roaring back.
They kept hammering Robben's flank.
This time, when Robben crossed from the left, Piszczek blocked it out for a corner.
Chelsea took it quickly, aiming for the penalty spot.
Drogba soared above everyone, flicking it toward the near post.
It was clearly a pre-rehearsed set piece.
Terry met it full on, heading toward the far corner.
Neuer had started to come out—but quickly realized he couldn't beat Terry to it, and backpedaled.
As Terry's header screamed toward the far post, Neuer launched himself sideways like a panther.
Tall. Long reach. Fully extended.
He looked like a six-limbed beast, palming Terry's header away with one hand.
This time, the crowd erupted.
Applause and cheers thundered around the stadium.
"What a performance by Bayswater Chinese's goalkeeper!"
"Manuel Neuer!"
"Just 18 years old!"
"This is his first cup final since joining—and he's making one hell of an impression."
Neuer crashed to the ground, but immediately sprang up.
Seeing that his side had regained possession, he ran over and gave Fonte a shove.
"Neuer's telling his teammates to push up."
"Rightly so. Bayswater need to relieve the pressure—they're sitting too deep."
Yang Cheng, on the touchline, was also waving his team forward.
But the pressure from Chelsea was relentless.
Their attacking play was limited, yes—but powerful.
Piszczek couldn't fully contain Robben, but the Dutchman was still restricted to the left flank.
He couldn't cut inside into dangerous zones.
The Pole might not have the best defensive instincts yet, but he could match Robben in speed.
Drogba was heavily marked.
Lampard kept pushing up, looking for second balls—but Bayswater were alert.
Chelsea's attack wasn't working.
And Yang Cheng knew exactly why.
He'd put his finger on Chelsea's weakness.
This was Mourinho's Achilles' heel.
He couldn't break through.
Yang Cheng's plan?
Hold firm.
Keep Chelsea out—and eventually, they'd crack under pressure.
And when that happened?
Mourinho would panic.
He'd do what he always did—throw on strikers, tear up his midfield.
This wasn't just Chelsea's first final under Abramovich.
It was their first shot at silverware.
Did anyone seriously believe Mourinho wasn't under pressure?
Of course he was.
So Yang Cheng waited.
And as long as his team held firm?
The Beast—Didier Drogba—could be tamed.
More than anything, Neuer's outstanding performance in the box and inside the penalty area had boosted Bayswater Chinese's morale—and seriously rattled Chelsea.
Inspired by their new keeper, Bayswater Chinese finally broke through in the 31st minute, launching a meaningful attack.
It began with Ribéry, who was fouled by Tiago while cutting in on the left.
The Chelsea midfielder received a yellow card.
Unfortunately, the ensuing free kick came to nothing.
But that's football—even penalties aren't guaranteed, let alone free-kick routines.
Only a minute later, Ribéry picked up the ball again in the final third and drew defenders toward him. He passed to Modrić, who switched it to the right.
Aaron Lennon, stationed on the right edge of the box, tried to burn past Gallas with pace and storm into the area.
He was brought down.
But the referee awarded a free kick, not a penalty.
He insisted the foul occurred just outside the area, and that Lennon merely fell into the box.
Another promising moment, but no real danger created.
Even Yang Cheng had to admit—Mourinho's Chelsea had no weak links in defense.
The real problem for this team lay in attack.
With a midfield that lacked creativity and passing vision, they were forced to rely on Robben's wing play and Drogba dropping deep.
Once those two weapons were neutralized, Chelsea's offense was reduced to long balls and half-chances.
Add to that the fact that Ferreira and Gallas, their full-backs, weren't exactly known for overlapping or attacking support.
Still, despite not getting off a shot, Bayswater Chinese's back-to-back surges in those two minutes had sent a message.
Chelsea had to respect them.
The rest of the half descended into a tense and scrappy midfield battle.
…
When the second half kicked off, neither side made any changes.
Chelsea still held the initiative.
The difference? They turned up the heat.
Just two minutes in, Drogba met a diagonal pass with a header, aiming low toward the bottom left corner.
Neuer parried it with one hand.
But the danger wasn't over.
The rebound fell to Robben, who cut past Škrtel and blasted a left-footed shot from near the byline.
Neuer again!
Despite having just made a save, he sprang up and threw himself in the way again—blocking the shot out for a corner.
Two crucial saves in quick succession.
Neuer was on fire.
When he got up from the turf again, he couldn't hold back—he roared in defiance.
"Outstanding!"
"This game is turning into the Manuel Neuer Show!"
"Chelsea's dominance has left Petr Čech with nothing to do…"
"But Neuer is putting on a show for the ages."
"After tonight, nobody will be asking who will protect Bayswater's goal post-Joe Hart."
…
"Damn, that kid is good," muttered Adam Crozier from the executive box.
He could see it—Neuer was something special.
When goalkeepers shine, they shine bright.
"Yang Cheng personally flew to Germany to bring him in," Xia Qing said with a smile, full of admiration for Yang's scouting instincts.
"Oh?" Crozier raised an eyebrow.
"He didn't even attend the Joe Hart negotiations. Instead, he flew to Germany, scouted Neuer, and brought him back in three days."
Crozier didn't doubt her.
Why lie about something like that?
In fact, it only deepened his appreciation for Yang Cheng.
So it wasn't just coaching—the man had an eye for talent.
Come to think of it, wasn't every one of Bayswater Chinese's players hand-picked by Yang Cheng?
"Did he have any background in football back in China?" Crozier asked, curious.
He remembered Yang once mentioned Xia Qing was his university senior.
"None at all," she replied.
"Self-taught?"
"We don't even have that kind of program in China."
"Then how…?"
"Maybe," Xia Qing smiled, "he's what you'd call… a natural. A self-taught genius."
Lin Zhongqiu, listening nearby, couldn't help but feel a little dazed.
Looking back at the past year and a half, every single thing Yang Cheng had done seemed incredibly precise and meaningful.
Yes, the club's debts had grown under Yang.
But so had the club itself.
And now, they were on the brink of the Premier League.
Where did he learn it all?
Lin thought about it for a long time.
In the end, he could only agree with Xia Qing:
Maybe he really is just a genius.
"I believe he's going to keep surprising us," Xia Qing added. "That's why I chose to come work here."
Crozier nodded thoughtfully, suddenly deep in contemplation himself.
…
By the 55th minute, it was still 0–0.
That's when Mourinho made his first move.
Eidur Gudjohnsen came on for Tiago.
Chelsea shifted to a 4-4-2.
It was clear—they weren't happy with how the match was going.
Almost an hour in, and still no breakthrough against a Championship team.
Worse, they didn't look close to scoring.
With the change, Chelsea's wingers pushed higher.
Gudjohnsen, though tall, had good feet and could hold the ball up.
And with Drogba and Gudjohnsen up top, plus Robben and Duff bombing down the flanks, Chelsea's entire shape surged forward.
Even Ferreira and Gallas began to overlap.
Everything was unfolding just as Yang Cheng had predicted.
He stood at the edge of his technical area, watching Mourinho pacing.
He couldn't help but sigh inwardly.
"Oh, Mourinho... You're still too green."
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