Chapter 70: A World-Class Strike!
With Gudjohnsen's entrance, Chelsea's formation looked like a 4-4-2—but in reality, it was more like 4-2-4.
Robben, Drogba, Gudjohnsen, and Duff were all pushed up to the front line.
Four blades pointed directly at Bayswater Chinese's defensive line.
It looked dangerous.
But Yang Cheng actually felt more at ease.
Because this meant Mourinho had run out of ideas.
When a manager is forced to throw all his men forward, it means he's reaching.
Robben and Duff pushed higher, and their fullbacks—Gallas and Ferreira—had to follow suit.
But there were still differences.
Robben, under constant pressure from Piszczek, was mostly confined to the left flank.
So Gallas's position didn't need to push too high—and the Frenchman wasn't a natural attacker anyway.
Duff, a left-footer on the right wing, played narrower.
That meant Ferreira had more room to operate on the outside.
And as a result, he had no choice but to get forward—or risk leaving that wing wide open.
But doing that created another problem.
Chelsea's midfield now only had Lampard and Makelele.
A midfield already lacking in creativity and vision was now even more restricted.
Makelele was all about breaking up play—not organizing or passing.
So all distribution duties fell to Lampard.
If Chelsea's front four were four blades pressed against Bayswater's backline, Lampard was the man wielding the sword.
But everyone knew: Lampard's greatest strength was arriving late into the box, not orchestrating buildup.
Once Chelsea made this tactical switch, they looked imposing.
But nothing had actually changed.
It was still Robben on the wing, still long balls to Drogba.
And when neither worked, they'd stall, and Lampard would push forward himself.
That only clogged the middle.
If this were a team with finesse—one good at tight-space interplay—it wouldn't be a problem.
But Chelsea's players?
They didn't have that skillset.
In the final third, especially in the 30-meter zone, they had no one who could thread a pass.
In the 64th minute, Lampard tried to slide a ball into Gudjohnsen's feet.
But Huddlestone cut it out.
And immediately launched the counter.
Right at the edge of Bayswater's own 30-meter zone, Ribéry had already anticipated it.
He beat Makelele to the ball and laid it back for Modrić.
Then spun and took off down the left.
Ferreira reacted too late and began sprinting back.
Modrić and Ribéry had played together for so long, their chemistry was second nature.
Modrić carried the ball through the middle.
Makelele was frustrated.
Ribéry sprinted past him on his right. Modrić charged left. They kept a gap between them.
Makelele had to pick.
He went after Modrić—no hesitation. He knew hesitation meant death.
Back in 2003, Modrić was a dribble-heavy player.
But nearly two years in England had taught him the tempo—and he was constantly evolving.
As Makelele closed in, Modrić waited, then slipped the ball forward to Lambert.
"Franck!"
Modrić shouted as he passed, and then kept sprinting.
Makelele, worried about a one-two, turned to chase him.
Lambert held off Terry, brought the ball down, spun, and played a diagonal pass into the left channel.
Right into Ribéry's path.
Carvalho, lagging behind the defensive line, rushed over to intercept.
Ribéry caught up to the pass on Chelsea's 30-meter line.
He took one touch with the outside of his right boot, shaping to cut inside.
Carvalho bit.
But Ribéry was lightning-quick. His footwork razor-sharp.
As soon as Carvalho shifted, Ribéry cut the other way—outside.
Smooth as silk.
It all happened in one motion. No chance to react.
Carvalho knew he was beaten.
He had no choice—he fouled him.
Luckily for him, Gallas had just tracked Lennon and was slightly behind, or else Carvalho would've been the last man.
The referee blew the whistle—free kick.
And a yellow for Carvalho.
"Dangerous counterattack by Bayswater Chinese!"
"Ribéry, with sheer brilliance, draws a free kick off Carvalho!"
"This is the fourth time tonight they've won a set piece in the final third—but so far, nothing's come of them. Let's see what they have planned now."
…
Yang Cheng stood on the sideline.
Gianni Vio stepped out of the dugout once again, waving instructions to the players.
Chelsea's defense really was rock solid.
Ferreira, Carvalho, Terry, Gallas—and Makélélé sitting in front of them.
That was a wall.
Breaking it head-on? Not realistic.
So Yang Cheng had to rely on precision.
And this free kick was their best shot yet.
Set pieces were one of the attacking routines Yang Cheng had emphasized heavily before the match.
Now, Ribéry and Huddlestone stood over the ball, both looking like potential takers.
Tall players like Lambert, José Fonte, and Škrtel had all surged into Chelsea's penalty area.
Modrić was positioned just ahead and slightly to the side of Huddlestone, seemingly ready to receive a short pass.
The whistle blew.
As the best striker of a dead ball in Bayswater Chinese's squad, Ribéry sprinted toward the ball.
Inside the box, players from both teams jostled, pushing forward in anticipation.
Chelsea's defenders clung tightly to the tall red shirts, desperate not to lose their marks.
But no one expected what came next.
Ribéry didn't shoot. Instead, he slipped the ball short to Modrić, waiting just outside the box.
With his back to goal, the Croatian midfielder took one touch sideways—then darted away.
Makelele, caught off-guard by the back pass, instinctively followed Modrić laterally, thinking he had the ball.
By the time he realized Modrić had already released it, it was too late.
Because now, like a towering iron tower, Huddlestone came charging in, winding up with all his might.
BOOM!
A thunderous crack echoed around the stadium as the ball exploded off his right foot.
The net bulged on Čech's right side before most people even registered what had happened.
"MY GOD!!"
"WHAT A GOAL!!!"
"A world-class strike—out of nowhere!!"
"Tom Huddlestone—just 18 years old!"
"The English midfielder unleashes a missile to put Bayswater Chinese ahead—1–0!"
"This is simply unbelievable. A stunner! A real worldie!"
On the touchline, Yang Cheng had been silently praying the routine would work.
When Huddlestone's shot ripped into the net, he completely lost it.
With a triumphant roar, he sprinted out of the technical area, blowing past Mourinho as he raced toward his players.
Meanwhile, the Portuguese "Special One" let out a furious scream, smashing his fist against the dugout.
He hadn't expected this kind of resilience.
More importantly, he hadn't expected such well-executed defending from Bayswater Chinese.
He'd done his homework—he knew they were dangerous from set pieces.
He had specifically told his players: no fouls within 30 meters.
But still, a single lapse…
Could he really blame Carvalho?
Letting Ribéry through would've been a clean one-on-one.
Mourinho gritted his teeth just in time to see Yang Cheng streak past him like a madman, heading toward his bench.
Shameless!
So conservative, and still celebrating like that?
Fuming, Mourinho turned and signaled to Joe Cole to start warming up.
Time to change the game.
…
In the 65th minute, just one minute after Huddlestone's goal, Mourinho made his first substitution.
Joe Cole in. Duff out.
He was disappointed with Duff.
Both Duff and Robben were pacey wingers, but Duff wasn't at Robben's level.
And playing on the right, Duff's impact was further diminished.
Now, Mourinho's eyes were on Ribéry.
The Frenchman was fast, but more importantly, he was slick with the ball—much more so than Robben.
Like a supercharged version of Joe Cole.
By bringing in Cole, Mourinho hoped to use the Englishman's dribbling and creativity to break Bayswater's defensive lines.
But Yang Cheng countered immediately.
He subbed off Aaron Lennon and brought on Gökhan Inler.
Lennon had been largely ineffective against Gallas.
Plus, with Chelsea pressing Modrić and Huddlestone, Bayswater's long-ball counters weren't getting anywhere.
Keeping Lennon out there? Pointless.
With the change, Yang Cheng formed a triple pivot: Inler, Huddlestone, and Diarra.
Ribéry and Modrić pushed up behind Lambert.
It was still a counter-attacking system—but now with beefed-up defense.
Even more importantly, Inler had the team's best long-range shooting.
Huddlestone came second—but that last strike had come from his favorite range.
After stabilizing the team with his changes, Mourinho made another desperate move in the 74th minute.
Kežman came on for Gallas.
Chelsea switched to a 3-2-5—five attackers up front.
Absolute madness.
Yang Cheng adjusted instantly—Ribéry shifted to the right.
Just three minutes later, Ribéry took on defenders down the right wing, slicing through and sending in a cross from the edge of the area.
Lambert and Carvalho went up for it.
The ball deflected toward the penalty spot.
Inler pounced—struck it first time.
Only for Čech to fly like a god, palming the ball away for a corner.
Still the Czech Wall!
He hadn't had much to do all game—but when it counted, he delivered.
Huddlestone's goal had simply come too fast to stop.
On the sideline, Mourinho ground his teeth.
Every move he made… Yang Cheng countered.
And now Bayswater were using Chelsea's own adjustments against them.
"Is this brat really just 24?!"
Mourinho couldn't believe it.
No way.
With this level of tactical composure and vision, he had only seen that from men like Ferguson.
How could some 24-year-old kid possibly be this good?
In the stands, Chelsea fans were visibly uneasy.
They had come all the way to Cardiff expecting a title.
After all, Chelsea hadn't lifted a trophy since the 1999–2000 FA Cup.
The League Cup?
Not since 1997–98.
And now, they were watching their long-awaited silverware slip away… into the hands of a Championship team.
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