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Chapter 19 - Chapter 19 – The Terror of Suppression! Feld’s Defense Crumbles!

Sure enough, it didn't take long before Feld fell into a vicious cycle of passive defending!

In the next ten minutes, Morecambe controlled nearly 80% of possession, pinning Feld back into their own half. Morecambe launched wave after wave of sweeping attacks, while Feld could barely string together a pass, much less launch a counterattack.

With pressure mounting, it was only a matter of time before Morecambe struck again.

In the 15th minute, the second goal arrived.

Ronaldinho, with dazzling technique, skipped past two defenders in quick succession before sliding a perfectly timed through ball into the left channel—finding veteran League One winger Beech surging down the flank.

Boom!

Beech had acres of space. Calmly, he whipped in a deep cross—targeting the towering presence of Zlatan Ibrahimović.

There was no contest.

Ibrahimović, standing nearly 1.9 meters tall, rose like a giant among schoolboys. Compared to Feld's defenders, it was like a college student bullying a bunch of middle school kids!

Boom!!

With perfect timing, Zlatan met the ball mid-air, powering a header toward the far corner. The shot wasn't lightning fast, but the trajectory and placement were flawless—arcing away from the keeper's reach.

Feld's goalkeeper gave it everything, diving at full stretch... but came up short.

Goal!

2–0!

"Ohhhh!!!"

The stadium erupted again! Morecambe fans leapt from their seats, embracing strangers in celebration.

> "Ibra is a monster! Worth every euro of that €8 million!"

> "No one's stopping Morecambe this year. We're going straight up—I'm calling it!"

> "This squad could dominate mid-table League Two right now!"

Among the cheering, conversations sprang up.

> "Didn't they say the new coach is some young guy from Brazil?"

> "So what? You see what we're playing out there? Tactics, flow, pressing—that's elite stuff."

> "Yeah, I don't care if he's 25 or 55. If he's bringing wins to Morecambe, he's our hero!"

> "Damn right!"

While the fans chatted and celebrated, one thing was becoming clear: whoever this young Brazilian coach was, Juninho D'Alessandro had earned their respect through results.

Two goals in 15 minutes. Dominating possession. Relentless pressure.

Who cared how old he was or where he came from?

Back on the pitch, Feld kicked off again—only to be immediately swarmed. Morecambe pressed high, relentless as ever.

On the sidelines, Feld's manager, a bald middle-aged man, anxiously stood by the touchline, rubbing the few strands of hair he had left.

He stared at the chaos on the field, muttering to himself.

> "What the hell kind of pressing is this…? Aren't they afraid of leaving the back open?"

But the back was open.

It didn't matter.

Feld never even touched the ball long enough to exploit it.

Boom!

Another muffled thud.

Before the Feld manager could react, a Morecambe player—grinning from ear to ear—raced toward the sideline, followed by jubilant teammates.

The stadium roared.

> "OOOOHHHH!!"

> "Ronaldinho!! Ronaldinho!!"

It was him again.

Taking advantage of a defender's failed header, Ronaldinho volleyed it clean into the net with a clinical strike.

Before the first half was even over, the score was now 3–0.

A disaster in the making.

The Feld manager clenched his fists, muttered a curse, then barked at his assistant to prepare a defensive substitution. He stormed into the locker room early—visibly defeated.

Inside, silence.

He slumped against the wall, trying to calm himself.

But just minutes later…

> "OOOOHHHH!!"

Another goal?

He gritted his teeth. His eye twitched. Then…

Crash!

He lost it.

The coach began smashing everything in sight—water bottles, whiteboards, anything not nailed down.

This was supposed to be his moment. He had studied Morecambe's new signings, confident he could spoil their big debut.

Instead, he had become the first offering on Morecambe's invincible campaign.

> "These damn tactics! They're disgusting!"

Deep down, he knew they were just better. But pride has its limits.

He sat down, pale and furious, staring into nothingness.

Halftime arrived.

Feld's players filed in, silent and defeated, only to be greeted by their shattered coach.

Some players couldn't bear the humiliation anymore.

One by one, they approached him with excuses.

> "Coach… my knee's acting up. Better let the youngsters get some time."

> "Yeah, I tweaked my shoulder. Probably can't play the second half."

> "Ankle's swollen. Might need to sit out."

The coach looked at them blankly, then barked a single word:

"OUT!"

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