The halftime break soon ended.
As the players returned to the pitch, the second half of the match was about to begin.
Juninho D'Alessandro didn't hesitate—he made three substitutions immediately, pulling off Ibrahimović, Ronaldinho, and a central midfielder.
This was clearly a move to protect his stars.
He had already noticed the subtle shift in the opponents' demeanor; their expressions were twisted with frustration and humiliation. Who knew what kind of rough tactics they'd try to salvage pride?
There was no way he was going to risk his million-pound investments getting injured in a game that was already won.
As for why he didn't sub off Vidic—well, defenders tend to have a lower injury risk, and Juninho wanted him to get as much match experience as possible. The Serbian still needed to sharpen his instincts in real-time battle.
The referee's whistle blew, and the second half kicked off.
Morecambe's backup striker took the ball and pushed forward.
The match resumed in an orderly fashion.
Without Ibrahimović and Ronaldinho leading the front line, Morecambe's offense naturally slowed down. The attacking rhythm wasn't as sharp, and the number of dangerous plays dropped significantly.
But the team's defensive pressing remained intact.
Thanks to Juninho's rigorous tactical drilling, every player knew their role and executed it with machine-like precision. That intense high pressing completely smothered Feld's hopes.
Any spark of confidence the visitors had after Morecambe's substitutions quickly faded.
They simply couldn't adapt to the suffocating tempo and were constantly on the back foot. Fatigue set in fast, and within minutes, Feld's players were gasping for air, their ball control slipping, their movements becoming stiff and desperate.
In the 71st minute, Morecambe's substitute attacking midfielder stole the ball high up the pitch, exchanged a slick one-two with a teammate, and played a quick pass to the left wing.
The left midfielder sprinted in stride and whipped in a low cross without breaking motion!
It cut sharply through the defenders—an absolute bullet of a pass!
Boom!!
The backup striker charged into the box like a stallion and smashed the ball into the net from five yards out!
"OOOOHHHHHH!!"
Christie Park erupted again! The red tide of Morecambe fans was in full frenzy!
The goalscorer sprinted toward the stands, arms out, laughing joyously as he celebrated with the home supporters!
It wasn't an individual masterpiece—far from it.
This goal was the product of perfectly timed short-passing interplay, a classic example of Juninho's compact, fluid offensive style.
It looked simple, but it tore Feld's defense apart like tissue paper.
Juninho stood calmly on the sideline, his eyes glinting with confidence.
"Five goals." He murmured to himself, arms crossed.
This scoreline wasn't just big—it was a statement.
It was the perfect start to his managerial career.
Suddenly, chants roared behind him:
"Juninho! Juninho! Juninho!"
He turned slightly and saw waves of fans packed tightly in the stands, eyes full of admiration and gratitude. They knew exactly who had brought this change to their club.
Juninho nodded at them briefly but turned his attention back to the game.
Celebrating could come later—after the title. Not now.
"Slow it down! Be careful of injuries!"
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted instructions to his players.
A 5–0 lead was more than enough. Any more, and Feld's frustrated players might resort to dangerous tackles out of spite.
The players nodded and eased off the throttle.
Morecambe retained possession with clean, patient passes. They passed sideways and backward, keeping the ball moving but avoiding any unnecessary risks.
The match slowed to a crawl.
Feld had no energy left to press. Morecambe had no urgency to attack.
Still, the Morecambe fans—draped in red, flags waving, voices soaring—sang louder than ever in the final 20 minutes. The atmosphere at Christie Park was electric.
5–0?
They were loving every second of it.
---
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The final whistle blew.
Morecambe's Parliamentary League debut had ended in a six-goal rout.
A glorious opening day!
---
In the locker room, the players weren't exactly ecstatic. For them, many of whom had played at much higher levels, a win like this didn't carry much emotional weight.
What did impress them was Juninho's system.
A new, unfamiliar tactical setup they had only recently begun training in—yet it worked like magic.
It let them dominate.
It let them express themselves on the pitch.
And it made them enjoy playing football.
Someone cracked a joke from the bench, "Boss, you plan to use this system in the Premier League one day?"
Juninho smiled, glanced at him, and replied calmly,
"Not just the Premier League… we're taking it to the Champions League."
The room burst into laughter.
To most of the players, it sounded like a joke—dreams out of reach.
But in the corner, Zlatan Ibrahimović paused while removing his socks. He looked up slowly, his eyes fixed on the Brazilian coach.
Champions League?
To him… that didn't sound impossible.
He'd seen Juninho's eye for talent.
Ronaldinho. Vidic. That little kid in the youth team—Messi. He hadn't even debuted yet, but Ibrahimović had seen him in training. The way he dribbled, the instincts, the fearlessness—it reminded him of Maradona, maybe even better.
And Juninho had spotted them all.
He didn't just talk. He knew.
He believed.
Morecambe… Champions League…
Zlatan lowered his eyes to the shrimp crest on his jersey and felt a strange stirring in his chest.
Maybe… just maybe… this team could go all the way.
---