Red Rebels: The New Manchester United

Some people seemed born to lead from the front. Others were better suited to building something from behind the scenes.

Cassell had learned which kind of man he was a long time ago.

He had been with New Manchester United for seven years now.

In that time, he had watched the club grow from almost nothing into one of the most respected teams in Europe. Some newer supporters had already begun calling the Red Rebels one of England's emerging giants.

One Champions League trophy would probably remove any remaining doubt.

As the club rose through the divisions, almost every detail of its development had been examined by the media.

Cassell had gradually become one of the figures most associated with New Manchester United's footballing identity.

He had helped build the academy.

He had played a major role in shaping the club's early technical philosophy.

And he had been there throughout the long process in which that philosophy evolved into something far more sophisticated.

The Red Rebels' football had initially borrowed heavily from Manchester United's ideas, but it developed in a different direction.

Greater emphasis on technique.

More structured passing.

More intelligent movement off the ball.

More attention to controlling matches through possession and space.

Aggressive pressing in the attacking third.

And, above all, the collective always came before the individual.

Yet even Cassell knew the final product had moved far beyond anything he had originally imagined.

Mourinho had added his own tactical principles.

Moniz and Meulensteen had contributed their technical work.

The Lab had introduced an increasingly scientific approach to physical preparation, rehabilitation and performance.

Over time, those different ideas had merged into a complete footballing system.

The public rarely saw that complexity.

They preferred simple stories.

And so Cassell became, in the eyes of many supporters, one of the principal architects of the Red Rebels' rise.

He always found that description slightly embarrassing.

He knew how much work other people had done.

That had not stopped other clubs approaching him.

Blackburn had recently tried to tempt him away during the winter, offering him the manager's job and the opportunity to lead their fight against relegation.

Cassell declined.

Not because he lacked ambition.

Because he understood himself.

He knew tactics.

He knew coaching.

He knew training design and player development.

But he had never believed that automatically made him a good head coach.

Years earlier, he had considered taking charge of a club simply to prove his own ideas.

That ambition gradually disappeared.

Cassell realised he was far better suited to being part of a coaching team than standing at the centre of everything himself.

And he was content with that.

For seven years, he had poured himself into New Manchester United.

He helped Mourinho refine plans.

He studied opponents.

He identified weaknesses.

He worked with young players.

The cameras rarely focused on him.

That suited him perfectly.

He loved the club anyway.

Perhaps more deeply than he had ever expected.

The first leg against Barcelona mattered enormously.

Mourinho had spent more than a month preparing for it, while almost every football department at Newton Heath had contributed something to the plan.

Scouting.

Analysis.

Sports science.

Video work.

Set pieces.

Opposition reports.

Nothing had been left to chance.

The match itself had been exhausting to watch.

Mourinho looked calm on the touchline.

Cassell, standing only a few yards away, felt his heart racing.

The game was broadly unfolding according to plan.

New Manchester United had defended well.

They had created the counterattacking situations they wanted.

And Ronaldo had scored the away goal.

Yet Cassell could not relax.

At half-time, Mourinho stayed near the pitch briefly, speaking with several players.

Cassell went ahead towards the dressing room.

That was normal.

He usually arrived first to make sure everything was ready for the break, whether Mourinho needed tactical materials, drinks, supplements or anything else.

As Cassell entered the corridor, something caught his attention.

Frank Rijkaard was standing outside the referee's room.

The Swedish referee was there too.

They were talking.

Casually.

Almost warmly.

Cassell heard something that sounded like a greeting.

Then the two men stepped into the referee's room together.

His stomach tightened.

Why was Barcelona's manager spending half-time with the referee?

Why now?

New Manchester United had just taken the lead at the Camp Nou.

Rijkaard had fifteen precious minutes with his players.

And he was using part of them to speak privately with the match official?

Cassell immediately became suspicious.

Perhaps too suspicious.

He knew that himself.

But in that moment, he could not imagine an innocent reason.

He hurried towards the door.

"What are you doing in here?"

His sudden appearance startled both men.

At almost the same moment, one of Rijkaard's assistants entered the corridor from the opposite direction.

He saw Cassell reaching towards Rijkaard.

That was all he needed.

The Barcelona coach rushed forward and shoved Cassell hard.

Cassell crashed into the wall.

"What the hell are you doing?" Cassell shouted.

Then he pointed angrily towards Rijkaard.

"Are you trying to influence the referee?"

He pushed forward again.

Rijkaard's assistant stepped in front of him.

The two men began shoving each other.

Voices rose.

Within seconds, staff from both dressing rooms poured into the corridor.

Barcelona had more people nearby.

New Manchester United did not care.

Mourinho arrived just as the argument turned chaotic.

He took one look at what was happening.

Then everything escalated.

New Manchester United had never tolerated their staff being manhandled.

Karl Marginson was among the first into the confrontation.

The former midfielder still possessed plenty of strength in his legs, and in the confusion he caught Rijkaard's assistant with a heavy kick that sent the man stumbling violently into the wall.

The Barcelona coach cried out in pain.

That ended any chance of calming things down quickly.

Barcelona's staff surged forward.

New Manchester United's responded.

For several seconds, the corridor became a mass of shouting, pushing and swinging arms.

Mourinho and Rijkaard remained apart from the worst of it.

Neither looked remotely friendly.

Stadium security finally arrived in numbers, joined by UEFA officials, and separated the two groups.

By then several members of Barcelona's staff looked worse for wear.

New Manchester United had not exactly come out of it peacefully either.

Eventually, both sides were forced back towards their dressing rooms.

Once Mourinho heard Cassell's account of what had happened, he said very little.

Privately, he understood why Cassell had reacted.

Publicly, that would be a very different matter.

What worried him more was the second half.

Drogba had already been booked.

So had Essien.

Ronaldo and Maicon were carrying yellow cards too.

Mourinho warned the players repeatedly during the interval.

Stay controlled.

Do not give the referee an excuse.

The team already had the lead.

There was no need to lose discipline.

He then pulled Cassell aside.

"Go and find Ethan."

Cassell looked at him.

"Now?"

"Now."

Mourinho's expression made clear that it was not a suggestion.

"Tell him everything that happened in the corridor."

Cassell nodded.

Mourinho had another reason for sending him away.

He wanted Cassell out of the immediate area before anything else happened.

The confrontation was unlikely to be forgotten.

Cassell left.

Barcelona's supporters had never been especially welcoming towards New Manchester United.

Their UEFA Cup final defeat the previous season still hurt.

So did Beckham beating Ronaldinho to both the Ballon d'Or and FIFA World Player of the Year.

Outside Real Madrid, there were few clubs Barcelona supporters currently disliked more.

Ethan had therefore chosen to watch the match from a VIP box with Andy Walsh and several other senior executives.

It was partly practical.

He had little interest in spending ninety minutes underneath a shower of abuse and debris.

"If they start throwing pig's heads like they did at Figo, I'd rather not be underneath one," he had joked beforehand.

Normally, Ethan preferred watching from the stands.

He liked the noise.

He liked feeling the crowd.

The executive box offered a better view, but none of the same atmosphere.

Cassell arrived there roughly ten minutes into the second half.

On the pitch, Barcelona still controlled most of the possession.

New Manchester United remained extremely difficult to break down.

Drogba and the wide attackers continued to provide enough counterattacking threat that Barcelona could not simply send everyone forward.

If the match continued like this, the Red Rebels had every chance of leaving the Camp Nou with a victory.

Then Cassell explained what had happened at half-time.

Ethan's expression immediately changed.

"Rijkaard went into the referee's room?"

Cassell nodded.

"And you saw them together?"

"Yes."

Before Ethan could ask anything else, the referee's whistle sounded from the pitch.

Everyone in the box turned.

Essien was on the ground near the centre circle.

The referee reached into his pocket.

Yellow card.

Ethan stared.

Essien already had one.

The red followed.

The Camp Nou erupted.

"What happened?" Walsh demanded.

The replay appeared.

Essien had challenged Belletti for the ball.

He positioned his body well and won possession first.

As Essien turned away, Belletti moved into him from behind.

Essien's arm came up naturally as he rotated.

His elbow brushed Belletti's chest.

The Brazilian immediately went down.

The referee interpreted it as an elbow.

"And Essien is off," the commentator said in disbelief.

The slow-motion replay ran again.

"That is extremely harsh."

"Essien wins the ball cleanly. Belletti moves into his path, and the contact from the arm looks like a natural consequence of Essien turning away."

"To give a second yellow for that is a massive decision."

On the touchline, Mourinho was furious.

He argued with the assistant referee, gesturing repeatedly towards his own arms.

The meaning was obvious.

What was Essien supposed to do?

Run without moving them?

Terry approached the referee as captain and demanded an explanation.

That only made matters worse.

The Swedish official clearly had little patience for the protest.

Another yellow card came out.

This one for Terry.

Mourinho nearly lost control.

"Have you brought enough cards for everyone?"

The Camp Nou was too loud for the referee to hear him.

That was probably fortunate.

Inside the executive box, Walsh slammed a hand against the table.

"That's ridiculous."

Ethan said nothing for several seconds.

His suspicion had hardened into something much more serious.

Whether or not the half-time conversation had influenced the referee, the optics were terrible.

And the official now appeared to have lost control of the emotional balance of the match.

Ethan turned towards Walsh.

"Andy, I want everything documented."

Walsh immediately understood.

"Every broadcast angle. Every replay. Every camera in the corridor if we can get access to it."

He looked towards Cassell.

"Write down exactly what you saw at half-time while it's still fresh."

Cassell nodded.

"We'll gather statements from everyone who was there," Ethan continued. "Players, staff, UEFA officials, security."

"And after the match, we file a formal complaint."

Walsh looked back towards the pitch.

"Essien's red?"

"We appeal it."

Ethan's voice was flat.

"I want the entire sequence reviewed."

Walsh and Cassell left almost immediately.

Neither stayed to watch the rest of the match.

Ethan remained in the box, thinking.

One club making noise might not be enough.

If this became a dispute with UEFA, New Manchester United would need more than anger.

They would need evidence.

And allies.

He pulled out his phone.

Before he could finish making the first call, Barcelona scored.

Ronaldinho cut inside from the left.

He slipped the ball towards Eto'o.

The Cameroonian laid it off first time towards the right.

Hleb arrived.

The former Red Rebel struck powerfully.

Čech reacted.

Too late.

The ball flew into the net.

1-1.

The Camp Nou exploded.

Hleb did not celebrate.

He simply turned, jogged into the goal, collected the ball and carried it back towards halfway.

It was exactly what he had once promised.

He had left New Manchester United, but he had never forgotten what the club had done for him.

If professional duty required him to play against the Red Rebels, he would give everything.

If he scored against them, he would not celebrate.

Tonight, he had kept his word.

(To be continued.)