Football has never been a game of courtesy. So when Ethan let fly with a string of expletives on the touchline, Haruko Sakuragi—Luton's lone female coach—barely batted an eye.
After all, this is football. When adrenaline surges and tempers flare, there's little room for politeness.
On the opposite bench, Mark Hughes looked like a man drowning in frustration. The former Manchester United striker, now managing a Manchester City side bankrolled with a €100 million transfer budget, was anything but composed.
The first half wasn't even over, yet City were already trailing 2–0.
What does the face of a losing coach look like?
The broadcast camera zoomed in on Hughes. His grim expression told the story better than any commentator could.
Right under his nose, Luton's players were celebrating wildly. Jamie Vardy, brimming with energy, pumped his fists toward the roaring stands. The decibel level at Kenilworth Road—nicknamed "The Wossi" by local fans—shot up.
The Luton team anthem rang out.
It wasn't a chart-topper by any means, but when sung by 10,000 voices in unison, it carried a defiant pride that no orchestra could match.
"So what if they're Manchester City? So what if they're Premier League?"
We are Luton. We are strong. We are fearless.
The fans broke into an impromptu chant:
"Oh-oh-oh Manchester City,
They came for Adam White with all their gold,
Thought they could buy our hearts and soul—
But money can't buy the game we hold!
Oh-oh-oh, tell the Arabs: dreams aren't sold!"
On the bench, Luton manager Ethan grinned, thoroughly enjoying the show.
He nudged his assistant Lin Sen and gestured toward the crowd.
"These English fans really are something else…"
Lin Sen chuckled. "When I used to watch games on TV, I always wondered how they came up with these songs. Now I see—they just make them up on the spot!"
Then, Ethan's tone shifted as he turned his focus back to the game.
"How do you think Hughes will adjust in the second half?"
Lin Sen didn't hesitate. "He might go direct. They've got Caicedo and Ched Evans on the bench—both physical, target men-type forwards. If he wants to pump long balls forward, those two are his best bet."
Ethan nodded. He had been thinking the same.
If City did switch to route one football, Luton would need a solid plan to deal with the aerial threat.
Meanwhile, across the touchline, Mark Hughes was deep in his own thoughts. The first half had been a tactical mess. Despite having the majority of possession, City's attack was toothless, and they looked vulnerable every time Luton broke forward.
If Luton scored again, it would be game over. Down 2–0 was bad. Down 3–0? Catastrophic.
He glanced at the clock. 40 minutes played.
City needed a goal early in the second half to salvage anything from this.
The match had been oddly one-sided—not in possession, but in intent.
Luton had ceded the ball and hit on the break. City, confused and sluggish, didn't know how to penetrate.
Robinho, their marquee forward, was growing visibly frustrated. His dribbling became erratic, his frustration more apparent with each pass that went astray.
Kanté—yes, the same N'Golo Kanté who would one day become a Premier League icon—was everywhere, shadowing Robinho like a ghost with a mission.
Robinho received the ball in the center circle. Kanté lunged in—cleanly, again—and Robinho hit the turf.
This time, the referee awarded the free kick. But again, no yellow card for Kanté.
Robinho was furious, gesturing in disbelief. But a free kick from midfield posed little threat to a disciplined Luton defense.
City restarted play, but their attacks had fizzled out. And moments later, the halftime whistle blew.
The players trudged off toward the tunnel. One team to regroup, the other to dream bigger.
Robinho's expression was dark and frustrated. He had been completely neutralized by Kanté in the first half. No matter what he tried, he couldn't shake off the relentless pressure of the French midfielder. How could someone so small, so slight, be so impossible to beat? It was as if Kanté had planted himself inside Robinho's mind—a hurdle he just couldn't clear.
"Stop following me already! The first half is over!!"
Robinho snapped as he saw Kanté still shadowing him on the walk back.
Kanté, ever unbothered, scratched his head in confusion and pointed toward the tunnel. Of course—he was just heading back to the dressing rooms like everyone else.
Realizing his outburst, Robinho's face burned. He quickly glanced around. Luckily, no one seemed to notice. Or at least they pretended not to.
Now flustered and dejected, the Brazilian lowered his head and disappeared into the tunnel, his aura dimmed.
Inside the visiting dressing room, the mood was tense.
"We're two goals down, yes—but now is not the time to sulk or hide our faces!"
Mark Hughes stood in front of his players, trying to inject belief. He was stubborn and hard-nosed, a fighter to the core.
"We can equalize—or even turn this game around!" he said, tapping his temple. "But only if we play with our heads and show who we really are!"
He turned to Robinho.
"Robbie, in the second half, stop wasting your energy chasing that damn little guy around the midfield. Get into the box and wait for chances. I'm putting on Caicedo after the break!"
His eyes shifted to the corner, where a tall, imposing figure sat quietly.
Juan Carlos Caicedo, just 21 years old and 188 centimeters tall, was a classic target man. He straightened up, ready for his call.
"In the second half, we go more direct. They've stacked their midfield, fine—we skip it altogether! Long balls into their box! Let's see how they deal with real pressure! No more messing around in midfield with their fancy footwork!"
Hughes' voice thundered.
"Robby, find pockets in the box, use your movement. You're the most gifted player on the pitch—show it!"
Robinho nodded slowly. After a few deep breaths, the spark began to return to his eyes.
Meanwhile, the Luton dressing room was buzzing.
"Well done, lads!" Ethan burst in, beaming. "That was a hell of a first half!"
The players erupted in cheers.
"Jamie had their defense on strings..."
"Robinho met our Kanté today—there's no getting past him!" George Parker joked, standing up.
Ethan grinned. Confidence was soaring—and rightly so. Taking a two-nil lead against Manchester City was no small feat. But the coach knew the job was only half done.
"Alright, settle down!" he said, tapping on the tactics board. "The game's not over."
He flipped the board and began drawing.
"They'll change things up in the second half—count on it. Their midfield couldn't dominate, so they'll look to go long and direct. Expect Caicedo or even Evans up top."
He circled the penalty area.
"No matter who comes on, our response is the same. First 15 minutes—we press high! Don't let their defenders hit accurate long balls."
He jabbed arrows across the board.
"If they get the ball in midfield, we close them down. If they get into the box, we track every run and win the second balls. We don't let them settle—not for a second!"
He looked around the room. The players were locked in.
"They want to bring on a big striker and bully us?"
He paused.
"Then we double down. We hit first. Let them know—we're not afraid."