Chapter 27: Kneel Down
He suddenly felt a tightening in his chest, and Old Trafford erupted with an avalanche of boos that drilled into his skull like a high-pitched whistle. Vardy felt as if his boots were suddenly filled with lead.
The jeers swelled from the Stretford End, Manchester United's infamous South Stand, cascading through the stadium like a red tidal wave. The chants were cruel and relentless, punching into his psyche with every word.
"You son of a bitch, go eat shit!"
"Get back here, idiot! Old Trafford's not where you show off!"
"I'll snap your legs myself, bastard!"
…
The joy Vardy carried just moments ago evaporated into a cloud of venom and spite. The fire in his chest smoldered. His face, which had earlier brimmed with youthful confidence, was now darkened, his jaw tight.
The rage boiling in his veins became harder to suppress. Vardy stood silently near the halfway line, gazing across the furious sea of red-clad fans faces twisted in hate, eyes spitting venom.
You forced this.
All I wanted was to greet you, to show you I belong but all you gave me was filth and fury.
Do you think I'm some pushover?
You never saw me as one of your own? Fine. Then I owe you nothing.
No respect. No mercy. No apologies.
Now watch me tear your illusions apart. I'll drag your pride down and bury it beneath your own hallowed turf!
Inside, Vardy howled with a voice louder than the crowd itself a defiant roar to the thousands around him:
Kneel down!
His eyes sharpened, a predatory gleam like an eagle zeroing in from the skies. The trademark smirk vanished. What remained was a face carved in ice merciless, glacial resolve.
United pushed forward again, unaware that something on the pitch had changed something fundamental.
Vardy sprang to life.
His acceleration off the mark was monstrous, like a racehorse exploding from the gate. He tore up the turf with his studs as he hurtled toward Kleberson, who had just taken a square ball from Paul Scholes in midfield.
Kleberson initially looked composed, ready to pivot and spray the ball wide, but then caught sight of Vardy thundering toward him shoulders squared, chin down, like a heat-seeking missile.
Panic cracked through him.
He offloaded the ball hurriedly back to Scholes, narrowly avoiding Vardy's lunge. A bead of sweat slid down the Brazilian's temple he'd barely escaped being pickpocketed in front of 75,000 fans.
Another roar of disapproval shook Old Trafford, the boos like a shield meant less to insult Vardy now, and more to mask fear. His ferocious sprint had unsettled them. It reminded them that danger lurked in Everton blue.
Vardy grinned devilishly, narrowing his eyes like a panther locking in on wounded prey.
Yes, scream louder. Your fear makes me stronger.
The Red Devils tried to reset. Ronaldo once again cut in from the left, twisting his hips, and let fly with a curling strike aimed for the far post. But it cannoned off Alan Smith's thigh and rolled out for a corner.
The two glared at each other. Ronaldo flung his arms wide accusing. Smith barked back furious.
They hated each other's presence in the same attack.
Scholes rushed over, dragging them apart before things escalated. But before the corner could be taken, the stadium gasped.
Everton keeper Nigel Martin launched the ball high and long from the six-yard box an old-school hoof with a very modern target.
His eyes weren't scanning for Cahill or Kilbane. No, the pass had one destination: Jamie Vardy.
Even without relayed instructions, Martin knew Vardy's mission. Moyes had made it crystal clear through intent: press and punish.
Martin trusted the instinct. Vardy wasn't here to defend. He was here to devastate.
He punted the ball with purpose and faith faith that the lad up top would catch fire.
At this time, in the Manchester United backline, only two defenders remained: John O'Shea and Mikaël Silvestre. The rest of the team was still pressing high in Everton's half, chasing an equaliser. The moment Everton's goalkeeper launched the long ball, Vardy had already begun his explosive sprint from deep. The backline was left exposed just three players left in Manchester United's defensive third.
O'Shea and Silvestre didn't regard Vardy, who had just been subbed on, as a real threat. One turned and chased, the other angled his run to intercept. Although the two defenders rarely partnered together in the center, they shared a silent understanding from years in the Premier League.
Silvestre, tasked with blocking Vardy, planted himself between the striker and the ball.
But he only felt a gust of wind rush past him. In the next instant, to his shock, Vardy was not only level with him he was already pulling away.
A classic outside-lane overtake!
With terrifying acceleration, Vardy made Silvestre look like he was stuck in mud. The French defender reached in vain, but the Leicester-born forward was already several steps ahead. His top-end speed was like watching Theo Walcott or Gareth Bale at full flight.
The stadium gasped but Vardy didn't hear it. His focus had tunneled in: the ball and Manchester United's goal. Everything else vanished.
Ahead stood O'Shea, the last man.
Sorry, step aside!
On the sidelines, David Moyes had already stood up from the dugout, stretching his neck, fists clenched with nervous energy. His eyes followed Vardy's every movement, as if he could propel him forward with willpower alone.
Go on!
Go on!
Break their spirit!
All eyes were on Vardy his body tilted forward, knees driving high, breathing like a predator in full chase. O'Shea, two strides ahead, looked like he was running underwater in comparison. Vardy's stride frequency and ground coverage made it seem like he was taking three strides for every two of the Irishman's. The gap closed then disappeared.
Now shoulder to shoulder, O'Shea panicked. He leaned in, using his superior frame to try and bump Vardy off his line. A tried-and-tested defender's move. Vardy was wiry he shouldn't survive the contact.
But would he allow that?
Explode!
Vardy planted his foot again, this time with all the fury of a striker with something to prove. The pitch beneath him seemed to quake. Grass and dirt burst from the turf as if kicked by a racehorse. The energy surged through his body his core tightened, his arms cut through the air like blades.
O'Shea leaned in hard but felt nothing.
He missed.
The contact never landed because Vardy had already gone. The defender's body lagged behind his intent, and in that moment, Vardy surged forward by a full stride, escaping the clumsy collision. O'Shea's fear was etched across his face eyes wide, heartbeat behind the panic. Vardy didn't look back.
With O'Shea left behind and falling, the defensive line was shattered. Silvestre, too, had slowed, realizing that the gap was growing, not shrinking.
Vardy reached the ball first and took it in stride, racing into the box. In just a few heartbeats two, maybe three he was already at the top of the penalty area.
Tim Howard, United's American goalkeeper, had hesitated. He hadn't expected his backline to be beaten so completely. He stepped forward, then froze, then darted out again a half-second too late.
And then it happened.
A rainbow arc.
Vardy didn't panic. He didn't blast the ball or overthink. He simply chipped it an elegant lob with the instep, delicate and precise. The ball soared in a soft arc over Howard, who leapt backward, arms extended, eyes locked on the parabola.
But the keeper landed hard, watching helplessly as the ball dipped under the crossbar and into the net.
A glorious lob finish!
Time stopped.
Old Trafford fell into a chilling silence. The roars of a hundred thousand voices died in an instant. All eyes fixed on the lone figure standing near the penalty spot.
Jamie Vardy.
Chest heaving, veins throbbing, fists raised high, he turned toward the stands and let out a thunderous roar to the heavens.
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