Chapter 887: Farewell to the "Three-Year Curse" of Mourinho
Bruno's role on the pitch was exceptionally fluid. He roamed freely across all areas, maximizing his stamina, vision, and positional intelligence. Wherever danger appeared, he was there—breaking up plays, launching attacks, and securing Manchester United's defensive organization.
Jorginho had been active early on—but once Bruno locked onto him, his night turned into a nightmare.
Bruno never marked Jorginho tightly in the traditional sense. Staying glued to him would only warn Chelsea's players not to pass that way—they weren't fools.
Instead, Bruno shadowed him from distance. The moment Jorginho signaled for the ball and his teammates played it his way, Bruno exploded forward, closing down instantly.
Unless Jorginho had lightning-fast reflexes to release the ball at once, he'd soon find himself trapped in the quicksand Bruno created.
Bruno's one-on-one defending was ferocious. Jorginho had learned that the hard way in previous matches—and tonight, he was once again forced into exhausting, relentless sprints just to stay alive.
Under normal circumstances, Jorginho would wait in position for the ball to come. But not against Bruno. He had to move toward every pass, because standing still meant losing the ball.
Even when Bruno didn't make a clean tackle, he constantly pressured Jorginho into running at full throttle, denying him a second of rest. It was draining him, minute by minute.
...
Jorginho dashed toward an incoming ball, and Bruno chased after it too. With a step's advantage, Jorginho reached first, flicking the ball forward with the outside of his left foot before trying to glide around Bruno.
It was a nice feint—but costly, as the intense stop-and-start motion was punishing to his legs. Still, he pressed on.
The Chelsea supporters cheered his move, commentators applauded loudly—but Jorginho knew better. Escaping Bruno wasn't that simple. If it were, the Portuguese wouldn't command such respect across Europe.
He accelerated hard, hoping to pull away. But Bruno pivoted and followed instantly, staying half a body behind. Bruno didn't carry the ball—he sprinted freely. His raw speed advantage helped him catch up within seconds.
As Bruno closed in, he reached out, grabbed Jorginho's shoulder lightly, tugged just enough, then released. The touch was subtle but perfectly timed—breaking Jorginho's rhythm like a sudden brake. His lost momentum ruined any chance of a clear surge forward.
That tiny deceleration was all Bruno needed.
...
Seeing Bruno back on him, Jorginho knew he couldn't push into the box. He decided to pass instead. Setting his left foot as support, he swung his right leg to release the ball.
But Bruno, reading him perfectly, launched into a quick slide tackle. When Jorginho lifted to strike, his protection over the ball loosened—and Bruno struck cleanly first, knocking it out for a throw.
A second later, there was a thud—Bruno's leg swept into Jorginho's standing foot, and Jorginho's swinging leg hit Bruno's shin bone.
"Damn—that's solid!" Jorginho thought as he crashed down. It felt like kicking a steel post.
The referee's whistle cut through the chaos—not signaling a throw-in, but a foul against Bruno.
Bruno sprang up in disbelief, waving his arms. "How's that a foul? I got the ball first! I clearly got the ball!" he protested angrily in English.
The referee, unmoved, insisted that though Bruno touched the ball, the challenge was reckless and endangered the opponent.
"Otherwise," he reasoned, "why's Jorginho rolling on the ground like that?"
...
Realizing it was useless to argue, Bruno turned back to check on Jorginho, who was clutching his leg and grimacing.
Kneeling down, Bruno patted his shoulder. "Hey, Jorgi, stop acting. I didn't even hit you."
Through gritted teeth, Jorginho retorted, "Bullshit! If you'd kicked me cleanly, I'd be off already! Your shins are made of iron!"
Bruno laughed, stretching out his hand to pull him up. "Come on, my friend. You kicked me, not the other way around."
"I don't care! The ref gave us the free kick—it's your foul," Jorginho shot back but still accepted Bruno's hand as he stood.
Testing his toes, Jorginho realized the pain had already faded. It was just a hard knock, nothing serious. Relief washed over him.
Unlike most players, whose shin bones were thinly cushioned, Bruno's lower legs were wrapped in solid muscle—decades of training had given him natural armor. What hurt Jorginho barely even registered for him.
...
After helping him up, Bruno shrugged helplessly at the referee, then jogged back to defend the set piece—a free kick close to the corner flag.
Chelsea sent their big men forward—Thiago Silva, Antonio Rüdiger, and others clustered in the box. But when the cross came in, Bruno rose highest, heading it clear.
At just 1.83 meters tall, he wasn't the tallest—but his leap and timing were unmatched. If Bruno didn't get to that ball, it defied logic.
"At both ends of the pitch—this is Bruno Fernandes!" the commentators declared.
From then until halftime, the pattern continued. Chelsea piled forward, desperate to equalize, but every time they did, they left themselves open to United's counterattacks.
The score held at 1–0 when the referee blew for halftime.
"Halftime here in Porto! Manchester United lead by a goal—and on performance, they've outplayed Chelsea completely. The Blues just can't find a way through!"
"Bruno is stealing the spotlight—he's been magnificent! He's single-handedly tormenting Chelsea!"
"The second half promises fireworks. Can Chelsea respond? Or will United finish the job?"
...
Inside the Chelsea dressing room, Thomas Tuchel's fury echoed off the walls.
"Look at yourselves! Remember who you are! You're Champions League finalists! Start playing like it!" he roared.
Tuchel had never liked Manchester United—not since the day he arrived in England. United's dominance irritated him; their aura overshadowed every club, including his. Whether at Dortmund or PSG, he hadn't faced them often, but their name alone annoyed him.
He loathed United—and their talisman, Bruno Fernandes.
Ironically, as PSG coach, Tuchel had once pushed hard to sign him, demanding the club spend whatever it took to bring in the world's best midfielder. Now, as Chelsea's boss and rival, that admiration had soured into resentment.
Still, five months into his leadership, Tuchel commanded authority. He had stabilized a team in chaos, lifted them to fourth in the Premier League, and guided them to two finals. His players trusted him deeply—enough that even his fury inspired respect.
...
On the other side, Mourinho's dressing room was filled with positivity.
"Our football works!" Mourinho exclaimed with genuine delight.
What thrilled him wasn't just the 1–0 lead; it was that United had also controlled the play. For Mourinho, that mattered even more.
For years, the football world spoke of the "Three-Year Mourinho Curse"—a superstition that his magic only lasted three seasons before collapse.
At Chelsea, at Inter, at Real Madrid—every tenure had followed that trajectory. The legend grew stronger with time.
But at Manchester United, he had broken the curse. Five seasons, dozens of records, countless trophies—all proof that the myth was dead.
United had become the most successful club of the last half-decade, unchallenged atop world football.
And it all stemmed from the partnership he forged with Bruno Fernandes.
When Bruno joined for a record €200 million, critics called it madness. United were floundering after Sir Alex Ferguson's retirement, missing the Champions League twice in three years. Many thought a long decline inevitable.
But five years later, Mourinho and Bruno had rewritten Manchester United's destiny—together.
(END CHAPTER)
Thank you for the support, friends. If you want to read more chapters in advance, go to my Patreon.
Read 40 Chapters In Advance: patreon.com/Cortez10