At St. Mary's Stadium, piercing boos echoed in the coastal evening air.
The Manchester United players walked off the pitch, faces slick with sweat, chests heaving under the pressure.
Yet, their eyes showed no sign of defeat, only exhaustion and grim determination.
Meanwhile, the Southampton players held their heads high, gesturing to the crowd, soaking in the applause like a triumphant army.
They had completely dominated the first half. Surely, scoring was only a matter of time.
Mourinho stood at the tunnel entrance, his expression like stone, coldly watching the players pass him.
He said in a low voice to his staff, "Zlatan, Ling. In the dressing room too."
He never cared if the game was attractive.
The only thing he valued was the result.
A few minutes later, the air in the visiting dressing room was thick.
Mourinho didn't shout. He didn't throw a water bottle. Instead, he clapped his hands lightly, a sharp, dry sound.
"You should know I never lie," he began, his voice calm. "So, you played very well in the first half."
The players exchanged confused glances.
"I saw your tactical discipline," he continued. "And most importantly, the commitment. Yes, exactly what I always emphasize: 'All In.' Give everything in the match. Commit to every minute, every second."
Mourinho scanned the room, his eyes lingering on each player.
"Now, for the second half. Mkhitaryan, Marcus, you will continue to help the full-backs. You are not wingers; you are defenders. The full-backs and center-backs will keep tucking in. The midfield must drop back. We concede the wings, we protect the box."
"I know this will make us even more passive. They will have the ball." He almost smiled.
"But it's fine. Our real counter-attack begins at the 65th minute. Ling," he nodded to Ling, "I'll sub you on."
"When we attack, you control the tempo," he said, pointing at Matic and Fellaini. "Do not rush forward passes. Wait. Wait until the formation spreads, then we attack down the left flank."
His gaze sharpened. "If you have studied the match, you notice, when we have the ball, their number 18—Lemina—he drifts. He wants to be the hero. He drifts to the left, and he leaves a huge gap behind him. That is the fatal weak point."
"At that moment, Ling," he locked eyes with him, "you must immediately play the long ball over the top. Mata, Valencia, I don't care how tired you are, you must push forward to create the two-on-one on the wing and deliver the ball into the box."
After briefly outlining the plan, Mourinho fell silent.
The atmosphere wasn't oppressive; everyone was processing their tasks.
In truth, being suppressed for an entire half was frustrating.
But if it secured a victory, it was acceptable.
At the end of the day, football values results.
Everyone remembers the champions.
Nobody remembers the team that played pretty football and lost. (Assna)
Unless, of course, you finish fourth every year or become the victim of a miracle.
As halftime was about to end, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, who had been listening intently from the corner, pushed himself up on his crutches.
The room went silent.
"Look at them," his voice rumbled. "The opposing players, holding their heads high. Listen to the fans, booing you, taunting you. If I could go on that pitch," he tapped his injured knee.
"I would shut them up with goals."
"But I cannot. So, it is up to you."
.....
"Welcome back to St. Mary's!" Martin Tyler's voice boomed. "The players are emerging from the tunnel. No changes for either side at the half. Let's see if Manchester United can find a way out of this Southampton stranglehold."
Tweet!
The sharp blast of the whistle signaled the start of the second half.
Southampton, buoyed by their first-half dominance, kicked off and immediately resumed their tactics: the entire formation pushed forward aggressively, launching a storm of attacks.
But before long, they noticed something different. Their opponents weren't disorganized. They were... solid.
"It seems Mourinho has made a change, Gary," Martin observed after 10 minutes. "United are even deeper than they were in the first half. They look content to let Southampton have the ball."
"It's a rope-a-dope, Martin," Neville analyzed. "He's conceded the wings entirely. Look at Rashford and Mkhitaryan—they're playing as auxiliary full-backs. Mourinho is pushing all his chips onto the table, betting that Southampton don't have the quality to break down two banks of four."
The United players didn't disappoint him.
They defended with immense determination, giving their all in every challenge. Even Rashford, a natural forward, tirelessly sprinted up and down the flank, tracking Cédric's every move. He knew his role: wear down his opponent, exhaust him, before being substituted.
It was a mutually exhausting style of play, but United had the advantage of depth.
Southampton couldn't find a full-back of Cédric's caliber on their bench.
The clock ticked past the hour mark. 61 minutes.
Seeing no openings on the wings, Southampton tried to penetrate through the middle.
Lemina, the "number 18" Mourinho had identified, delivered a precise diagonal pass to Tadić on the right.
Tadić attempted a quick one-two with Davis in the center.
But as soon as Tadić passed the ball, Davis felt as if he'd been hit by a tank.
He stumbled, failing to control the ball.
"FELLAINI!" Martin Tyler roared, as the big Belgian emerged from the pack, having perfectly read the pass.
Seizing the opponent's mistake, Fellaini stepped forward and launched a powerful, low pass.
Thump!
The ball skimmed across the turf, rolling swiftly toward the left wing.
"Here's Rashford! He's on his bike!"
Rashford gritted his teeth, summoning the very last of his energy as he sprinted forward at full speed.
Beside him, Cédric matched his pace, unleashing his own burst of frightening speed.
"This is a fantastic race!" Tyler called. "Rashford and Cédric, side-by-side!"
The chase began and ended in an instant.
Exhausted and drained, Rashford, seeing he couldn't beat his man, could only manage a desperate, lunging cross from the left side of the penalty area before collapsing.
Thump! The ball arced into the box.
"Lukaku is in there...!"
The Belgian striker fought with all his might against Yoshida and Van Dijk but was ultimately overpowered by the colossal duo.
Van Dijk rose highest, heading the ball easily back to his goalkeeper. United's attack was neutralized.
"Huff... huff... huff!"
Rashford lay on the grass, his chest heaving violently, gasping for breath like a pair of bellows.
Then, he heard the P.A. system announce his number.
The tension in his nerves finally eased.
If he hadn't been substituted, he truly couldn't have carried on.
Struggling to his feet, he began the long, slow jog off the pitch.
Standing on the sidelines, Jeremy Ling watched the utterly exhausted Rashford.
He couldn't help but reflect.
At this stage, Rashford had it all: raw talent, blistering pace, and a relentless drive.
He not only took on defensive duties willingly but also put in countless extra runs.
'People change,' Ling thought. 'It's only natural. But that doesn't stop me from recognizing his effort right now. He's genuinely giving his all.'
The two had been roommates in the academy for three years, sharing a close bond.
Ling felt a duty to his friend, to keep him on the right path.
But those were concerns for another time. Right now, he couldn't let his friend's hard work go to waste.
As Rashford reached the sideline, Ling extended both hands with a smile.
"Rashy, well done! We're getting takeaway tonight, my treat."
Rashford, barely able to speak, gasped, "I'm... exhausted... but that guy... Cédric... he's not faring much better." He looked at Ling, his eyes sharp.
"Look for the runs. A few more like that... and he won't hold up."
He took another deep breath and slapped Ling's hand firmly.
Though Ling was technically his rival for the position, their friendship was stronger.
As Mourinho had once said, true strength isn't afraid of competition.
"Leave it to me," Ling said, flashing a bright, confident grin.
"And here comes the change for Manchester United," Martin Tyler announced. "It's Marcus Rashford coming off, to a well-deserved round of applause. And on comes the young talent, Jeremy Ling. The 65th minute. Right on cue."
Under the watchful eyes of tens of thousands of fans, Jeremy Ling sprinted to his position.
He was close enough to the stands to hear the taunts from the Southampton supporters.
Yet his expression remained as calm as still water, utterly unshaken.
The game was about to change.