Football Dynasty

Chapter 601: Antonio... You’re a Devil

At the final whistle, Manchester City’s players were all smiles. The victory felt even sweeter given that they had just beaten Manchester United.The first three rounds of the English league season had come to an end. That same night, Mourinho gathered the entire squad at the team’s training facility.

The meeting took place in what was usually a serious tactical room. But tonight, the atmosphere was completely different. Mourinho and his coaching staff were dressed in suits, yet they looked relaxed, laughing and joking among themselves.

The players arrived one after another, each with their own style. It was summer, after all, so most of them showed up in casual clothes. A few of the younger players, however—Carrick, Hargreaves, and Drogba—had dressed a little more formally.

The moment Drogba walked into the room, the players broke into applause. He had been the one to score against Manchester United, making his performance even more special.

What made it even sweeter was his journey. Not long ago, Drogba had been just another young player trying to prove himself at the club. Many had doubted whether he had what it took to make it at the highest level.

But he had proven them wrong.

A goal from an expensive signing was expected. A goal from a player who had fought his way up from the academy was different.

Drogba hadn’t been bought for a fortune. He hadn’t arrived with a big reputation.

He had earned his place.

And tonight, everyone in the room knew it.

Aside from Jonathan Woodgate, Ledley King, Wes Brown, Carrick, Owen Hargreaves, and Drogba, who had only made limited appearances last season, most of the players had already settled into life with Manchester City’s first team. They were comfortable around one another now, no longer shy or hesitant. The squad had started to feel less like a collection of players and more like a team.

Once all the players had taken their seats, Mourinho raised both hands, signaling for the room to quiet down. The chatter gradually faded, and the players turned their attention toward him, many still wearing relaxed smiles.

"Football is all about winning. That’s where the joy comes from. And when we keep improving, our careers improve along with it. Besides, with what we’re earning right now, we might not be making superstar money, but we’re still being paid more than twenty percent above the average player in the top league."

The players exchanged confused looks. Why was the boss talking about their salaries?

"I was planning to hold this meeting around the middle of the season," Mourinho continued, "but I don’t think we need to wait that long anymore. We’ve won all three of our matches so far—four goals in the first, three in the second, and now one against United."

He paused, looking around the room.

"I think that deserves a reward, don’t you?"

The mood instantly changed.

Several players grinned, and a few of the younger ones sat up straighter.

"But let’s keep this short, since Antonio also has something to say."

Mourinho reached for a sheet of paper.

"Before that, let me tell you something. There has always been some tension between clubs and national teams, but it’s never been a truly hostile relationship. After all, the more international players a club has, the greater its reputation."

He glanced down at the paper before continuing.

"National teams don’t pay clubs for using their players. Instead, they take our players away from us, expose them to fatigue, and increase the risk of injuries."

A few players nodded.

Mourinho wasn’t simply making conversation. He was trying to get ahead of the situation.

With Manchester City preparing for an increasingly demanding season and multiple competitions ahead, he wanted to make sure his players were the ones being noticed by their national teams. Rather than waiting for national associations to discover them on their own, he intended to actively recommend his players.

It was a simple strategy.

Give the players opportunities. Build their reputations. And, in the process, build stronger relationships with the national teams.

There was no reason not to.

"Some of our senior players have already gotten plenty of playing time," Mourinho said. "But some of our younger players still haven’t had the chance to show what they can do."

He folded the paper and looked around the room.

"So, my plan for this season is to divide the competitions based on priority."

The room fell silent.

"The Premier League and Champions League will be our priorities. That means our strongest lineup will play in those competitions."

He paused.

"For the FA Cup, we’ll rotate the squad and give some of the younger players more opportunities."

A few young players exchanged excited glances.

"And finally, the League Cup."

Mourinho smiled. "I’m planning to use roughly seventy percent young players."

The room immediately stirred. Several of the younger players could barely hide their excitement.

Mourinho raised a hand.

"Any questions?"

"..."

The room remained silent.

"No? Good. And one last thing, I promise."

His gaze shifted toward the younger players.

"For the young players, all I’m asking is that you play well. If you perform, I’ll make sure you get noticed."

He tapped the papers in his hand.

"I’ve already prepared recommendation letters for your national federations. If you prove yourselves on the pitch, I’ll personally recommend you for the national team."

BOOM!

It was like a bomb had gone off in the room.

The young players stared at Mourinho, stunned. For a moment, none of them knew how to react. The promise was simply too good to believe.

"Alright, Antonio. Go ahead."

The others stepped aside, letting Antonio Pintus move forward.

"Alright, lad. Be prepared for tomorrow—"

Suddenly, everyone had a bad feeling.

The next morning, Antonio Pintus arrived before the rest of the squad. He was already waiting.

On the sideline sat several pieces of equipment that looked unusual compared with the footballs, cones, and medicine balls normally used in training.

A stationary bicycle.

When everyone had arrived, the players immediately lined up along the edge of the training ground, waiting for instructions.

But Antonio Pintus didn’t give the usual command. Instead, he walked toward a wooden table beside the equipment room. The staff—Baltemar Brito, André Villas-Boas, and Rui Faria—followed him.

The players exchanged curious looks. There was something sitting on the table.

Several masks. Soon, every player was handed one. But these weren’t the masks they were familiar with.

The usual training masks were black. These were different—blue, with a more complicated-looking valve assembly attached to the front.

Drogba, seeing one for the first time, turned toward Michael Carrick.

"He really wasn’t joking."

But Pintus heard him.

He slowly turned around.

Then he pointed directly at Drogba.

"You. Come here."

Drogba’s smile disappeared.

"Me?"

"Yes. You."

A few players immediately tried to hide their smiles. Drogba looked around as if hoping he might be talking to someone else.

He wasn’t.

Without arguing, Drogba stepped out of the line and walked toward the table.

Pintus picked up one of the blue masks.

"Stand still."

He fitted it over Drogba’s mouth and nose, pulling the straps around the back of his head.

At first glance, it looked like an ordinary training mask. Black rubber covered the lower half of the face, with straps running around the head. But unlike the familiar masks, this one had a peculiar mechanical valve at the front, connected to a short tube and a small metal housing.

Drogba immediately noticed the difference. He took his first breath. The air didn’t come as easily as he expected. He tried again. A faint hiss came from the valve. His eyebrows rose.

"It’s difficult."

Pintus nodded.

"Good. Then it’s working."

Drogba’s mouth twitched beneath the mask, somewhere between a smile and a complaint.

Pintus ignored it and adjusted the straps.

"Not too tight?"

Drogba shook his head.

"Fine."

"Good."

The others were watching now. Even from several meters away, they could hear it—the rhythmic hiss of air passing through the valve every time Drogba inhaled.

Pintus looked toward the stationary bicycle.

"Get on."

Drogba climbed onto the bike.

"Slowly at first," Pintus instructed. "Don’t try to prove anything."

Drogba nodded. He began pedaling. At first, it seemed almost too easy. One minute. Two. Three. Pintus stood beside him, watching the stopwatch.

"Keep the same rhythm."

Drogba continued. His legs moved steadily, but his breathing was becoming more noticeable.

The resistance wasn’t overwhelming. It was subtle at first—a restriction that became increasingly apparent as his effort increased. Every breath required more conscious effort. Drogba’s chest began rising and falling more rapidly.

Pintus watched carefully.

"Relax. Just breathe normally."

Drogba nodded.

For a few seconds, everything settled.

Then Pintus spoke again.

"Now imagine you’re five minutes into a match."

Drogba kept his eyes forward.

"Your legs are already tired."

The bicycle continued turning.

"You’ve just made a sprint."

Drogba’s breathing grew heavier.

"The opponent has the ball."

Another breath.

"You need to recover quickly."

The valve hissed again.

"Your body wants more air."

Drogba’s shoulders began to rise slightly with each breath.

Pintus immediately noticed.

"Shoulders down."

Drogba corrected his posture.

"Good."

Pintus glanced at the stopwatch.

"But you don’t have unlimited time."

Drogba kept pedaling.

His breathing was now loud enough that several of the players nearby had stopped talking altogether. Pintus watched him for another few seconds.

Then—

"Stop."

Drogba slowed the bicycle. Pintus reached forward and removed the mask.

He immediately drew in a deep breath. Without the resistance, the air seemed to rush into his lungs effortlessly.

"That’s much better."

Pintus gave a small nod.

"How does it feel?"

"It’s different from the old one, isn’t it?"

"Of course," Pintus nodded before pointing toward the others. "Next. Andrea."

The session lasted a full two hours. By ten o’clock, everyone had moved out onto the pitch.

The players looked around the training ground, taking in the setup that Pintus had prepared for them. It was still early. The grass was wet from the sprinklers, and a thin mist hung over the far side of the pitch, giving the whole training ground an unusually quiet atmosphere.

Pintus stepped in front of the players.

"Alright, lads. Now, here’s what you’re going to do—"

He went on to explain the next part of the session. Once he had finished, Pintus divided the players into short, controlled intervals. There would be no long-distance running. Instead:

Twenty seconds of sprinting.Forty seconds of recovery.Twenty seconds of sprinting.Forty seconds of recovery.

Then again.

And again.

Of course, he kept a close eye on the workload, making sure the intensity remained controlled rather than simply pushing them until they collapsed.

Soon, City’s players looked like the Batman character Bane during training on Wednesday.

The players also soon discovered just how different the session felt with the masks. The short sprints were brutal. By the time the first few rounds were over, their breathing had become heavy, their shirts were soaked with sweat, and the blue masks covered their faces like pieces of unfamiliar machinery.

"Good. Now rest."

Pintus looked at his stopwatch as he spoke, then transferred all the data he had recorded onto a handwritten chart.

Other clubs usually conducted these kinds of tests in a laboratory or on a treadmill, but Pintus preferred to do them out on the grass.

The masks allowed him and his team to measure the players’ maximum aerobic power and capacity while they completed something resembling a bleep test. The exercise involved the players running back and forth across the pitch, with the pace increasing at set intervals until they reached their limit.

After the sixth repetition, the player bent forward with his hands on his knees.

"Does it really work? Will they even be able to play afterward?"

Mourinho, who had handed the entire session over to Pintus that day, couldn’t hide his concern. The team still had a match to prepare for, and he didn’t want his players exhausted before they even reached the weekend.

"Of course," Pintus replied with a nod. "The point isn’t to make the players collapse. It’s to teach their bodies to keep working even when breathing becomes uncomfortable."

He picked up one of the blue masks and held it up.

"You know how much one of these costs?"

"How much?"

"Six thousand pounds."

"..."

Mourinho stared at him.

Then he looked past Pintus at the more than ten blue masks lined up on the table. For a moment, he wondered whether the owner had gone completely mad spending that much money on training equipment.

"But it’s worth it," Pintus added.

Mourinho looked back at him.

"Why?"

"Compared with the old ones, these are much more advanced. This type of equipment can be used across different sports—swimming, athletics, rowing, cycling, and football."

Pintus turned the mask over in his hands, examining the valve. "The old systems were more focused on low-oxygen availability, assuming they were genuinely hypoxic. This one is different. Its main purpose is to create an increased respiratory workload."

"So there is a difference?"

"Of course."

Pintus pointed toward the older equipment sitting nearby.

"The old system can make the athlete feel as though they’re exercising in a lower-oxygen environment, provided it actually reduces the oxygen concentration they’re breathing."

Then he tapped the blue mask. "This one doesn’t need to do that. Instead, it makes breathing harder. Every breath requires more work."

Time passed, and soon Drogba was the last one left.

His legs were already heavy, and every breath came hard through the mask. Pintus watched from the sideline as Drogba pushed through the final stretch, refusing to slow down despite the burning in his lungs.

"Come on!" Pintus called. "Finish it!"

Drogba forced himself forward.

The moment he crossed the line, he stopped. He slumped onto the grass and rolled onto his back, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then, between breaths, he muttered,

"Antonio... you’re a devil."