Ethan stood in his technical area, a wild, disbelieving laugh escaping his lips.

He ran a hand through his hair, his tactical brain completely short-circuited by the beautiful, glorious madness of the last five minutes.

This wasn't football. This was a fever dream.

On the pitch, his players were just as bewildered.

"Did... did our center-back just score the winner?" Jonathan Rowe asked, his face a mask of stunned joy.

"I think so!" Kenny McLean gasped, leaning on his knees to catch his breath.

"To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what's happening anymore. I think we're winning?"

"WE'RE WINNING!" David Kerrigan roared, sprinting over to the celebrating pile and launching himself on top with a triumphant yell.

The Fleetwood manager, on the other hand, looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He was a volcano of pure, unadulterated rage.

He screamed at his defenders for letting a center-back run through them. He screamed at his midfielders for not tracking back. He turned and screamed at a fan in the front row who was calmly eating a pie.

"ARE YOU NOT WATCHING THE GAME?!" the manager roared at the startled man. "WE'RE LOSING! PUT THE PIE DOWN AND SHOUT SOMETHING!"

The fan just blinked, took another bite of his pie, and gave a helpless shrug.

The game restarted, and the final thirty minutes were a masterpiece of glorious, end-to-end chaos. There were no tactics. There were no formations.

There were just twenty-two players, a ball, and a shared, unspoken agreement to create as much drama as humanly possible.

Fleetwood, stung by the ridiculous comeback, threw everything forward. They launched long balls into the box, creating frantic scrambles.

Angus Gunn made two phenomenal, point-blank saves, his huge frame a god-send in the chaos.

At the other end, Apex was a constant threat on the counter-attack. In the 72nd minute, David Kerrigan decided to put on a one-man show.

He received the ball on the halfway line and, instead of passing, he just ran. He dribbled past one player, then another. He cut inside, then, for no apparent reason, he turned and started dribbling back towards his own goal. He beat the same player for a second time, did a ridiculous little spin, and then charged forward again. He didn't create a chance. He didn't even get a shot away. He just ran around in circles until a defender finally hacked him down.

The entire stadium, both home and away fans, gave him a round of applause.

It was a completely pointless, but utterly captivating, piece of footballing nonsense.

Even Ethan was laughing.

"What was that?!" he yelled to his assistant, James Pearce.

"I believe, gaffer," the AI replied in his perfect, monotone voice, "the technical term is 'showboating'."

The game was a frantic stalemate. Then, in the 81st minute, Fleetwood won another corner.

The ball was swung in, and a powerful header was met by an even more powerful save from Gunn. The ball was cleared, but only as far as a Fleetwood midfielder.

He took a touch and smashed the ball back towards the goal.

It hit the post, bounced across the face of the goal, hit the other post, and was finally scrambled away by a desperate Ben Gibson.

It was a heart-stopping, impossible moment.

The home fans roared with a mixture of frustration and excitement.

But the clearance from Gibson had been a good one.

It fell to Emre Demir just inside his own half.

The Fleetwood team, having thrown everyone forward for the corner, was completely exposed. Emre looked up and saw a single black shirt sprinting into the vast green expanse of the opposition half. Viktor Kristensen.

Emre played a perfectly weighted, 50-yard through-ball that was a work of art.

Viktor was clean through. He was one-on-one with the last defender.

He feinted to go right, the defender bought it, and Viktor was in on goal.

But he was tired. His legs were heavy.

As he bore down on the keeper, he seemed to stumble, his touch a little heavy.

The chance was gone. He looked up and saw Josh Sargent, who had just come on as a substitute, unmarked in the middle.

Viktor, unselfishly, squared the ball to him.

Sargent received the ball, twenty-five yards out, with the goal at his mercy.

He took one touch, looked up, and hit it. But it was a tired shot, scuffed and weak, and it rolled harmlessly into the goalkeeper's arms.

Sargent just fell to his knees, laughing at the sheer awfulness of his own attempt.

A few of his teammates were laughing with him. This game had officially descended into a friendly kickabout in the park.

But the game had one last, cruel, hilarious twist to deliver.

In the 89th minute, Fleetwood, in a final, desperate push, won a free-kick just inside the Apex half. Their goalkeeper, a giant of a man, sprinted up the pitch, joining the attack.

The ball was launched into the box. It was headed clear by Hanley.

It fell to a Fleetwood player. He shot. It was blocked by McCarthy.

It fell to another Fleetwood player. He shot. It was blocked by McLean.

The Apex penalty area was a warzone.

Finally, the ball broke loose to Emre Demir. The entire Fleetwood team was in the Apex half.

The goal at the other end was completely empty.

Emre looked up. He took a touch. And then, from seventy-five yards out, from inside his own penalty area, he struck the ball.

It wasn't a shot of power. It was a shot of pure, audacious, unbelievable technique. The ball flew from his boot, a perfect, soaring arc against the evening sky.

It flew over the heads of the scrambling, backpedaling Fleetwood players. It flew over the head of their desperately sprinting goalkeeper.

The entire stadium held its breath, watching the ball's impossibly long, impossibly perfect trajectory.

It bounced once, just outside the six-yard box.

And then, it rolled, almost apologetically, into the center of the empty net.

4-2.

The final whistle blew. The game was over.

"I... I... I have seen it all," the commentator whispered, his voice completely gone. "I quit. That's it. Football has been completed. Emre Demir has just scored from his own penalty box. Apex United have won 4-2, in a game that had three goals in five minutes, a hat-trick of near misses from a corner, and now this. This wasn't a football match. It was a comedy, a tragedy, and a work of art, all rolled into one. And it was, without a doubt, the most fun I have ever had watching a game of football in my entire life."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.