Chapter 412: Fraser v. Major League Soccer
"Hahaha, Richard, congratulations! It seems Machtseet City has finally clinched the Premier League title this season," Phil Anschutz said with a booming laugh.
It wasn’t just Phil. The entire room seemed to erupt in celebration. His father patted his shoulder with pride, his mother’s eyes welled with tears of joy, his brother shouted in triumph, and even his sister-in-law raised her glass in salute. One after another, voices chimed in with heartfelt congratulations.
After all, the scoreboard spoke louder than words—4–0. What suspense was left? What miracle could overturn such a lead? The match was still going, but the outcome was already carved in stone. Why not just bring out the trophy now?
Richard’s heart pounded against his ribs, every beat echoing with victory. But he clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay composed. He had waited too long, worked too hard, to lose himself now.
During the halftime break, the entire Manchester City squad buzzed with excitement. Laughter and chatter filled the locker room, the kind of energy only a 4–0 lead could produce. But O’Neill cut through the noise with a single, sharp command.
"No one lets their guard down. Not for a second!"
The room fell silent. His words weren’t suggestions—they were orders.
"A team that gets comfortable just because it’s ahead," he continued, "is a team that doesn’t deserve to win. Complacency kills. Let it creep in, and the comedy of today becomes the tragedy of tomorrow."
It was harsh, almost cold, but that was O’Neill’s style. He demanded ninety minutes of discipline, nothing less. And the players knew it—anyone who relaxed would be dragged off the pitch without hesitation.
Everton, meanwhile, emerged from the tunnel with their pride wounded but not broken. Manager Howard Kendall had reshaped their formation: central defense pulled tight, wingers drifting inward to choke the space where Pirlo and Zidane thrived. It was a desperate gambit, but one meant to strangle City’s midfield engine.
City, however, remained unshaken. Mourinho, arms folded at the edge of the dugout, leaned toward O’Neill as if tempted to whisper advice.
"Forwards need to track back until we’ve regained possession," he muttered. "Only then can we counter properly. Otherwise, you’ll leave holes at the back—unless you really plan to park a bus in front of the goal."
It was a tactical chess match, but one in which Everton seemed a move behind.
Even with their reinforced center, Everton had a glaring weakness: their flanks. As long as John Oster and Duncan Ferguson were slow to retreat, the wide channels belonged entirely to City.
And City exploited them mercilessly. Zanetti surged forward on the right, Zambrotta mirrored him on the left, whipping in crosses from the baseline or from forty-five degrees out. Each ball turned into an instant threat, a dagger into Everton’s backline.
The breakthrough came in the sixty-third minute. Thuram rose above two defenders, his header slamming into the net. The Etihad roared. Six minutes later, Henry added another, timing his leap perfectly to bury Zanetti’s arcing cross.
6–0.
The Everton fans fell into stunned silence, their voices drowned out by City’s thunderous celebration. Never had they imagined that their decision to stage an all-out protest would end in such humiliation.
Seventy minutes had passed, and the scoreboard told a story no one could ignore: Manchester City were dismantling Everton, piece by piece.
With Manchester City’s victory already in sight, Richard decided to use the remaining time of calm to chat casually about another storm brewing across the Atlantic—the MLS antitrust suit.
Probably, in the future, people would know it as Fraser v. Major League Soccer.
"It’s fascinating, really," Phil began, leaning back in his seat. "Eight Major League Soccer players filed an antitrust lawsuit against the league, its investors, and even the United States Soccer Federation. They argued that MLS was fixing the market, suppressing wages, and limiting opportunities."
Richard raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite the ongoing spectacle on the pitch.
"But the court didn’t see it that way," Lamar Hunt continued. "The Court of Appeals ruled that Major League Soccer was a single entity—a structure where all teams were technically part of the same organization. And if the league is just one company, well..." He gave a wry smile. "...then it can’t legally conspire with itself."
The judgment was controversial, sparking endless debates in sports and legal circles. Some saw it as a shield that allowed MLS to survive in its infancy. Others condemned it as a loophole that kept players from negotiating freely, binding them to contracts that favored the league’s investors.
"What happened then?" Richard couldn’t help but ask, curiosity getting the better of him. Even Marina and Miss Heysen leaned in, their ears pricked, eager to catch every word.
Phil Anschutz adjusted his glasses, "The players built their case through the Sherman and Clayton Acts. They argued that MLS and its investors, by acting as a single entity, unlawfully reduced the value of player services. Worse, they claimed MLS and the U.S. Soccer Federation conspired to monopolize Division One professional soccer in America."
Lamar Hunt nodded. "It was clever. But we countered with precedent—Copperweld v. Independence Tube. That case had already established that a parent company and its subsidiaries can’t conspire with themselves because they’re part of a single business enterprise. We used the same logic. If MLS and its investors are one entity, then by definition, they can’t conspire against anyone. Controlling player salaries was essential for survival," Phil added firmly. "Without it, the league would have collapsed in its infancy."
Richard frowned, tapping his chin thoughtfully.
Phil then put his hand on Richard’s shoulder. "The first court held summary judgment hearings last year, but next month the District Court will rule. If you have time, you should come to the trial."
He smiled knowingly. "If we can get you and Manchester City’s fame to promote MLS, it will be good. And of course, the media will cover everything at the courthouse. Who would turn down free publicity?"
Richard leaned forward, his voice cautious. "But think about it. If MLS is a single entity, then it cannot conspire with its investors—and the investors cannot conspire with one another. So technically, MLS functions as a single economic actor, meaning it can continue signing players under its current system." He paused, his brow furrowing. "Yet the ruling still left the bigger question unanswered—whether the league’s corporate structure truly qualifies as a real single entity."
"That’s the heart of it," Lamar admitted. "The court avoided defining MLS too tightly. They left it... ambiguous."
Phil gave a weary smile. "And in practice, that ambiguity has been our greatest shield."
"And even if the court accepts MLS as a single entity, doesn’t the league still compete for players? Not just within Division One, but with lower leagues, and especially with clubs overseas?"
Phil chuckled. "Exactly. That’s part of the legal defense. MLS argued it couldn’t be guilty of monopolizing the Division One market because the market doesn’t exist in isolation. Players always have alternatives. If they don’t like MLS wages, they can go to the A-League, the USL, or even cross the Atlantic. We’re competing not just with American leagues, but with Europe, South America, everywhere..."
PHWEEEEE—!
Just as their discussion reached its peak, the shrill whistle cut through the stadium. Richard and the others immediately turned their eyes to the pitch below.
The referee had awarded a penalty... to Manchester City.
"What happened?" Richard asked.
His brother Harry leaned in to explain. Basically, Zanetti floated a high ball into the box. Ronaldo went up for the header, but Myhre came flying out with his fists—straight into Ronaldo’s face.
Gasps rippled through the stands as Ronaldo crumpled to the ground. The City bench erupted, their shouts aimed at the fourth official.
"What’s he hesitating for? That’s a red card!"
Ronaldo lay motionless for a moment, sending a shiver down Richard’s spine. His heart skipped a beat—but relief washed over him as Ronaldo propped himself up halfway, shaking his head, dazed but not broken.
’At least it wasn’t his knee.’
The referee, after a tense pause, reached for his pocket. A yellow card. The stadium roared with fury. Myhre was spared dismissal.
Ronaldo walked gingerly to the sideline, where the medical team checked him for signs of concussion. Moments later, he gave the nod—he was fit to continue. With the crowd holding its breath, he stepped up to the penalty spot. A deep inhale. A short run-up.
Goal. 7–0.
The stadium shook as the net rippled. With eight minutes remaining, City’s lead had swelled beyond imagination.
But O’Neill wasn’t done. On the touchline, he waved his arm furiously, calling his center-backs forward. It was risky, but he believed defenders needed to learn how to surge in attack, to strike when the moment came.
And in stoppage time, it did.
Makelele slipped through the chaos in the box, his knee redirecting a desperate cross past the stunned Myhre. The ball bulged the net.
8–0.
Makelele tore off his shirt, sprinting toward the fans as the stadium erupted in euphoric celebration. On the other side, the away section stood empty—Everton supporters had long since abandoned their seats.
For the first time in club history, Manchester City had scored more than six goals in a league match.
They hadn’t quite surpassed Liverpool’s legendary 9–0 demolition of Crystal Palace in 1989, but this was history nonetheless. Multiple scorers, relentless pressure, and an attacking display that would be remembered for decades.
The final whistle blew, sealing the record.
On the touchline, O’Neill spun around and looked up at the director’s box. His fists pumped the air, his expression a mix of triumph and vindication.
Richard rose to his feet, smiling broadly as he clapped his hands. For once, words failed him. This wasn’t just victory—this was a statement.