c35: Here I Come!
After four rounds of the Premier League, Everton had defied expectations with a strong record of three wins and one loss, positioning them third in the standings, behind only Arsenal and Chelsea, who both held perfect records of four wins. It was Everton's best start in recent seasons, sparking cautious optimism around Goodison Park.
Manchester City, meanwhile, had stumbled out of the gate with one win, one draw, and two losses, sitting 13th about what many pundits had forecasted for Kevin Keegan's side. With the game being played at Goodison, most supporters and analysts believed Everton had a solid chance to pick up another three points and solidify their top-four status.
With that in mind, David Moyes opted for an old-school approach—fielding two traditional target men up front to attack aerial balls. While bold, it raised some eyebrows.
Both strikers were seasoned veterans Duncan Ferguson, 34, and Kevin Campbell, 33. Their presence in the box was certainly imposing, but age doesn't lie. Against a younger and more mobile Manchester City defense, they were struggling to find space or pace. City's center-backs showed no sentimentality every aerial duel was a scrap, and Ferguson and Campbell were clearly being worn down.
To make matters worse, Everton's wide players, Leon Osman and Lee Carsley, lacked blistering pace, making it difficult to stretch City's back line or deliver effective crosses. Without consistent service from the flanks, the two forwards were isolated, and Everton's attacking build-up looked disjointed.
After 20 minutes, it became clear: Moyes' aerial strategy was ineffective. Despite controlling stretches of possession in midfield, Everton hadn't registered a single shot on target.
On the other hand, defensively, the Toffees held firm. City attempted several counterattacks, with Nicolas Anelka making probing runs, but Alan Stubbs and Joseph Yobo maintained good positioning to avert danger.
From the bench, Vardy sat with growing frustration. He cast a glance at Manchester City's substitutes, noting Sun Jihai sitting across from him. Like Vardy, he hadn't made the starting XI.
Vardy smirked at a fleeting thought: If Sun and I both get subbed on, would this technically count as a "derby" of overseas lads?
He shook his head. What nonsense. What kind of "egg man" derby would that even be?
Just as his thoughts wandered, the match took a dramatic shift. Manchester City suddenly increased their intensity, pressing higher and committing harder into tackles. The physical aggression from City's midfielders, especially Joey Barton, began unsettling Everton's rhythm.
Tim Cahill received a pass near the halfway line and was immediately chopped down, yet managed to squeeze the ball to Ferguson, who was then toppled by a fierce shoulder barge.
In the Premier League, where physicality is practically a tradition, borderline challenges are often waved away unless there's clear malicious intent. This time, the referee who had already been lenient chose to let play continue.
Cahill and Gravesen stormed the official in protest, arms raised, but while they pleaded, City had already broken down the right flank. Three passes later, Anelka found space near the top of the box and rifled a shot past Nigel Martyn.
1–0 Manchester City.
The home crowd erupted not in celebration, but in pure fury. Booing echoed around Goodison, fingers pointed at the referee, who had allowed the aggressive play to go unchecked.
On the bench, Vardy shot to his feet, adrenaline rushing. He could barely contain himself and made a move toward the fourth official, clearly ready to unleash a tirade. But before he could take two steps, Gravesen and Cahill, who had returned from confronting the referee, grabbed him tightly.
"Jamie, calm down!" Cahill barked. "What's the point in arguing now? Look Stubbs and the skipper are already on it."
Vardy clenched his jaw and forced himself to breathe. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His fists were clenched. The pent-up frustration painted his face with barely-contained rage.
There's definitely something wrong with this ref!
It wasn't just the physical nature of the league that tackle was clearly over the line. At home, Everton should've expected the benefit of the doubt. But instead, the referee had given Manchester City the advantage on their turf.
Vardy couldn't get it out of his head: If that wasn't a foul, then what is?
He sat back down, his heart still thumping like a war drum.
"It's disgusting."
"Don't let me see that guy again, or I swear I'll knock his teeth out!" Vardy fumed on the touchline, seething with rage but powerless to intervene. He could only spit venom from the sidelines.
Everton's protests fell on deaf ears. The referee signaled for play to resume, and the Everton midfield restarted the match with a quick kick-off.
David Moyes was still animated on the sideline, protesting to the fourth official. While he couldn't reverse the scoreboard, he knew how important it was to apply psychological pressure on the officiating team. This was Goodison Park, Everton's fortress he couldn't afford to let outsiders run riot here without a fight.
As the game resumed, Everton's attack took on a new intensity. Fueled by the injustice and the frustration of trailing, their aggression turned up several notches. The full-backs Tony Hibbert and Gary Naysmith began to bomb forward with urgency, overlapping down the flanks and whipping in 45-degree crosses with speed and volume. The ball kept flashing across the Manchester City penalty area like a guided missile. You could almost hear the air raid sirens over the pitch.
Sensing the danger, Manchester City instinctively dropped deeper. Kevin Keegan ordered his midfield to screen the backline, and the full-backs tucked in tighter. The plan was clear: sit back, soak up the pressure, and protect the slender 1-0 lead.
Despite Everton's territorial advantage, they lacked true cutting edge. The final ball was often poor, and the two aging forwards struggled to create separation. Keegan stood calmly near his technical area, glancing smugly across at Moyes as if to say, "Try harder, lad."
Time ticked by, and the first half came to an end. Everton trudged into the dressing room, a goal down and no closer to solving the puzzle. The frustration in the stands was audible.
Vardy, however, remained outside. Instead of joining the main squad in the locker room to hear Moyes' halftime tirade, he continued warming up on the touchline. Judging from how the match was unfolding, it was only a matter of time before his number was called.
Moyes' decision to go with a double target man system Ferguson and Campbell had clearly backfired. There was no fluency up front, and Everton looked predictable. Surely, changes were coming.
Vardy, meanwhile, was more than ready. He'd been grinding in training and had just unlocked a new level in his development his offensive trait, "Super Sub," had reached Level 3. It wasn't just confidence it was momentum. His last appearance, where he scored the winner against Manchester United, had already begun shaping his mythos.
Still, when the second half began, Moyes made no substitutions. He remained stubbornly loyal to his original setup, unwilling to abandon his tactical blueprint. Moyes was never one to back down easily even when logic screamed otherwise.
But after ten sluggish minutes, reality hit. Kevin Campbell, who had been anonymous in the first half, continued to disappoint. He couldn't win headers, couldn't stretch the defense, and couldn't hold up play. He had essentially become the anti-striker neutralizing his own team's attacks.
Moyes couldn't ignore it any longer. With a frustrated wave, he signaled to the bench. The fourth official raised the board.
Campbell OFF. Vardy ON.
And with that, another chapter in Vardy's rise to prominence was written. James McFadden had already lost his spot to the fiery newcomer, and now Campbell had joined the casualty list.
When Vardy jogged to the halfway line, the Goodison crowd roared. Though he had only played one league match, his clutch goal at Old Trafford had earned him a reputation. Among the fans, whispers had already begun: "Vardy brings luck."
Sure, it was superstitious nonsense but sometimes football thrives on stories like this.
As Vardy exchanged a brief handshake and a hug with Campbell, he bent down and kissed the turf a ritual he'd started since joining the first team. Then, bursting with adrenaline and purpose, he charged onto the pitch.
"I'm coming!"