c40: A Chance for Revenge
Vardy hadn't paid much attention to Everton's domestic cup fixtures recently, but when he was informed that he'd be starting in the League Cup midweek, he glanced at the schedule and froze. Everton's opponent in the second round of the League Cup was none other than Sheffield Wednesday his hometown club.
He never imagined he'd face Sheffield Wednesday in a professional match, especially like this as a starter for a Premier League side.
It was the club that once filled his childhood with ambition, only to later crush it with brutal rejection.
Vardy had grown up a passionate Sheffield Wednesday supporter. It wasn't a random allegiance. His grandfather stood on the Hillsborough terraces in the post-war years, his father inherited the devotion, and it trickled down to Jamie Vardy like a sacred heirloom.
That passion drove him to join Sheffield Wednesday's youth academy in his early teens, where he dreamed of leading the Owls back into the Premier League, chasing the echoes of their long-lost glory from the early '90s when they were a top-flight side and League Cup runners-up.
But everything collapsed in a moment. Vardy was released from the academy at 16, dismissed as too small, too fragile, too unlikely.
That was the end of the road for most young players.
After transmigrating into this timeline and occupying Vardy's body, the system user had inherited not just his football skills but also his memories and passion. So, deep inside, even now after signing for Everton, after scoring against Manchester United the badge that still sparked a deep emotion in Vardy's heart was not red like United's, nor blue like Everton's, but the blue and white stripes of Sheffield Wednesday.
He had never thought he'd meet them again on the pitch. Wednesday were languishing in League One, two divisions below Everton, and while domestic cups theoretically allowed such cross-tier encounters, the probability was always slim just one of those FA Cup oddities that made headlines when they happened.
So Vardy never considered it. And now that it was reality, the emotional weight hit him hard.
He still loved Sheffield Wednesday but he would never forget how they crushed him.
"You're as skinny as a monkey, and you still want to play football? It's useless even if you kneel down and beg me. Get out of here!"
"Dreams are nice, but why don't you look in the mirror and see if you deserve them?"
"You'd be better off selling yourself on the street than wasting time here."
...
Those were the cruel, humiliating words uttered by Sheffield Wednesday's youth coach when Vardy was cut. Words meant to break a young boy. And they almost did.
Looking back, it amazed Vardy how he hadn't punched the man in the face right then and there. If it were anyone else, they might've snapped. But Vardy endured.
What made it even more infuriating was learning that the same man who once drove him out now sat in the dugout as Sheffield Wednesday's head coach.
How could a man like that one who squashed dreams rise to such a position? Life was unfair sometimes.
But maybe it was for the better. It gave Vardy a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Now he had a starting spot. And now he had the perfect stage. He wouldn't just play. He would dominate. He would dismantle the team that rejected him. He would expose the blindness of their judgment with every sprint, every pass, every goal.
Fueled by more than just pride, Vardy lit up the training sessions. His pressing was sharp, his finishing tighter, his energy relentless. Moyes noticed the spark, assuming it was simple motivation from getting a starting berth.
But only Vardy knew the real reason.
This wasn't just a cup tie.
This was justice, long overdue.
Wilson, the former director of Sheffield Wednesday's youth academy and current first-team manager, had endured a brutal week in the media spotlight. He never imagined that the "reject" he booted out of the youth setup years ago would now be starring for a Premier League club like Everton, grabbing headlines with back-to-back goals and being hailed as the very embodiment of an underdog fairytale.
Back then, Wilson had completely forgotten the scrawny teenager he dismissed so cruelly. But Vardy's rapid rise forced the media to dig into his past, uncovering that he was once part of Sheffield Wednesday's youth system. The bombshell that he was expelled by none other than the current head coach exploded across tabloids and social media, branding Wilson a prime example of short-sighted talent misjudgment.
Despite his relatively steady results in League One with Sheffield Wednesday hovering around the playoff spots fans were unforgiving. "The man who let go of a Premier League star" became his new identity. The idea that Vardy, had he stayed, might now be firing Wednesday toward a Championship promotion campaign only fueled the anger.
Wilson insisted, both publicly and privately, that Vardy showed nothing special back then. But facts are facts: the lad had now scored twice in the Premier League first against Aston Villa, then against Wolves and captured national attention with his pace, hunger, and lethal finishing. Every article, every interview about Vardy's journey was a fresh slap in the face.
And Wilson wasn't alone in his discomfort.
A group of familiar faces in Sheffield felt similarly uneasy especially Alyssa, the girl Vardy once had a massive crush on, and her current boyfriend, Ham, a reserve midfielder for Wednesday's first team.
They clearly remembered mocking Vardy just a few months ago. Back then, he was just a semi-pro striker for Fleetwood Town, working part-time and chasing a pipe dream. They laughed at his audacity to chase Alyssa a local beauty who only dated footballers with potential. Vardy, to them, was a joke a "Sunday League scrub" trying to punch way above his weight.
Now, the tables had turned drastically.
Vardy had gone from non-league obscurity to Premier League stardom in under a year, his transfer to Everton making national headlines. Meanwhile, Ham was still struggling for minutes in League One, and Alyssa could hardly hide her frustration. All her teenage fantasies of becoming a WAG, sitting in executive boxes, and being papped outside Harrods were now just that: fantasies.
Worse, she now knew she had bet on the wrong horse.
The boy she sneered at had become a national sensation. With his sharp jawline, top-flight contract, and soaring popularity, Vardy was everything Ham was not. And though she tried to act indifferent, her daydreams betrayed her. "If I had just played it cool with Vardy… maybe I'd be dating a Premier League striker now," she thought bitterly.
She was certain perhaps delusionally so that Vardy still harbored feelings for her. And if she reached out, he'd take her back instantly.
But lately, her conversations with Ham were cold and distracted. Ham could feel it. He saw the interviews, the goal replays, the fan chants of "Jamie Vardy, he's having a party!" and he hated it. He remembered the exact words he had said to Vardy once at a party: "Give up football, mate. You're not going anywhere."
Now, Vardy had gone further than anyone from Sheffield could have imagined.
The once smug couple had been reduced to awkward silence and internal panic. But Vardy didn't care. To him, they were irrelevant. At most, footnotes in a painful chapter he had long closed. He wasn't interested in revenge unless they came looking for trouble. And if they did, he'd bury them with silence or success.
Sheffield Wednesday, for all their historic pedigree, were a mid-table League One team. Moyes, knowing this, fielded a rotated Everton squad, resting key players like Baines, Fellaini, and Pienaar for the weekend clash against Sunderland.
Some might say starting Vardy in a cup match like this meant he'd likely miss out on the starting XI in the next league fixture.
But Vardy didn't mind. He knew how football worked.
He also knew that momentum mattered. If he kept scoring against Wednesday, against anyone then Moyes would be forced to keep starting him. Reputation couldn't compete with results.
And revenge? It would come not with angry words or bitter posts.
But with goals.
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