Chapter 43: Breaking His Leg
Vardy struck a classic pose in front of Wilson. Perhaps this very gesture would become iconic in the future as unforgettable as Cantona's celebration or Thierry Henry's knee slide. As Vardy's name grew, this moment might be replayed over and over in highlight reels, a symbol of defiance and redemption.
Everyone would remember his silhouette back straight, thumb pointed at the name stitched across his shoulders. A stance that wasn't just powerful but soul-piercing. It wasn't just posture. It was poetry.
I am Vardy!
...
At that moment, many Everton fans who had just turned on their TVs were greeted by a sight that made them freeze in place. The scoreline at the top of the screen showed Everton 1–0 Sheffield Wednesday, and only a minute had passed.
What in the world had they missed?
Although Sheffield Wednesday were a League One club, history had shown that lower-division sides often approached cup matches against Premier League teams with a fearless intensity. The motivation to earn headlines by toppling giants was always there. Meanwhile, Everton, often labeled a mid-to-lower-table Premier League side, had fielded a largely rotated squad mostly backup players desperate to prove themselves.
Analysts had predicted a grinding battle. A narrow 1–0 win or penalties even. No one imagined a lightning strike straight from kickoff.
Yet that's exactly what happened.
The broadcast played the goal repeatedly Vardy's opening blitz. From the very first whistle, he had exploded through Sheffield Wednesday's defense like a missile. His sprint timed at over 35 km/h was a perfect demonstration of power and precision. The way he peeled off his marker and calmly slotted the ball home was already being dubbed goal of the round.
When the game resumed, fans still hadn't recovered. Every camera shot that landed on Vardy was met with awe, as if he were a deity in boots.
Everton fans couldn't help but dream. As a club that had lost its last golden boy, Wayne Rooney, to Manchester United years earlier, they had grown used to heartbreak. And now, from the ashes of mediocrity, here came another working-class hero Jamie Vardy.
Some fans dared to believe that Vardy might be even more impactful than Rooney. He had speed, hunger, and a ruthless edge. Unlike Rooney, who had been seduced early by Manchester United's riches, Vardy had clawed his way up from Stocksbridge Park Steels to Premier League football.
But the dream quickly darkened.
Reality hit hard: Vardy wasn't even Everton's player. He was on loan from Manchester United. His dazzling run, that genius goal, the defiance in front of Wilson none of it belonged to them permanently.
There was perhaps no sadder revelation in football.
...
Vardy stood outside the center circle, waiting for Sheffield Wednesday to restart. His gaze was locked in. There was purpose in his stance, but also a flicker of melancholy an aching respect for the club that had once cast him aside.
Sheffield Wednesday, one of the founding members of the Football League, a team rich in heritage, had crumbled into mediocrity. Their slide from the Premier League to League One had been slow, painful, and, in Vardy's eyes, avoidable.
If only they had held onto him believed in him instead of releasing him like waste. With his performance so far, enhanced by the system's support described in previous chapters, there was no denying what might've been. Vardy shook his head. The past was past.
He forced his focus back onto the game. He could mourn later. For now, he had a job to do.
When Wednesday kicked off, their intent was unclear. A few players surged forward, but others held back, uncertain. There was no coordination midfielders hesitated, the backline looked shaky. It was the worst thing that could happen on the pitch: disconnection.
Wilson, pacing the touchline like a man caught in a storm, seemed powerless. He could see the breakdown but had no answers. His game plan was in shambles just one minute in.
On the other side, Everton's rotated squad brimmed with energy. These were fringe players, often benched in league matches, now unleashed. Even though it was just the Carabao Cup, to them, it was a stage and Vardy had lit the match.
Driven by that early goal and Vardy's relentless pressing from the front, Everton launched wave after wave of attacks. Players like Anichebe and Osman, usually on the periphery, surged forward, screaming for the ball.
The momentum flipped entirely. Sheffield Wednesday's midfield collapsed under the pressure, and their defense sank deeper, camping around their own penalty box in a desperate bid to absorb the blows.
David Moyes remained seated in the Everton dugout, arms folded, his expression calm. In his mind, the result was a foregone conclusion. The only thing left was to manage the game and avoid injuries.
In just a few minutes, the tactical gap and the psychological damage inflicted by Vardy's opener had made this mismatch even more lopsided.
For a moment, the ball was ricocheting all over Sheffield Wednesday's penalty area like a pinball in a crowded arcade tense, unpredictable, and dangerous. Every touch felt like it could end with the ball crashing into the net. Sheffield Wednesday's defenders looked like they were being overwhelmed in waves.
Vardy could feel it too. The pressure was immense, and even he, a forward driven by instinct and ferocity, felt as if the air might crush him.
He hesitated.
Should he really keep scoring, if the opportunity came again?
Part of him recoiled at the idea. Sheffield Wednesday wasn't just any club—it had been his boyhood dream, the badge he once wore with pride before Wilson tossed him aside like scrap. He knew it was unprofessional to feel this way, but emotions don't vanish easily. Still, the other part of him, the stronger, hardened side, wanted to make Wilson pay. Not just pay suffer. If he could hammer in another goal, embarrass him on national TV, perhaps it would finally be enough to chase Wilson out of Hillsborough for good.
While he was still in this mental tug-of-war, an Everton midfielder likely Osman or Rodwell took a speculative long shot from outside the box. It curled with venom but missed the right post by a few inches. Vardy sighed, frustrated with both the miss and his own indecision.
Then it came.
Wilson's voice, loud, venomous, and completely lacking restraint, pierced through the air from the technical area:
"Watch that bastard for me! Don't let him get near the ball again! I don't care how it's better to break his legs than let him score!"
That sentence was a red card in spirit, even if not in letter.
Vardy froze. His expression changed instantly, like a mask snapping. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. The death sentence he had already declared for Wilson in his mind was now final, irreversible.
For Wilson, the defeat itself wasn't the worst outcome. Losing to Everton, a Premier League side, wouldn't even be a scandal. But Vardy scoring again? That would be a humiliation he couldn't bear. Every goal Vardy scored was another nail in the coffin of his credibility.
Vardy's teammates on the bench especially the likes of Campbell and Anichebe were incensed. Even David Moyes stepped out of his usual stoicism and stormed toward the fourth official. Heated protests erupted along the touchline.
But the officials, wary of escalating tensions, stopped short of disciplining Wilson. A few stern verbal warnings were issued, but no cards. No dismissals. Nothing that might appease Everton's bench.
Vardy clenched his fists. Good, he thought. If Wilson were sent off now, it would be a gift an easy escape. Far better for him to sit there and witness the personal destruction about to unfold. Let him sit and watch as I rip open his ego in front of the football world.
He drew in a breath. His eyes sharpened with focus. He wasn't hesitating anymore.
Sheffield Wednesday's defense, already rattled by the pace and pressure of Everton's waves of attack, had begun to lose shape. Their full-backs were tucking in too tightly. The midfield wasn't tracking back quickly enough. They were cracking and Vardy could see the fracture lines.
He drifted outside the penalty box, retreating a few steps to pull a defender out with him. Then, raising his arm, he signaled clear and confident. The ball was soon zipped his way, courtesy of Rodwell's vision or perhaps a diagonal from Coleman.
He received the pass like a seasoned striker, softening it under his studs with perfect control. In that moment, Vardy stood at the edge of chaos. The penalty area was congested, bodies flying in all directions. Three defenders began charging toward him intent on closing him down before he could wind up.
But Vardy didn't flinch.
He shifted the ball slightly with his left, drawing the defenders in, then made a theatrical feint with his right just enough to sell the illusion of a shot. Two defenders turned awkwardly, facing away in anticipation of a cannonball to the ribs.
That was all he needed.
He nudged the ball to his right.opening a sliver of daylight and then, with brutal precision, raised his right foot again.
The connection was perfect. His strike hit the sweet spot on the ball's surface, sending it screaming toward the net like a missile. The sheer force compressed the ball visibly on contact. A ripple echoed across the pitch as the ball took flight.
Everton players inside the box dove out of the way. The sound of the shot alone could've warned them. Meanwhile, Sheffield Wednesday's defenders hesitated. A split-second of doubt was it worth risking cracked ribs or a broken jaw to block that shot?
That tiny hesitation was all it took.
The ball thundered through, slicing past defenders and bending toward goal like a shot from a prime Steven Gerrard or Frank Lampard.
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