The summer heat hung heavy over Manchester as the Etihad Stadium glistened under an unrelenting sun. Fans in sky-blue shirts wiped sweat from their foreheads and muttered nervously about the upcoming season because things had changed in ways no one had wanted or expected. The days when City seemed untouchable felt like a distant memory, like something old men would tell kids about while pointing at old photos on their phones. There was no Premier League trophy in the cabinet this year. No parade through town. Not even an FA Cup to polish. Nothing.
Instead there had been disappointment, bitterness, confusion. Last season was supposed to be another chapter in Pep Guardiola’s dynasty, the extension of a reign that had brought four league titles in a row. Instead it ended in panic, with City fighting just to make sure they would even be in the Champions League at all, scrapping for points on the final day of the season while Arsenal and Liverpool fans laughed in their faces. Some called it the season the dynasty died. Others said it was just a stumble. But nobody could deny that it had been a disaster by Guardiola’s own towering standards.
Now the summer window was open. Rumours flew faster than seagulls after chips. City needed changes, everyone agreed on that. Pep himself had said it clearly: they needed four or five new players. And he got them. The deals were done early, efficiently, with City’s usual clinical style. New signings posed with the shirt, the social media team fired off carefully edited videos with pounding music and dramatic slogans. But even as the fans refreshed Twitter to see who was next, there was an uncomfortable truth: signings alone wouldn’t fix what was wrong.
Because City’s problems weren’t just about missing players. It wasn’t just bad luck or injuries or tired legs. It was about something deeper, a rot that had set in when nobody was paying attention. A sense of complacency. An arrogance that they could just turn up and win. And it showed in the ugliest way possible at the FIFA Club World Cup, where City went to Saudi Arabia as heavy favourites and came home humiliated after being knocked out by Al-Hilal. That match was supposed to be a coronation, an easy win to add another trophy to Pep’s bulging collection. Instead it turned into a glaring neon sign for all the world to see: City had problems.
Bernardo Silva couldn’t hide his frustration. Cameras caught him shouting on the pitch, flinging his arms in exasperation. In the mixed zone afterwards he tried to stay polite but let the truth slip. They couldn’t defend transitions. They were too slow getting back. They left too many gaps. They were being punished for their laziness, for their assumption that they could just keep the ball forever without worrying about what happened when they lost it. And if you listened to the pundits—and fans were listening, grimly—there was one name that kept coming up in hushed, almost guilty tones: Ruben Dias.
Ruben Dias. The warrior. The leader. The man who had transformed City’s defence when he arrived from Benfica for huge money. The man who barked orders, threw his body in the way of shots, inspired the kind of confidence you could feel in the stands. He was supposed to be the new Kompany, the rock on which the new City was built. And for a while, he was.
But the whispers had begun. Then they got louder. After Al-Hilal, they were everywhere.
Steve Nicol didn’t mince words on ESPN FC. “Dias at one time was fantastic, player of the year, but he doesn’t have the legs anymore,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. He rattled off the other problems: Ake always injured, Gvardiol being moved inside, Akanji losing confidence. But Dias was the focus. The one whose decline hurt the most. The one everyone wanted to pretend wasn’t happening.
City fans argued about it in pubs and forums. Some refused to hear a word against him. They remembered the blocks, the headers, the leadership. They pointed to his age: he was only 28! How could he be finished? Others were more realistic, or more ruthless, depending on your point of view. They pointed to the Al-Hilal game. To the way he was left behind on counters. To the fouls he had to commit just to keep up. To the fact that teams weren’t afraid to target him anymore.
Inside City’s offices, the debates were even more intense. Because this wasn’t just about one bad game. It was about the future. Dias had one year left on his contract. City planned to offer him a new one. On paper it made sense: he was experienced, respected, part of the leadership group. But was he declining? Was he on the wrong side of the curve? If they gave him a new deal, would they regret it for years?
Pep Guardiola had always been ruthless. Fans liked to forget that when they celebrated the trophies. He’d cut club legends without a blink if he thought it was the right move. Joe Hart, Yaya Toure, Vincent Kompany himself when injuries caught up. Sergio Aguero, even. He was sentimental in private, but not in football decisions. And now he had to decide about Dias.
The manager wasn’t blind. He saw the same things the fans did. He saw the way Dias struggled to turn quickly. How he sometimes resorted to cynical fouls to stop counters. How his reading of the game was still elite but his body was betraying him in those split-second sprints that made the difference between a blocked shot and a goal. He knew the truth. Dias had played an insane number of minutes over the past few years. He’d played through injuries, for the badge, for the manager. But the bill was coming due.
It wasn’t just Dias who was under scrutiny. The whole defence was a mess last season. Ake couldn’t stay fit. Akanji had spells where he looked world-class and others where he seemed lost. Gvardiol, the big-money signing, was shuffled around between left-back and centre-back like a chess piece whose best position Pep couldn’t decide on. Even Walker, the captain, was ageing. The backline that had once been impenetrable was now leaking goals at the worst possible times.
Fans begged the club to sign a new defender. Someone fast, strong, reliable. But Pep and the board were cautious. They didn’t want to spend for the sake of it. They wanted the right player. And until then, they had to figure out what to do with what they had. Which meant deciding if Dias was a starter or a liability.
Meanwhile, the player himself tried to stay calm. In interviews he insisted he was fit. He shrugged off the criticism. “I know my level,” he told reporters. “I know what I can do. One bad game doesn’t define me.” And it was true. He’d finished the league season strong. He’d had big performances. He was still vocal in training, still the first to clap a teammate for a tackle. But the eyes didn’t lie. The body didn’t lie. There were moments where he looked… slower. Older.
It was cruel. Football always is. One minute you’re being hailed as the best in the league, the next people are saying you’ve lost your legs. He was only 28, and yet people talked about him like he was 35. But that was the reality of modern football. The pace, the transitions, the demands on defenders had never been higher. City didn’t just need strong centre-backs. They needed them to sprint back 40 yards against 21-year-old wingers. They needed them to recover instantly when Rodri lost the ball.
And then there was Abdukodir Khusanov. The kid from Uzbekistan, signed from RC Lens. Raw, yes. Inexperienced, sure. But fast. Aggressive. With the kind of athleticism you can’t teach. He’d struggled early on, no question. Guardiola had thrown him in the deep end, perhaps too soon. He’d made mistakes that cost goals. Fans got on his back. He looked like a rabbit in headlights at times. But the club still believed in him. They saw him as Dias’s replacement.
It wasn’t official. Nobody had said it in so many words. But everyone knew. He was the plan. The succession. The bet for the future. Pep started spending more time with him in training. Videos showed the two talking intensely on the sidelines. When the cameras panned over City’s bench during games, you could see Khusanov leaning forward, watching every move the older defenders made. Learning. Waiting.
Guardiola liked to say he didn’t do sentiment. But he also believed in loyalty. Dias had been his general. His leader. Dropping him wouldn’t be easy. But the reality was harsh. If Dias kept struggling, if his legs really were going, then Pep would have to make the choice. And the kid would get his chance.
The fanbase was split, and you could feel the tension even in the way they sang at the Etihad. Some wouldn’t hear a bad word against Ruben. They’d point at his tackles, his headers, his years of service. “He’s our man,” they’d say. Others rolled their eyes. “Open your eyes,” they’d reply. “He’s finished.” It was a civil war in pubs and Twitter replies.
And all the while the season was creeping closer. The friendlies were scheduled. The new signings were getting their photos taken. The press conferences were full of questions about tactics, injuries, new faces. But under it all was the same question: What about Ruben? Would Pep trust him again? Or would he make the hardest call of all?
This wasn’t just about one player. It was about what kind of team City wanted to be. If they kept starting an ageing centre-back out of loyalty, they’d pay the price. If they dropped him too soon, they’d lose leadership and experience. It was a tightrope. And Guardiola had to walk it with the whole world watching.
Because City weren’t just fighting for the Premier League. They were fighting for their identity. For their place at the top of English football. For the right to call themselves the best team of the era. One bad season had rattled them. Another would finish them. The margin for error was gone.
So Dias trained. Harder than ever. Determined to prove the doubters wrong. Khusanov watched. Waiting for his chance. Guardiola plotted. Thinking about transitions, counter-attacks, defensive lines, contracts. The fans argued. Loved. Hated. Prayed.
And somewhere in all that noise, in all that chaos, was the simple truth that no one could deny: time catches everyone. Even the greatest. Even the ones who wore the armband and kissed the badge and gave everything for the cause.
The new season would be the final exam. For Ruben Dias. For Khusanov. For Pep. For City itself. And there were no guarantees. Only questions, and the cold, unblinking judgment of the pitch.
