On the Sky Sports broadcast, Gary Weaver tried his best to keep his voice steady over the deafening crowd.
"A goal from a corner kick! Birmingham City has extended their lead to 2-1!"
"The captain, Michael Morrison, comes up massive!" Don Goodman added. "This is exactly what you expect from a derby. Birmingham has shown incredible fighting spirit and grit tonight. If they played with this much fire every week, they wouldn't be sitting 15th in the table. There are only five minutes left until halftime. Dean Smith needs to fix this, and fast."
On social media, Villa fans watching on their screens were stunned.
The match threads turned toxic in seconds.
"We are 5th in the league and getting battered by a relegation team. What the fuck are we doing?"
"Are they throwing the game?!"
"Relax, lads. It's still the first half. As long as Theo stays on the ball, we can turn this around."
"Birmingham is actually playing like they care. Our boys look half-asleep today, especially Grealish."
"Jack is having an absolute stinker. I haven't even seen him touch the ball."
Down on the touchline, Dean Smith's face was dark red with rage.
He stood on the edge of his technical area, screaming at his captain.
"Jack! Drop deep and get on the bloody ball! Stop strolling around like you're on a Sunday walk!" Smith roared.
"Show me something! If we lose today, you're banned from the bloody pubs!"
Smith knew exactly what the problem was. Aston Villa was struggling to break through because Grealish was playing like a ghost.
No running, no pressing, zero defensive cover. It was basically like playing with ten men.
"Jack, wake up," Theodore muttered, jogging past his friend. "It's a fucking derby. If we lose this, the fans will literally skin us alive."
"Don't worry, Theo," Grealish mumbled, patting his chest.
He flashed a cocky, half-dazed smile. "I'm awake now. Watch me."
A minute later, Theodore received the ball in the midfield.
Even though Che Adams and Lukas Jutkiewicz instantly swarmed him, Theodore didn't even bother taking a touch to control it.
He just played a rapid, first-time sweeping pass.
Boom!
The ball landed perfectly at Grealish's feet right on the edge of the penalty area. There wasn't a single blue shirt within five yards of him. It was the perfect chance to equalize.
All Jack had to do was set his feet and shoot.
But Grealish clearly hadn't sobered up yet.
Instead of taking the shot early, he took an extra touch.
Then another.
He decided to keep dribbling.
It was a terrible decision as the window closed in a heartbeat. Before Grealish could finally set up his shot, Michael Morrison and Harlee Dean rushed out and slammed the door shut.
They stripped the ball right off his toes.
"Grealish... he misses the chance to shoot!" Weaver groaned on the broadcast. "Birmingham win it back, and now they have a chance to counter!"
Morrison didn't hesitate.
He launched a quick long ball up the pitch.
Che Adams brought it down. The rapid striker kicked the ball forward, ready to use his raw pace to tear through Villa's exposed defense. But a sudden shadow fell over him.
Theodore had sprinted all the way back to cover.
Without a word, the teenager dropped his shoulder and slammed into Adams. Adams was fast, but his physicality was average at best. He was no match for Theo's raw strength.
The striker was easily bounced off the ball.
"A massive recovery tackle by Theodore Bjorn!" Weaver shouted. "Can Villa launch one last counter before the break?"
Beep! Beep!
The referee blew his whistle, signaling the end of the first half.
"No time left," Weaver sighed. "The ref calls time on a frantic first forty-five minutes. Birmingham City heads into the tunnel with a shock 2-1 lead over Aston Villa. We'll be back in fifteen minutes."
The halftime whistle didn't calm anyone down.
Online, the Villa supporters were fuming.
"Birmingham are playing out of their skins. Aside from Theo, our whole squad looks like a pile of shit today."
"Especially Jack. I heard Pep Guardiola wants to sign him for Man City. What the hell is Pep smoking?"
"Grealish looks like he belongs in a pub league right now."
"According to the papers, he was out clubbing last night. Unforgivable."
"If we want to salvage this derby, it's going to fall entirely on the teenager's shoulders again."
Inside the away dressing room at St. Andrew's, the walls shook.
Dean Smith was erupting.
"Trash!" Smith screamed, kicking a laundry basket across the room. "A bunch of trash! They are 15th in the league! They are a relegation team, and they are making you look like bloody amateurs!"
The players stared at the floor, dripping with sweat, not daring to make eye contact.
"Whether it's fighting spirit or basic skill, you are a whole level behind them right now! Do you know why? Because every single Birmingham player out there is treating this derby like their lives depend on it! And you lot? You're treating it like a light training session!"
Smith turned his furious gaze directly to his captain. "Especially you, Jack!"
Grealish flinched.
"Don't think I don't know exactly what you were up to last night," Smith snarled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy level. "If you still want to wear that armband for this club, then pull your head out of your ass and go win us this football match!"
...
Fifteen minutes later, the two sides trudged back out for the second half.
Neither Garry Monk nor Dean Smith made any changes at the break.
When the referee blew the whistle, Birmingham City's strategy was obvious. They immediately dropped deep into their own half, setting up a rigid blue wall.
They were going to park the bus, absorb the pressure, and fiercely protect their 2-1 lead until the bitter end.
By the 50th minute, Aston Villa was throwing bodies forward, desperate to break down the Birmingham defense.
Jack Grealish, still stinging from his manager's furious halftime dressing down, was finally trying to make things happen.
He dropped deep into the midfield, frantically calling for the ball to orchestrate an attack.
Seeing his captain find a rare pocket of space, Theodore slipped a quick, crisp pass right to his feet.
But the moment Grealish took his first touch, the Birmingham midfield swarmed him like rabid dogs.
David Davis came flying in from the side with both feet off the ground.
Davis got nowhere near the ball.
He crashed straight through Grealish's right ankle with a sickening impact!
"Arggggh!"
Grealish's agonized scream echoed across the freezing pitch.
The referee blew his whistle frantically, sprinting over to the scene and flashing a yellow card straight in Davis's face.
"A horror challenge from David Davis!" Gary Weaver shouted on the Sky Sports broadcast. "That is a reckless, two-footed lunge. He is incredibly lucky that's only a yellow. Grealish is in serious agony down there."
"It's a dreadful tackle, Gary," Don Goodman agreed, wincing at the replay. "Aston Villa win a dangerous free-kick, but that is a heavy price to pay."
Villa fans watching around the country held their breath.
Grealish was rolling on the turf, his face pale, clutching his ankle. The medical staff rushed onto the pitch the second the referee waved them on. After a tense minute of treatment, it was clear the captain was done.
The tearing pain in his ankle was too much.
He couldn't even put weight on it.
The head physio looked over at the dugout and spun his fingers in the air.
Substitution.
"The physio signals to the bench," Weaver noted. "Grealish cannot continue. A massive blow for Dean Smith."