Villa fans immediately reacted.
"Honestly? Good. Get McGinn on. Jack has been a ghost today anyway."
"It's a nasty tackle, but bringing McGinn on for Grealish right now might actually win us the game."
"Jack was playing like we only had ten men on the pitch. Let's get some real energy in there."
Dean Smith wasted no time.
John McGinn stripped off his tracksuit and sprinted onto the pitch to replace the limping Grealish.
The match resumed with the Aston Villa free-kick.
Theodore stood over the ball, studying the crowded penalty area.
The referee blew his whistle.
Theodore didn't rush it, he waited a few seconds, letting the Birmingham defenders get anxious, before taking a short run-up.
Thump.
He whipped a beautiful, dipping ball right into the heart of the penalty area. It was aimed perfectly at Tammy Abraham.
Abraham threw his body into the air, putting every ounce of his strength into winning the header.
But the Birmingham defense was ready. Center-backs Michael Morrison and Harlee Dean sandwiched the Villa striker, leaping at the exact same time.
Even their big target man, Lukas Jutkiewicz, had dropped back to help defend, adding a third body to the pile-up.
Surrounded by three massive defenders, Abraham didn't stand a chance. Morrison easily won the aerial battle, thumping the ball clear with a heavy header.
"Morrison clears it!" Weaver announced. "Villa's attack breaks down! There were just too many blue shirts around Abraham."
But Weaver's eyes quickly lit up. Morrison's clearance hadn't gone far.
Sitting right on the edge of the box, Theodore killed the dropping ball with a soft touch.
Aston Villa was still alive!
"Smash him!" Garry Monk screamed from the touchline, his face red with panic. "Don't let the kid pick a pass! Get into him!"
Following their manager's orders, two Birmingham midfielders charged at the 17-year-old like heat-seeking missiles.
It was Davis and Maikel Kieftenbeld.
Desperate to stop Theodore from delivering another lethal cross, both men launched themselves into reckless sliding tackles at the exact same time.
They caught him in a vicious pincer movement from the left and the right.
Theodore had nowhere to go.
"ARGHHHH!"
This time, it was Theodore screaming in pain.
The impact sent him crashing hard into the turf, his face contorted in agony as he grabbed his left ankle.
...
Hundreds of miles away in Norway, the cheerful atmosphere inside The Fjord vanished in an instant.
Xia Dongguo dropped the towel he was holding, his heart stopping as he watched his son writhing on the television screen.
Marianne covered her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.
...
The referee blew his whistle sharply, pulling another yellow card from his pocket.
But instead of showing it to Davis—who had clearly initiated the heavy contact—he showed it to Kieftenbeld.
"What on earth is the referee doing?!" Weaver shouted in disbelief. "Davis was the one who went through the back of him! Davis is already on a yellow card! He should be sent off!"
"The referee has completely bottled it, Gary," Goodman said, shaking his head. "He knows giving Davis a yellow means a red card in a derby, and he's taken the easy way out by booking Kieftenbeld instead. That is a shocking decision."
Down on the touchline, Dean Smith didn't even bother arguing with the fourth official.
He was staring at the pitch, his face pale with dread.
Losing Grealish was bad enough. If Theodore was injured, their season was in serious jeopardy.
The teenager had become the undisputed beating heart of their attack.
The medical team rushed over to Theodore.
"How is it, Theo? Can you put weight on the left foot?" the head doctor asked, his voice tight with worry as he carefully untied the teenager's boot.
Theodore gritted his teeth, leaning heavily on the physio as he tested his leg.
"It hurts. But I can walk on it."
The doctor frowned, inspecting the swelling joint. "Listen to me, Theo. Your left ankle is already showing signs of serious swelling. As a medical professional, I am telling you to come off. One more heavy tackle on that joint, and you could be out for months."
Theodore pulled his boot back on and tied the laces tight, ignoring the shooting pain.
He looked at the doctor, then pointed a trembling finger up at the giant scoreboard glowing in the corner of St. Andrew's Stadium. 2-1.
"We're losing," Theodore said, his voice hard. "I'm not coming off."
Watching the broadcast from their living rooms and pubs across the country, Aston Villa fans felt their hearts leap into their throats the moment Theodore went down.
Social media instantly exploded with fury.
"Theo can't be injured! Please, no!"
"Birmingham are a bunch of dirty bastards. How is that not a straight red card?!"
"They can't beat a 17-year-old on the ball, so they try to snap his legs. Cowards!"
"If he has to go off, our season is in trouble. Praying he's okay."
Down on the pitch, Theodore gritted his teeth, forcing himself to block out the sharp, throbbing pain in his left ankle.
He grabbed the grass, pulled his knees under him, and slowly stood up. He knew exactly what was at stake.
If he limped off now, Aston Villa would lose their creative spark in the middle of a bitter derby.
Whatever it took, he had to push through the pain.
Up in the gantry, Gary Weaver spotted the teenager getting to his feet. "He's back up! Theodore Bjorn looks like he's going to try and run it off. Dean Smith has paused the substitution. The youngster is staying on the pitch!"
Back at the dugouts, Dean Smith anxiously grabbed his head physio the second he returned to the technical area.
"How bad is it?" Smith demanded. "Can he actually keep playing?"
The physio shook his head, looking stressed. "It's hard to say for sure without a scan, but the swelling on his left ankle is already bad. I told him he needed to come off for proper treatment, but he flat-out refused."
Smith rubbed his face, his expression tense.
He knew how crucial Theodore was to their system, but leaving him out there was a massive gamble.
If the kid took another heavy knock, the consequences could be disastrous for his young career.
On the pitch, the referee finally blew his whistle to restart play.
Aston Villa had a dangerous free-kick just outside the box.
Theodore stood over the ball, eyeing the heavy blue wall of Birmingham players lined up in front of him.
Beep!
Theodore stepped up and whipped the ball with his right boot.
It curved beautifully over the top of the jumping wall, dipping sharply as it sailed into the crowded penalty area.
This time, he didn't aim for Tammy Abraham.
He aimed for the back post.
Tyrone Mings, Villa's towering center-back, was waiting exactly where the ball was dropping. He launched himself into the freezing air. The man tasked with marking him was Birmingham's striker, Lukas Jutkiewicz.
Asking a striker to mark a giant, physical center-back in the box was a massive mismatch.
Jutkiewicz's defensive timing was a step too slow. He couldn't get off the ground in time, giving Mings the ultimate advantage.
The Aston Villa defender dominated the airspace. Theodore's delivery was pinpoint, landing right on Mings's forehead.
Even if Jutkiewicz had managed to jump, there was no stopping the sheer momentum of the header.
Thump!
The ball crashed violently into the back of the net!
Birmingham goalkeeper Lee Camp didn't even have time to dive.
"GOALLLLL!" Weaver roared into his microphone. "Aston Villa strike back!"
"A brilliant delivery from Theodore Bjorn, and Tyrone Mings powers the header home! Two-two! Villa have equalized!"
"At the most crucial moments, this teenager always steps up," Don Goodman praised. "That cross was measured to perfection. All Mings had to do was let it hit his head. A sensational response from the visitors!"
Mings was ecstatic.
He roared, fishing the ball out of the net and sprinting back toward the center circle. For the Villa players, simply drawing the derby wasn't enough.
They wanted all three points.
In the stands, the hostile St. Andrew's crowd was left stunned. The grumbles quickly turned into angry shouts aimed at their own team.
"Why the hell is Jutkiewicz marking Tyrone Mings?! What is Monk thinking?!"
"That was way too easy. We just gave them a free header!"
"Another assist from that kid. Why didn't Davis finish the job and take him out earlier?!"
"Wake up! If we sit back like this, Villa are going to snatch the win!"
Down on the touchline, Garry Monk couldn't stay in his seat.
He stormed to the very edge of his technical area, his face red with fury.
His voice was already hoarse, but he screamed at his players anyway.
"Go head-to-head with them!" Monk roared, waving his arms frantically. "Stop sitting deep! Attack!"
He pointed a furious finger toward the midfield. "And do not let that kid get on the ball again! Put him on the floor!"
Theodore had already bagged two assists, and almost every dangerous Villa attack had run through his boots.
It was driving the Birmingham manager insane.
When the game restarted, the midfield turned into an absolute warzone.
Both sides threw themselves into crunching tackles, fighting desperately for control of the pitch.
Whoever controlled the center would dictate the final twenty minutes of the derby.
In the 68th minute, Theodore received a short pass near the center circle.
The second the ball touched his boot, the Birmingham midfield reacted like sharks smelling blood.
David Davis and Maikel Kieftenbeld charged at him with terrifying speed.
Their objective was clear: take the teenager out of the game for good.
His presence was putting too much strain on their defense, and they weren't going to let him pick another killer pass.
In a flash, both Davis and Kieftenbeld launched themselves into brutal, sliding tackles, aiming right for his ankles.
They closed in from both sides, trying to trap him just like they had earlier.
Seeing them coming, Theodore's instincts flared.
He couldn't afford to take another hit on his bad left ankle.
At the very last fraction of a second, Theodore took a lightning-fast touch with the inside of his right foot, dragging the ball an inch away from Davis's studs.
Then, in one fluid motion, he pulled it back sharply with his left, skipping lightly over Kieftenbeld's sliding legs.
"What a brilliant escape!" Weaver shouted as the two Birmingham enforcers took each other out, sliding harmlessly across the wet turf.
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