Chapter 107: The comeback!

The moment Falcao's shot slammed into the back of the net, it was like someone had flipped a switch on the two managers' faces. Arthur—who had been wearing a tense expression since kickoff—suddenly looked like a kid who'd just won a lifetime supply of candy. His face turned bright red, not from anger, but from pure, unfiltered joy. As the ball rolled past Van der Sar, Arthur spun around to face the roaring Leeds fans behind the bench. He pumped his fists in the air and started yelling, "COME ON!" like a man who had just discovered shouting actually helped his team score. Then Falcao ran over to celebrate, and Arthur practically launched himself at the striker. He wrapped him in a bear hug and jumped up and down like a lunatic on a trampoline. Honestly, it looked like he was trying to crush Falcao out of gratitude. Meanwhile, just a few feet away, Sir Alex Ferguson looked like he'd just bitten into a lemon—an angry lemon. His usually sharp eyes narrowed into a flat, disapproving squint. He stood stone-still, arms folded tightly across his chest, as if he were trying to hold in all the words he wanted to scream. He stared at his players like they'd forgotten how to play football. They were scattered across the pitch, looking utterly lost. Then he turned to Arthur, who was still bouncing like a toddler on Christmas morning, and you could see it in his eyes—What in the world is this guy feeding them? Just fifteen minutes ago, Leeds had looked like they were headed for a beating. Now they were one goal away from pulling off the impossible. Ferguson muttered something under his breath, probably a curse aimed at luck that had decided to mess with his day. Back in his technical area, Arthur finally came back down to Earth. He clapped his hands furiously and shouted toward the players still jogging back after the celebration. "Calm down! Boys, calm down!" he yelled, waving his arms like a man herding caffeinated sheep. "We're still behind, remember? It's not over! Don't forget what I said in the dressing room!" That snapped the players out of their celebratory haze. Right. They were still losing. Still needed one more. The high-fives were replaced by focused nods, and the Leeds players quickly got back into position, eyes blazing with determination. And to be fair, they had reason to believe they could do it. The momentum was all theirs. Manchester United looked dazed, the stadium was bouncing, and there were still more than ten minutes on the clock. Anything could happen. Ferguson knew it too. The old fox still had two substitutions in his pocket and his mind was racing. Attack? Or defend? He'd always believed the best defense was a good offense, but watching Leeds United pressing forward like wild dogs in the second half had changed his mind. He sighed. Sometimes, pride had to take a back seat to pragmatism. He waved to the bench and barked out orders. The decision was made: lock things down. Neville came on to replace Evra, bringing leadership and fresh legs to the back line. Fletcher, who had earlier helped shore up the midfield, slid into a full-back role. The midfield was now anchored by O'Shea and Park Ji-sung—two players who could run all day and kick people if needed. It wasn't pretty, but it was practical. The moment Neville stepped onto the pitch, something changed in the United players. It was like the big brother had finally come home. They straightened up a little, started communicating more, and fell back into a more disciplined shape. Paul Scholes, still oozing class despite the chaos, took charge of the tempo. Every time United won the ball, they didn't surge forward—they slowed it down. Short passes. Backward passes. Sideways passes. It was the footballing equivalent of hiding under the bed until danger passed. And frankly, with every second that ticked away, Ferguson didn't care if they had to pass it around until someone fell asleep. As long as that score stayed 4–3, the red half of Manchester would leave this stadium as the victors. Arthur, arms crossed now, stood still near the sideline, watching with laser focus. He wasn't bouncing anymore. He knew what Ferguson was doing. And he had just a few minutes to stop it. **** Time ticked away like an annoying metronome, each second louder than the last. After Manchester United deliberately slowed the game to a crawl, Leeds United found themselves running into a brick wall over and over again. The tempo had dropped to walking speed, and United were passing the ball sideways and backwards as if trying to bore everyone to death. Leeds tried everything—short passes, long balls, crosses, even wild hopeful shots—but nothing was breaking through. And then... the fourth official raised the LED board on the sidelines. +3. Just three minutes. That's all Leeds had left. Arthur stood at the edge of his technical area, glaring at the number as if he could squeeze an extra minute out of it by sheer force of will. He looked like a man trying to mentally negotiate with the laws of time. There was no time for hesitation now. Leeds had to go all in. Everyone—everyone—pushed forward. Neuer stayed in his box, but every outfield player in white was now camped deep in Manchester United territory. It looked less like a football match and more like a siege. Every time a United player touched the ball, three Leeds players came crashing down on him like angry bees. The pressing was frantic. Even Falcao looked like he was running on fumes, but he chased everything. The risk? Gigantic. Behind them, Leeds' goal was practically wide open. If United could just get the ball past the halfway line with a decent pass, it would be one-on-one with Neuer. Game over. Curtains drawn. Lights out. But that's not what United were thinking about. Their players weren't looking for a counter. They were too busy wasting time—walking to every throw-in like their shoelaces had just tied themselves together. Even when small openings appeared in Leeds' defense, United hesitated, as if terrified of doing anything other than holding possession. Big mistake. Each time they hesitated, Leeds pounced. Tackles flew in, and loose balls were snapped up like someone dropped gold coins on the grass. And now, in the 91st minute, the ball was with Leeds again. Two minutes left. Arthur didn't move, barely blinked. The stadium was buzzing, but his brain was silent—hyper-focused. This was it. They had the ball. Now or never. Alonso had the ball at his feet and absolutely nowhere to go. John O'Shea, fresh and springy from just being subbed on, closed him down like a mall cop chasing a teenager on a skateboard. Alonso scanned the field—no opening, no space, not even a friendly ghost in sight. With a sigh, he nudged the ball sideways to Milner out on the wing. Milner, as dependable as ever, tucked the ball close and started charging down the sideline like a postal worker in a lightning storm. But Fletcher had been watching him the whole way. He didn't dive in recklessly, didn't bite on the feints—just stayed right in front of him, arms out, cool as a cucumber. Milner tried to cut inside. No luck. He tried to accelerate toward the box. Nope, Fletcher still there, stuck to him like a sweaty T-shirt. With Ferdinand now charging at him like a linebacker, Milner had to think fast. He took one last touch and then—thud—he smacked the ball directly at Fletcher's shins. The ball pinged off and out for a corner. Not pretty, not flashy, but hey, it worked. Arthur was already up on his feet on the sideline, flailing his arms like he was directing airport traffic. "Everyone up! All of you! Go! Go! No one stays back!" he yelled. Neuer didn't need to be told twice. With his long legs and goalkeeper gloves flapping like sails, he sprinted up the field, past the halfway line, then into United's half. If someone had handed him a Leeds scarf, he would've waved it. Across the pitch, Van der Sar was barking orders like a man hosting a fire drill. "Mark him! Pick him up! You, cover that space!" United's defenders scrambled to position themselves like chess pieces, ready for this last gasp from Leeds. Eddie Gray's voice came softly through the commentary box, filled with a mix of pride and resignation. "Leeds United have a corner... this will surely be their final attack. And look at this—everyone's in there. Even Neuer. This is it." He paused for a moment as the camera panned to the crowded penalty area, a chaotic blur of bodies jostling for space, tugging shirts, exchanging elbows like party favors. Gray sighed. "No matter what happens here, folks... they were four goals down. Four. And they came back with three. Even if they lose, I think we can all agree—they've played like heroes." It was now or never. The entire stadium held its breath. **** Fletcher knew he'd made a mistake the moment he turned his back. He'd spent the whole match watching Alonso take Leeds United's corners, so naturally, when Milner placed the ball down and then casually strolled away from the corner flag, Fletcher figured it was just a decoy or a short-play setup. Nothing to worry about. He turned around, thinking, Right, time to get back in position before something stupid happens. Big mistake. He'd barely taken two steps when Milner, the sneaky little fox, spun on his heel and bolted straight back to the corner flag like he'd just remembered he left the stove on. Without missing a beat, he whipped his left foot around the ball and curled it beautifully into the penalty area. From Milner setting the ball down to actually kicking it, the entire sequence took maybe three seconds. Fletcher's brain didn't even have time to process what was happening before the ball was already airborne. And he wasn't the only one. The entire Manchester United defense was caught napping. Every defender had their eyes on the box, not on the corner flag, and by the time the ball was floating toward the front post, it was far too late. Van der Sar was the first to realize something had gone horribly wrong. You could practically see the cartoonish "!?!" pop up above his head. He lunged instinctively, trying to cover the near post—but it was already over. Because Ribery, sly as ever, had been lurking at the front post like a raccoon at a picnic. No one marked him. Not one single defender tracked him. And as the ball skimmed in, Ribery calmly lifted his left foot and cushioned it with the inside of his boot, redirecting the shot toward goal with surgical precision. It wasn't a thunderous volley. It wasn't a dramatic header. It was just... smooth. Effortless. Deadly. Van der Sar flailed, got a glove to thin air, and watched helplessly as the ball floated past him and rippled the back of the net. The crowd exploded. The Millennium Stadium, already simmering with tension, boiled over into chaos. Fans screamed. People jumped out of their seats. Drinks went flying. Ribery took off running with his arms stretched wide like he'd just stolen the crown jewels. "Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh OH!" Gary Lineker was losing his mind in the commentary booth. "What did I just witness?! Franck Ribery! James Milner! They've combined to SAVE LEEDS UNITED! Ninety-second minute! Leeds United equalize! From FOUR goals down to FOUR FOUR!" On the sideline, Arthur completely lost it. Forget poise. Forget looking professional. He was sprinting down the touchline like a madman, suit jacket flapping, tie whipping over his shoulder, hair a mess, face lit up like a Christmas tree. His arms were pumping like he was trying to take flight, and he was shouting something unintelligible as he ran straight toward Milner to join the celebration. And there, frozen like a statue, stood Sir Alex Ferguson. The camera caught him mid-blink, arms folded, face pale. His lips were pressed into a line so thin it could've sliced paper. He didn't yell. He didn't scold. He just closed his eyes. Because nothing needed to be said. He had a four-goal lead. And now this guy—this energetic, wildly-dressed, sideline-sprinting man child of a manager named Arthur Morgan—had clawed his way back into the game and dragged Manchester United into extra time. Sir Alex looked like a man who'd just realized he left his wallet in a taxi.