Chapter 108: The match of the season!

After Manchester United kicked off for the fourth time—yes, fourth—within one match, the referee finally took pity on everyone and blew the whistle to end the ninety minutes of absolute chaos. The score? 4-4. The stadium was buzzing like a beehive on espresso. And now, as if the fans hadn't aged ten years already, we were headed for thirty more minutes of extra time. Both teams trudged toward the benches like tired marathon runners who'd accidentally signed up for a triathlon. The five-minute break felt more like five seconds. Barely enough time for players to catch their breath, rehydrate, or question their life choices. Neither manager had much left to say. Tactics? Out the window. Substitutes? All used up. Instructions? Basically just a lot of "Hang in there!" and "Don't die!" At this point, it wasn't about fitness or formations anymore. It was about guts. Whoever had more heart, whoever refused to collapse from sheer exhaustion, would win this thing. As the players lined up for the kickoff again, the broadcast zoomed in for close-up shots. The difference in body language between the two sides was clear as daylight. Manchester United, the former lords of a 4-0 lead, now looked like they'd all just been dumped by text message. Shoulders slumped. Eyes vacant. Their confidence had packed its bags and left ten minutes ago. Neville, trying to be a good captain, clapped his hands and shouted at his teammates, his voice hoarse, but his energy was clearly running on fumes. Leeds United, on the other hand, were completely different. Sure, most of them were bent over with hands on knees, gasping for air like fish out of water—but their eyes were on fire. Determination practically poured off them like sweat. They weren't done yet. Not by a long shot. Up in the commentary booth, Gary Lineker couldn't help himself. "Alright folks, I'll be honest—this is the most dramatic game I've seen since... well, probably the last time I said that!" he chuckled. "But seriously, we're about to kick off extra time. Who's got the guts to win this one? Let's find out!" His joke got a laugh from the crowd, and just like that, some of the tension eased. The referee gave a half-smile, raised his whistle, and blew to begin the first half of extra time. The next ten minutes were a complete tug-of-war. Scholes and Neville tried their best to pull their teammates together like a pair of desperate teachers leading a field trip gone rogue. They urged, waved, shouted, did everything short of lighting a motivational bonfire in the center circle. But the problem was obvious—this team had mentally shut down. After blowing a four-goal lead, the shock still hadn't worn off. Morale was flatter than a warm pint. Even when they did get into decent positions, their attacks fizzled out. Sloppy touches, bad passes, wild shots—United looked like they were playing with concrete boots. Ferguson was having none of it. He stood on the touchline like a volcano in a suit, arms flailing, face redder than a traffic light. Every missed chance earned a fresh round of Scottish yelling. The man was basically trying to scream his players back into shape. But Arthur—oh, Arthur had smelled blood. The moment United got the ball, he'd leap up from his technical area and shout like a mad conductor, "PRESS! PRESS! GET IN THEIR FACES!" And Leeds United followed orders like soldiers on caffeine. Every time Manchester United touched the ball, they were immediately swarmed. It wasn't always pretty, but it worked. United barely had time to think, let alone pass. This press was brutal. It forced turnovers high up the pitch. Leeds kept pouncing on every mistake. In just ten minutes, they had more attempts than they did in the entire first half of the match. But this strategy came at a cost. The Leeds players were already drained—and now they were running like it was the first half all over again. The effects began to show. Milner suddenly stopped mid-run and winced, hopping on one leg. Cramp. Lahm followed a minute later, grabbing at his calf and swearing under his breath. The physios scrambled onto the pitch with water bottles and stretch sprays, as the stadium collectively held its breath. Meanwhile, Arthur didn't even blink. He just clapped and yelled with his usual passion, "Shake it off, boys! You've got more in you! Keep going!" It was total madness. On one side, a legendary manager trying to hold his sinking ship together. On the other, a wild young upstart pushing his exhausted players with nothing but sheer willpower and shouting. And with both teams teetering on the edge of collapse, the clock ticked on. Just moments ago, Arthur took a quick glance at the system screen, praying for a miracle. What he saw didn't exactly lift his spirits. Aside from Neuer, Modrić, and Ribéry—who'd only joined the chaos in the second half—every other player's stamina had dropped to single digits. Single. Digits. He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Still single digits. It was less a football team now and more of a walking group of exhausted zombies who happened to wear white shirts. But just like Sir Alex Ferguson, Arthur had no more cards left to play. His bench looked like a graveyard—tired bodies, stretched legs, and ice packs on everything that could be iced. All Arthur could do was pace up and down the touchline like a father outside the delivery room, praying his players' willpower would somehow outlast the inevitable collapse. But as the minutes ticked by, something weird began to happen. Something subtle. Something that Lineker, perched in his comfy commentary booth, couldn't help but notice. The crowd. The neutral fans—the ones who had no stake in this madness—were slowly, quietly, but unmistakably starting to side with Leeds United. Maybe it was the underdog effect. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of coming back from 4–0 down. Or maybe it was just the way those exhausted Leeds lads kept running, kept pressing, kept trying, like they still believed they could pull off a miracle even though their legs clearly disagreed. Either way, the neutrals had made up their minds. Every time Leeds touched the ball, the stadium erupted with thunderous applause. You'd think the whole place was full of lifelong Leeds supporters. And Leeds responded in kind, feeding off that noise like it was oxygen. Then came the 12th minute of extra time. Manchester United had the ball in their own half. Nothing special. A simple throw-in. Ribéry had knocked it out after a tussle with Neville, who then stepped up to take the throw. Now, common sense said Neville should've played it safe—just toss it backwards to Vidic, recycle possession, let the team reset. But maybe the pressure was messing with his head. Or maybe he thought Park Ji-sung was still running on his signature three-lung energy. So instead of playing it safe, Neville threw it into midfield to Park. Big mistake. Because today, "Three-Lung Park" was running on half a lung and two confused thoughts. The 110 minutes had absolutely drained him. He saw the ball coming his way, and instead of darting forward to meet it like he usually would, he stood still. Just stood there. His mind froze. His legs froze. He had a full-on existential crisis in the middle of a football match. And that's when disaster struck. Suddenly, from behind him, came the sound of footsteps—fast, sharp, hungry. "Oh no!" Park's eyes widened. But before he could even twitch, a flash of white shot past him. "ALONSO! He's stolen it! He's through! He sends a BEAUTIFUL through pass!" Lineker's voice shot through the speakers like a rocket. Alonso didn't even bother with a fancy touch. One look. One smooth swing of the foot. He slid a perfect pass between Neville and Vidic, threading it like he was sewing with a needle. And Ribéry? He didn't wait for an invitation. The moment Alonso had picked Park's pocket, Ribéry had already turned, bolting down the left flank toward the byline like a man possessed. He latched onto the pass with one slick touch. "Ribéry stops it brilliantly!" Lineker shouted, practically standing in the commentary booth now. "But Vidic is closing in fast, and Neville's chasing hard on the right!" It was a sandwich job. The two defenders came at him from both sides, trying to corral him toward the corner like cowboys wrangling a wild horse. Ribéry had no room to cut in. No space to shoot. He did the only thing he could—pushed the ball to the edge of the byline, dragging both defenders with him like magnets, and looked for a pass. Lineker, by this point, had completely abandoned all neutrality. "Come on, Ribéry! You can find someone! One more cross!" Down below the commentary box, the Manchester United fans were losing it. "What the hell is this?! You're a neutral commentator, Gary!" "Oi! I'll pass the mic to your face, see how neutral that feels!" A full-blown argument had broken out in the stands about whether Lineker had officially defected to Leeds United. But up in the booth, he couldn't care less. His eyes were locked on Ribéry, who was now squaring up with the last two defenders like a man trying to break out of a moving elevator. The stadium leaned forward. Arthur was already standing on the edge of his technical area, arms half-raised in anticipation. And Ribéry, cramped legs and all, still had a spark left. But as Lineker pointed out—between gasps and barely-contained giggles—Ribéry really was in a rough spot. Vidic had locked down his position like a paranoid nightclub bouncer, while Neville was sneakily yanking the corner of Ribéry's jersey like a kid trying to steal snacks from the kitchen without getting caught. The ref? Totally blind to it, of course. He might as well have been admiring the grass. There were maybe two or three meters left before Ribéry would run the ball out of play. Manchester United fans, who had been chewing their nails for the past thirty minutes, finally started to exhale in relief. Some even started shouting things like "That's it! Clear it, lads!" or "Finally, a break!" But Ribéry had other plans. With one slick motion, he tapped the ball forward with his left foot—then, like a magician vanishing behind a curtain, he stopped dead. Literally stopped. Right there. On a football pitch. In extra time. While being chased by two defenders. Neville and Vidic, clearly not expecting a sudden full-body brake check, both lunged forward on pure momentum... and promptly zoomed past Ribéry like two toddlers sliding across a hardwood floor in socks. Right over the byline they went. Gone. Out of the picture. The entire stadium gasped. "Wait, what just—where'd they go?!" Lineker blurted, stunned. On the pitch, Ribéry stood there like a smug cartoon character who'd just outwitted the villains. He glanced up—only to see Van der Sar charging toward him like an angry dad who'd just stepped on a LEGO barefoot. The Dutch keeper had seen enough. He wasn't going to wait for defenders who were off sightseeing behind the goal. He sprinted out to cut the angle. But Ribéry was two steps ahead—literally. He gently nudged the ball outside the baseline to avoid Van der Sar's incoming slide, tiptoed around him from outside the field, then coolly jogged back in to meet the ball before it crossed the end line. And without breaking a sweat, he passed it into the empty net. 5–4. Leeds United had actually done it. They had completed one of the most ridiculous, exhausting, laugh-out-loud reversals in football history. They came back from 4–0 down. With half their team cramping. And with their manager Arthur looking like he was about to faint from screaming. The stadium exploded.