Chapter 132: Morale boost in Action

"Ahhhhhh! What a miss! That was a glorious chance!" Eddie Gray's voice crackled through televisions and radios alike, filled with both disbelief and excitement. "That was a wonderful pass from the youngster, Kevin De Bruyne. He slipped it perfectly into the danger zone, and Ibrahimovic got to it first—he just couldn't keep the header down. It's flown just over the bar!" In the booth beside him, co-commentator Mark Robson chuckled softly. "Well, Eddie, to be fair, heading's never really been Zlatan's best weapon. He's got the size for it, sure, but he's more about the flair, the touch, the unpredictable. Still, you'd expect better from that range." Eddie nodded, eyes on the pitch. "True enough. But I tell you what, this Leeds United side has come flying out of the gates tonight. It's only been a few minutes, but they've had PSV Eindhoven on the ropes already. Wave after wave of pressure—it's not what we were expecting given the injury list, the fatigue, the travel." And he wasn't wrong. The general mood before kickoff had been grim. Most pundits had written Arthur's Leeds United off. A long list of injuries, a patchwork starting eleven, and an away trip to a strong Dutch side wasn't exactly a recipe for optimism. But now, on the pitch, Leeds looked nothing like an exhausted or makeshift side. From the first whistle, they had played with intensity and urgency, snapping into tackles, zipping passes across midfield, and controlling the tempo with unexpected dominance. Even in the away end, where the traveling Leeds supporters stood in tight rows behind PSV's goal, voices were beginning to rise in hopeful song. Something about the energy on the pitch had stirred them—Arthur's men weren't just holding their own. They were dictating the game. Mark Robson leaned toward the mic again. "Look at how compact Leeds are without the ball. Modric and Alonso—what a midfield duo they are—closing down space so quickly. PSV can't get through them. And then when Leeds get the ball back? Boom, straight into attack mode. Ribéry and De Bruyne are stretching the play wide, and you've got Ibrahimovic and Torres pulling defenders apart in the middle. It's textbook counter-pressure." Eddie chuckled. "And here I was thinking they'd park the bus tonight. Arthur really is full of surprises." Meanwhile, in homes across England, fans watched with growing excitement. Some sat on their couches, pint in hand. Others stood, arms crossed, too nervous to sit. Across pubs, dorm rooms, and quiet neighborhoods, the shared feeling was the same—Leeds weren't just surviving, they were punching up. Arthur stood motionless on the touchline, arms folded, eyes sharp. His face gave nothing away, but his brain was running hot. He had activated the morale boost just before kickoff. The system card had done its job—the players weren't just energized, they were sharp, hungry, confident. He glanced at Maicon. The Brazilian full-back was giving everything down the right flank, overlapping De Bruyne when needed, tracking back with urgency, despite his stamina showing red flags before kickoff. Arthur knew it was a gamble to start him with only 55% fitness, but so far, Maicon was holding up. Still, Arthur wasn't relaxing. Not yet. Every time PSV tried to move forward, Cannavaro and Thiago Silva slammed the door shut. Lahm's discipline on the left was textbook. Alonso's distribution from deep was calm and precise. Modric orchestrated from the middle with his usual blend of vision and balance. And up front, Torres kept dragging defenders out of position, opening lanes for Ibrahimovic to attack. Another move built quickly down the right. De Bruyne received the ball near the touchline, skipped past his marker with a quick flick, and drilled in a dangerous low cross. Ibrahimovic darted to the near post—but a PSV defender cleared it at the last second. "Leeds just keep coming!" Eddie shouted. "You'd never guess they were missing half their first team!" Robson added, "And don't forget, this is Arthur's Champions League debut as a manager. Not bad for a first showing." Arthur remained focused. He didn't celebrate chances. He didn't scold mistakes. All he wanted now was a breakthrough—and with the way his team was playing, it didn't feel far away. The clock ticked past the fifteen-minute mark. Still goalless. But Leeds were making all the noise. And Arthur, watching from the touchline, knew: they'd come to the Netherlands as underdogs. But they weren't here to defend. They were here to win. *** "Nice header, Zlatan! That's what I want—keep the pressure on them!" Arthur's voice rang out from the technical area, sharp and controlled, but charged with energy. "And Kevin—brilliant vision! But next time, lift your head sooner. Frank was wide open on the left. You remember what we drilled this week, yeah? Stretch them. Use the full width!" On the touchline, Arthur's arms were folded across his chest, but a satisfied glint played in his eyes. It wasn't just coach-speak—he meant it. The opening ten minutes had been electric, and his side, against all predictions, were pummeling PSV Eindhoven on their own turf. Every pass had purpose, every run dragged space open, and the pressing—relentless. He'd been nervous before kickoff, no question. The injury list had been long and ugly. Key starters were missing, and Arthur had barely pieced together a lineup fit for European football. But the moment he played that morale card from the system, something shifted. Subtle at first, like a breeze before a storm—but now unmistakable. The players were everywhere. They hunted PSV down like wolves, pressing in coordinated bursts, trapping passing lanes and forcing long clearances. The Dutch champions were shell-shocked. Every time they crossed halfway, Leeds snapped back, reclaiming the ball and pushing it upfield again. Out on the pitch, Zlatan Ibrahimovic jogged back toward the center circle after another close chance. He could still hear Arthur's voice echoing in his mind. The big Swede wore a half-smile now—not cocky, just determined. Strangely, he'd felt flat just minutes before kickoff. The dressing room had been quiet. Nervous. Grim. He'd looked around and seen tight shoulders, serious faces. But then, as soon as they stepped onto the pitch... something changed. Everyone came alive. Teammates who'd looked sluggish before now sprinted at full speed. They were sharp in the tackle, quick with the pass, hungry in the box. Ibrahimovic felt the buzz run through his legs, his instincts sharpening. He didn't know how or why—but he was in this now, and fully focused. One of his headers had already skimmed the crossbar. If he'd been a hair lower, the net would've bulged. That chance stuck in his mind. Next time, he told himself. Don't waste it. PSV were being squeezed like a vice. Torres was dragging defenders out of position with clever movement, Ribéry jinked and weaved down the left, and De Bruyne—despite his age—was linking beautifully on the right with Maicon. Then it came. Twenty-nine minutes on the clock. It started on the left, where Ribéry collected a lofted switch pass and darted into space. He accelerated like a bullet, turning his full-back inside out, and drove toward the box. PSV's centre-back, Alex, read the danger and stepped in, blocking Ribéry's path with perfect timing. But instead of clearing it, the ball rolled awkwardly into open space just outside the box—and Modrić was there, ghosting in like he'd seen it coming all along. One touch. No delay. With a precise, elegant through pass, Modrić split the entire PSV line. The ball fizzed diagonally into the right channel. Torres was already there. He didn't wait. No extra touch. He took off like a greyhound, burning past PSV's left-back Salcido, who had barely turned before Torres was behind him, galloping toward the byline. The Spaniard reached it and whipped a low ball across the face of goal—fast, flat, and deadly. And then... Ibrahimovic. Stretching every fibre of his body, he got there a fraction ahead of the defender's clearance and—rather ungracefully—deflected it into the net with his thigh. One-nil. Leeds United. Away from home. Champions League. The PSV fans groaned. The away end? Absolute bedlam. Eddie Gray's voice thundered through the broadcast. "GOOOOOOAAALLLLL! Zlatan Ibrahimovic! It wasn't the prettiest finish, but they all count, don't they?! What a moment for Leeds United!" His co-commentator, Mark Robson, chimed in with equal excitement. "That's a team goal, Eddie. That's Ribéry causing chaos, Modrić threading the needle, Torres with the perfect delivery, and Zlatan—well, he did what strikers are paid to do." Inside living rooms across Leeds, fans jumped out of their chairs. Some hugged their mates. Others spilled beer on the carpet. A few older supporters wiped quiet tears from their eyes. It had been years since nights like this. Nights when Leeds didn't just participate—they commanded. And now, on their return to the Champions League, they were leading in Europe. Arthur clenched a fist quietly by his side, nodding once. He didn't celebrate. Not openly. But inside, the adrenaline was humming. That sequence had been straight off the training pitch. Every movement, every switch of play, every overlapping run—they had executed it to near perfection. And more than that, his players were alive out there. Maicon—despite being a fitness risk—was flying up and down the flank. De Bruyne looked mature beyond his years. Alonso held the middle like a metronome. And in front of him, Modrić was pulling strings like a seasoned conductor. Arthur allowed himself one glance at the scoreboard. 29:45 – PSV Eindhoven 0, Leeds United 1. He turned to his bench, voice low but firm. "Tell them to keep pressing. Don't sit back. We're not done yet." Because in his mind, one goal in the Champions League is good. But two? Two makes a statement. *** It had been five long years since Leeds United fans last witnessed their club win a match on the grand stage of the UEFA Champions League. And tonight, under the lights in Eindhoven, with thousands watching from around the world and a pocket of traveling fans singing their hearts out, they finally got to feel that rush again. And for that, they had Arthur to thank. The man who had dragged Leeds out of the shadows. The man who rebuilt the club brick by brick. Now, in the Champions League, on foreign soil, his team was leading. When Ibrahimovic's unconventional finish rippled the net, he didn't just score a goal—he broke the silence of five years. The Swede was the first to react, roaring in celebration and motioning wildly for his teammates to join him. Ribéry, Modrić, Torres, De Bruyne—all of them sprinted toward the corner flag, following their towering striker to share the moment with the loyal fans who had traveled hundreds of miles just to be here. They didn't hold back. Ibrahimovic skidded on his knees near the advertising hoardings, punching the air. Ribéry jumped on his back. Torres slid in behind them. De Bruyne pumped both fists and yelled toward the stands. It was joy. Pure, unfiltered, and long overdue. But this wasn't Elland Road, and the home fans didn't appreciate the party in their stadium. Bottles began to rain down from the stands—empty water bottles, some full, a few packets of peanuts. The Dutch crowd wasn't impressed. One narrowly missed Torres. Another bounced off Ribéry's shoulder. The linesman stepped in quickly, raising his flag and motioning the players to return to midfield. The fourth official stood up and issued a warning to PSV's technical area. Arthur didn't move from the sideline. His arms were crossed, his face unreadable. Internally, though, he was pleased. The morale card had worked better than he expected. But the job wasn't done. When play resumed, PSV Eindhoven—stung by the goal—came out with a vengeance. At manager Ruud van Nistelrooy's urging, they pushed bodies forward. Full-backs overlapped. Midfielders surged into the final third. Wingers tried to isolate the Leeds full-backs and stretch the back line. But Arthur had anticipated this. From the sideline, he gestured firmly, and his players understood. Slow it down. The moment Leeds recovered the ball, they stopped rushing forward. Instead of launching counters, they recycled possession in their own half, stringing passes across the back line and into midfield. This wasn't about parking the bus. Arthur wasn't trying to kill the game—it was about managing energy. He glanced at the system panel again. Player stamina bars were fading fast. Maicon was already under 50%, and Ribéry and Modrić weren't far behind. Another 45 minutes at full throttle and someone would pop a hamstring. So Leeds adapted. They dropped into two tight, disciplined lines. Four midfielders sat in front of the back four, and Torres and Ibrahimovic took turns dropping deeper to help screen passes. And this—this was when Cannavaro came alive. The Italian veteran had drawn doubters when Arthur signed him. Critics claimed he was past it, that he wouldn't last a month in the Premier League's intensity. That his best days were behind him. But here, under pressure in the Champions League, Cannavaro was ice. Time and again, PSV tried to probe through the middle. Their front two—Diego Tardelli and Arouna Koné—looked for space between the lines. But Cannavaro read it all like a seasoned detective. When Tardelli tried to turn, Cannavaro stepped in. Shoulder to shoulder, clean challenge, ball won. When Koné tried to dribble past, Cannavaro didn't bite. He stayed on his feet, waited, and then jabbed a toe in to strip the ball clean. Even when PSV tried to shift wide and cut in again, the Italian slid across the defensive line like a conductor leading an orchestra, barking instructions to Silva, guiding Lahm and Maicon into position, closing gaps before they could even appear. In truth, this was why Arthur signed him. Yes, Cannavaro was older. Yes, he lacked the recovery speed of his younger teammates. But his mind was two steps ahead of everyone else on the pitch. And in Arthur's newly-installed chain-defense system—a tactic he'd worked tirelessly on during preseason—Cannavaro was the anchor, the brain, the calm at the center of the storm. Every time PSV thought they had space, it closed like a trap. The hosts grew frustrated. Long shots started to fly over the bar. Their attacking rhythm began to sputter. And when Koné lost the ball one final time trying to wriggle past Cannavaro in the 45th minute, the referee blew his whistle. Halftime. Leeds United led 1–0 away from home. Arthur turned from the sideline, offering only a short clap of approval. He didn't smile. He didn't celebrate. Not yet. There were still 45 minutes left. And he wanted more.