Chapter 134: PSV -2

Indeed, just as Eddie Gray had observed—Leeds United were not parking the bus. Arthur had no intention of clinging to a 1-1 draw. He hadn't come all the way to the Philips Stadion to snatch a single point and play it safe. From the very beginning, his ambition was clear: win. And now, with just under half an hour left, he was doubling down on that ambition. The changes spoke volumes. Ribery had indeed shifted to the right flank—but not as a defensive wide man. He was practically in line with Ibrahimovic and Torres, forming an aggressive three-man front. It wasn't subtle. This was a clear attacking trident. Behind them, Rivaldo wasn't hugging the touchline or covering ground out wide like the PSV coaching staff had assumed. Instead, he settled comfortably into his old stomping ground—central attacking midfield. The Brazilian veteran floated behind the strikers, orchestrating moves, scanning for passing lanes. And anchoring midfield just behind him were the dependable pair of Xabi Alonso and Xavi Garcia, sitting deep and absorbing pressure while offering distribution and cover. Arthur stood near the technical area, his arms animated, barking sharp instructions to his players. He urged them to press high when off the ball and break quickly when in possession. He knew the risks. Leeds were exposed at the back, especially after using three substitutions—but he was playing to win. Over in the opposite dugout, PSV boss Ronald Koeman had noticed the shift too. At first, he was surprised. Then his brow furrowed, almost in disbelief. Arthur was pushing forward? Now? After losing their lead and looking physically drained? Koeman turned to his bench. "They're still going for it?" he muttered, watching Leeds' shape push higher. His mind churned quickly through possible responses. For a moment, he expected Arthur to hunker down, play compact, and try to absorb pressure. That would've made sense after PSV's momentum swing. But Arthur was gambling. And in Koeman's eyes, that was naive. "Alright, then," Koeman muttered under his breath, grabbing his tactics board. "You want to play brave, fine. Let's turn up the heat." He didn't hesitate. Within moments, PSV made a double substitution—two fresh legs brought on to stretch the game. One of them was a pacey winger, the other a mobile forward. The message was clear: full assault. With the roar of the home crowd behind them, PSV surged forward. Their midfield pressed up. Their fullbacks bombed on. Even their centre-backs started taking risks, stepping into midfield with the ball. It was a full-blown siege. Leeds United's penalty area came under heavy fire. Crosses flew in from both flanks. Shots were blocked. Interceptions flew in. Cannavaro and Thiago Silva threw their bodies at everything. Mills, newly subbed in, was constantly being tested on the left. Lahm had tucked into the right but had his hands full with PSV's fresh-legged winger. It was frantic. Yet despite the mounting pressure, Arthur didn't panic. He stood at the edge of his technical box, calling out to his midfield trio to stay compact, urging his front three to stay alert for the counterattack. His plan, while risky, was simple: absorb the storm, then strike back while PSV overcommitted. The battle lines were drawn. PSV, hungry for a comeback win in front of their fans, had the wind in their sails. But Arthur wasn't backing down—not now, not ever. He had reshaped his team not to survive, but to win. In the 69th minute, danger flared again for Leeds United. Aruna Kone, already buzzing with confidence after his equalizer, picked up the ball just outside the penalty area. With a burst of acceleration, he skipped past Xavi Garcia like a training cone and unleashed a venomous strike toward the bottom corner. But Kasper Schmeichel was locked in. The Danish goalkeeper hurled himself low and to his right, smothering the shot with both gloves and then diving on the rebound before Kone could pounce. It was a huge moment, and Schmeichel's roar afterward said everything—he wasn't letting this game slip. Barely sixty seconds passed before PSV came charging in again. This time, Manuel beat Mills one-on-one down the left flank. With a quick drop of the shoulder and a clever touch, he broke toward the byline and drilled a sharp cut-back into the box—a textbook triangle pass. Mendes arrived late from midfield, timed perfectly to meet the cross, and struck with his right foot. But Thiago Silva was there like a wall. He stepped in just in time, throwing his body across the shot and deflecting the ball wide for a corner. It was heroic defending under intense pressure. Then, in the 79th minute, a moment of panic. Fabio Cannavaro, in an effort to halt Cole's surge, committed a foul just outside the box. It was a dangerous area to concede a free-kick. PSV captain Phillip Cocu stood over it, carefully measuring the angle. He took a few steps back, then curled a beautiful strike over the wall. Schmeichel moved, stretching fully, fingertips grazing the air—but the ball wasn't heading for the net. It cannoned off the outside of the right post with a loud clang, sending a wave of gasps through the Philips Stadion. The woodwork had spared Leeds again. On commentary, Eddie Gray was having a rough time staying composed. "Leeds United are really living dangerously now," he said, almost groaning. "Arthur's changes... they haven't had the desired impact yet. I've supported him from day one, but this spell—this spell has been brutal. They're barely clinging on." And from a neutral's perspective, it was hard to disagree. For the last ten minutes, Leeds United looked like a team under siege. Wave after wave of PSV attacks crashed against their defensive lines. There was little rhythm, barely any sustained possession, and certainly no threat going forward. To the casual fan, it looked like Arthur had lost control. But what they didn't know—what no one in the stadium knew—was that Arthur had an ace up his sleeve. He wasn't just coaching with gut instinct or tactical theory. Behind his calm expression and folded arms, Arthur was tracking everything through his hidden advantage: a digital system that fed him player energy, morale levels, and mental fatigue in real-time. And thanks to the morale booster he'd activated at the start of the match, Leeds United's players were mentally locked in. Their confidence hadn't dipped, even as they got pushed deeper and deeper into their own half. Yes, PSV were throwing everything forward. Yes, the formation shift to 4-3-3 had given them extra numbers up front. But Arthur expected that. This wasn't Mourinho-ball, where you'd park the bus and pray. Koeman was an attacking manager, and after equalizing in front of a roaring home crowd, there was no way he'd settle for a draw. Arthur had planned for this moment. Leeds United had dropped into a compact shape. Ribery and Torres tracked back tirelessly to close down space on the flanks, while Alonso and Garcia shielded the back four, cutting passing lanes and covering every loose ball. The defense—Cannavaro, Silva, Lahm, and Mills—stayed tight, organized, and unyielding. Only Ibrahimovic stayed forward, positioned like a lone sentinel near the halfway line. The Swedish striker wasn't just resting—he was bait. PSV's two center-backs, desperate to prevent a breakaway, refused to leave him alone. Even as their team attacked in numbers, they shadowed him, refusing to push too far up the pitch. That's exactly what Arthur wanted. Because the more PSV committed bodies forward, the more open space they left behind them. And when the time was right—when the ball broke kindly—he knew that opening would come. Leeds might've looked battered, might've seemed like they were gasping for breath, but beneath the pressure, Arthur was calm. He hadn't brought his team here to draw. He still had one more trick left in this match. *** The clock had just ticked past the 91st minute. Injury time was underway, and the tension inside the Philips Stadion was almost unbearable. PSV Eindhoven were pushing forward again, desperately hunting for a late winner in front of their roaring home crowd. Kone, their brightest spark in the second half, picked up the ball just outside the Leeds United penalty area. He'd been brilliant all evening—fast, direct, unpredictable—but this time, he got greedy. Ignoring his teammate waving frantically for a square pass, he chose to go for glory himself. As Cannavaro stepped up with perfect timing, Kone tried to squeeze a shot through the Italian veteran's legs. The attempt, however, lacked bite and precision. It was too straight, too tame. Schmeichel, solid and unflinching all night, caught it cleanly at chest height. And then everything changed in an instant. Schmeichel didn't hesitate. He scanned the field, saw the opening, and launched the ball high and long with a thundering kick that crossed halfway. A routine clearance, by all appearances. Nothing urgent. Nothing special. PSV's goalkeeper Carlos had already positioned himself well outside his box, ready to intercept. He jogged forward, eyes on the ball, with no Leeds player near enough to worry him. Or so he thought. Because Zlatan Ibrahimovic was sprinting toward him with a glint in his eye. The Swedish striker, despite being shadowed most of the night and cut off from chances, had been lurking—waiting for just such a moment. Carlos saw him coming and panicked. He had options. He could've chested it down and cleared. He could've volleyed it away safely. Instead, in a moment of madness, he tried to head it. A soft, looping header. High, but barely twenty yards forward. The ball dropped lazily, and when it fell—it fell to the worst possible place. Right at Ibrahimovic's feet. He didn't even wait. No control. No touch. Zlatan took flight. With the ball still dropping, the big Swede arched his back, twisted midair, and fired a bicycle kick from 30 yards out. It wasn't just audacious. It was insane. The shot sliced through the crisp night air like a guided missile. Carlos hadn't even scrambled back yet. The ball sailed over his head and kissed the top right corner of the net with almost poetic precision. For one second, the entire stadium was frozen. No one breathed. Then the silence exploded into chaos—only it wasn't the home fans celebrating. It was the handful of Leeds supporters tucked into the corner of the stands, losing their minds. And on televisions across England, Eddie Gray's voice cracked with disbelief. "Oh my God... Ibrahimovic! Zlatan Ibrahimovic! That's one of the greatest goals you will ever see in your life! He's hit a bicycle kick from thirty yards—thirty bloody yards! And it's in! Leeds United have stolen it at the death!" He could barely get his words out. "Forget Goal of the Week. Forget Goal of the Month. That might just be the Goal of the Year, and it's come from Zlatan in injury time!" Down on the pitch, Ibrahimovic didn't sprint. He didn't scream. He walked toward the corner flag, arms wide, chin raised, as if the entire stadium existed just to witness that moment. His teammates swarmed him, unable to believe what they'd seen. Torres jumped on his back. Ribery clutched his head in both hands, grinning like a madman. Even Arthur, normally calm and composed on the touchline, was pumping both fists in the air with a wild grin. And yet the drama wasn't quite over. The referee allowed PSV to restart. They tapped the ball forward, but before it even reached the halfway line, the whistle blew. Full-time. 2–1. Against all odds, in the final seconds of stoppage time, Leeds United had snatched victory from the jaws of a draw. Arthur had done it. He came to the Netherlands needing three points—and he got them. Not by luck. Not by accident. But through belief, bold substitutions, and the pure, unfiltered magic of Zlatan Ibrahimovic. The Philips Stadion emptied in stunned silence, while Leeds celebrated like champions. It was a match that would be talked about for years. Not just for the result—but for the moment that defined it.