Chapter 138: Against Manchester-2

When Cristiano Ronaldo received the ball on the right flank, the stadium roared like a tidal wave. But oddly enough, the cheers weren't for him. They were for Maicon and Ribéry. It had only been five minutes into the match, and the fans were already on their feet—not in anticipation of Ronaldo's brilliance, but in appreciation of the tenacity with which Leeds United's right side was neutralizing him. Ronaldo's first attempt at a run had ended with Maicon poking the ball cleanly out for a throw-in. This was now his second try. But things weren't going any smoother. This time, as Ronaldo tried to take on Maicon down the line, Ribéry was also tight behind him, harrying him with relentless pressure. To add to his surprise, Mascherano was drifting subtly across the pitch, positioning himself just inside the channel, reading the movement like a predator waiting to strike. Up in the commentary booth, Eddie Gray quickly narrated the scene as it unfolded. "Scholes sends it wide to Cristiano again," Gray said. "He's looking for another run—he's taken on Maicon once, but Ribéry's tracking him tightly. Look at that—superb teamwork. They've boxed him in! Cristiano's been forced to turn his back to goal and lay it off to Scholes again. That's two attacks in a row where Leeds have completely shut down United's right flank." He paused, then added with a hint of admiration, "Very clever setup from Arthur." Back in the TV studio, Lineker was just as intrigued. "Well, it's obvious now that Arthur's done his homework," he said, arms folded as he studied the monitor. "We've seen Manchester United funnel a lot of their attacks through Cristiano this season. That's no secret. But so far, Ribéry hasn't advanced much past the halfway line. He's staying close to Cristiano's orbit. Leeds aren't really using that left side to attack. It's as if Ribéry's been deployed more as a shadow fullback today." He paused for a second, then added, "I haven't seen too much of the midfield shift from Leeds yet, but they've completely shut down Ronaldo's corridor so far." Even Ferguson, standing on the touchline with arms crossed and brows furrowed, could sense something was off. And unlike the commentators, he wasn't fooled by the obvious. He had spotted what others hadn't—Mascherano. The first time Cristiano had the ball, Mascherano had been loitering just inside the channel. The second time, he had already begun sliding toward the right side of the midfield diamond before Ronaldo even made his move. It wasn't coincidence. It was design. Every time Ronaldo tried to cut inside onto his stronger right foot, Mascherano was there—lurking, waiting, anticipating. And not just as a destroyer—his positioning was calculated. He was the invisible wall behind Maicon and Ribéry. Ferguson muttered to himself, eyes fixed on Arthur across the pitch. "You're really that worried about him, huh?" he whispered, more to himself than anyone. "So much attention on Ronaldo... but what about Scholes?" Indeed, while Leeds United were flooding their right to deal with Cristiano, Scholes was operating in more space than usual. With Mascherano shaded to the side, Scholes had a bit more time on the ball. Not that he'd been able to do much with it yet—Leeds were pressing him intelligently in waves—but still, it nagged at Ferguson. "Paying too much attention to the wing opens up the middle," he said under his breath. "And you've left Modric and Alonso on the bench for this?" Arthur remained still and calm on the sideline. Arms behind his back, eyes focused, expression unreadable. He wasn't yelling or flapping his arms like some coaches did. He was just watching—like a chess player who had already moved his pieces into place and was now waiting for the next move. Ferguson adjusted his stance, peering at Arthur with renewed interest. "You're an odd one," he murmured. "Toure and Mascherano over Modric and Alonso? Diamond midfield to mirror mine? What's your play, kid?" Arthur's approach had left Ferguson puzzled. This was their fourth time facing each other. The record between them stood even—one win apiece, one draw. No one had come out clearly on top yet. But in each encounter, Arthur had shown something different. Something unpredictable. Something that stuck in Ferguson's mind longer than most. The fact that Arthur had dragged Leeds United into the Champions League in a single season said it all. This wasn't some lucky run. This was strategy. Vision. Control. Today, he'd done the unexpected again. Modric and Xabi Alonso—Arthur's usual midfield orchestrators—were fit and ready, but both had been left out. Instead, he had gone with brute force and energy. Yaya Touré, towering and explosive. Mascherano, tireless and gritty. Lampard played box-to-box. And Ribéry? He wasn't being used as a traditional winger at all. It was a diamond midfield with a twist. While Mascherano anchored and Touré pushed up aggressively into Carrick's space, Ribéry had essentially dropped into a defensive role, forming a temporary triangle on the right whenever Cristiano got the ball. It was clever, unconventional, and frustratingly effective. Ferguson wasn't surprised that Arthur had planned for Ronaldo—everyone did. But this level of detailed containment? Even he had to admit—it was well executed. He watched as Cristiano got the ball again, hoping for a breakthrough. But Maicon closed him down immediately, body low and compact. Ribéry hovered just behind him, ready to pounce on a loose touch. And, like clockwork, Mascherano drifted right, silent and surgical. This time, Ronaldo tried to fake outside and cut in—but Mascherano was already there, forcing him to hesitate. With nowhere to go, Ronaldo spun back and played it safe. Manchester United had to start again. Eddie Gray's voice returned over the commentary. "And once again, Leeds smother the threat. You've got to admire their discipline so far. Manchester United just can't find a rhythm down the right." Back in the studio, Lineker nodded thoughtfully. "Arthur's turned the right flank into a dead end. This isn't just good defending—it's deliberate, planned, and precise. And that's got to be worrying for United." On the touchline, Ferguson's eyes narrowed. What exactly are you up to, Arthur? The opening minutes hadn't provided any goals—but they had already told a story. And so far, it was a story of quiet domination from a young manager who refused to follow the script. Ferguson knew this wasn't going to be easy. Not today. Not against Arthur. **** The 11th minute arrived, and finally, the deadlock began to crack. Up to this point, the game had been tightly contested. Both sides had shown tactical discipline, trading possession like two chess masters probing for weaknesses. But now—Leeds United stirred into action. It started at the back. Calm, calculated, and composed. Fabio Cannavaro, ever the veteran, intercepted a loose ball near the edge of his box and immediately looked to turn defense into offense. He exchanged a neat one-two with Mascherano, then, with a quick glance upfield, spotted Gareth Bale making a run down the left. With a smooth diagonal ball, Cannavaro pinged it wide to Bale—precise, fast, and full of intent. Bale's eyes lit up. He controlled it effortlessly with one touch and began to gallop down the flank. Ryan Giggs, still graceful despite his years, shifted over to intercept him. But Bale wasn't interested in a drawn-out duel. Using the pure athleticism and youthful burst in his legs, Bale accelerated and nudged the ball ahead with the outside of his left boot, breezing past Giggs down the touchline with a clean sidestep. It wasn't flashy—it was efficient. One touch to glide, the next to burn. But Manchester United's backline had readjusted quickly. Bale's burst had cost him a few extra touches of space, and by the time he caught up to the ball near the corner flag, Patrice Evra had already come charging in from the inside. The two met in a blur of motion. Evra lunged, sliding in to nudge the ball out for a throw-in. But Bale, a split-second quicker, poked it away just in time—slotting a clever left-footed pass into the center for Yaya Touré, who had drifted in from midfield. The crowd roared as the momentum shifted. Touré didn't hesitate. Carrick was tight on his back, pressing, but Yaya welcomed the contact. With his massive frame, he leaned back and used his left foot to cushion the pass. Then, in one fluid movement, he rolled the ball behind his standing leg, spun around Carrick, and burst forward into space. Carrick blinked—he'd lost him. Panic set in. Knowing he couldn't recover with pace, Carrick did the only thing he could think of: he reached out and tugged Touré's shirt, pulling him back just enough to halt Leeds' surge. A sharp whistle pierced the air. The referee, standing barely ten yards away, didn't hesitate. Yellow card! The booking was swift and clear. Carrick stood there, arms slightly raised, wearing the expression of a man who knew he was caught red-handed. Gary Lineker, watching from the studio, didn't miss a beat. "Well, that's a big call early on," he remarked. "Carrick's been a steady figure for United in midfield all season, but he lost the duel there. Kevin—did you see how easily Touré just brushed him off?" Blackwell, trying not to grimace on air, nodded stiffly. "Yeah, I saw it," he muttered, sounding far less confident than before kickoff. "Touré just lowered his body, leaned in... Carrick had no chance. It's hard to say if that was part of Arthur's tactical plan, though. Bale played the pass under pressure—it might've just been instinct." Lineker, ever the sharper analyst today, smirked. "But isn't it interesting that Carrick's been isolated twice already? Could it be that Arthur's targeting him as a weak link in the midfield?" Blackwell fumbled with his earpiece and avoided a direct answer. He had made enough bold predictions before kickoff—ones that had already blown up in his face. It was safer now to hedge his bets. "Well, the yellow card is a problem," he admitted. "Fifteen minutes in, and Carrick's already walking a tightrope. That could spell trouble if Touré keeps coming at him like that." Down on the pitch, the atmosphere crackled with energy. Leeds fans erupted with cheers—not for the foul, but for what it represented. Momentum. Progress. The match was tilting. On the Manchester United bench, Sir Alex Ferguson was far from pleased. His face twisted into a scowl as he turned to the fourth official. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. "That's a pull—not a hack. A warning would've done!" He waved his arms in frustration. "This is Elland Road, not Old Trafford, I suppose," he grumbled under his breath. "At home that's a warning, not a card." He glanced across the touchline at Arthur, who remained stoic—calm, focused, and unbothered. Ferguson wasn't used to being out-coached on the sidelines. Especially not by someone so young. That yellow card had implications. Big ones. Carrick now had to tread carefully. Any mistimed tackle, any cynical foul, and he'd be gone. And Arthur surely knew that. Ferguson clenched his jaw. He could already sense the rhythm of the game shifting. Leeds weren't just absorbing pressure—they were setting traps. Carrick, now one of the central pillars of United's midfield, had already begun to crack. And that was only the 11th minute. The chess match was underway—and Arthur had just taken a pawn with purpose.