Chapter 140: Against Manchester- 4

Elland Road fell silent. Berbatov's stunning goal had stunned the home crowd into a brief, uneasy quiet. But after a few heartbeats, something unexpected happened. Applause began to ripple from the stands—not loud, not thunderous, but sincere. A moment later, it swelled into warm, generous cheers. It wasn't for Manchester United, or even the goal—but for Berbatov himself. After all, he was a former Leeds man. Now in red, surrounded by jubilant teammates, he raised one hand in subtle acknowledgement of the reception from the home fans. It was a rare moment of football respect—a brilliant goal appreciated, even in enemy colors. Back in the broadcast studio, the replays were already rolling, and the analysts couldn't help but admire what they had just seen. "Berbatov played this so cleverly," Lineker said, shaking his head in admiration as the slow-motion clip showed the forward's subtle lob over Mascherano's head. "It's rare to see this kind of flair from an Eastern European player—this felt more like something a South American would pull off. He absolutely fooled Mascherano." Then the clip shifted to the full-speed replay of the volley, hit with such clean technique that the ball barely spun. "Berbatov's in great form today," Lineker continued. "With Cristiano locked down by Maicon and Ribéry, it's Berbatov who's stepped up and landed a heavy blow against his old club." Kevin Blackwell, who had been unusually quiet during the early minutes, perked up now. The goal gave him a little extra fuel. "Yeah, Manchester United hadn't scored in the opening 20 minutes, but they were clearly in control," Blackwell said with growing confidence. "And now they've got the goal to match. It looks like Arthur's gamble hasn't paid off. That diamond midfield Leeds is using—without a second holding midfielder—is starting to show its weakness. Once Berbatov began dropping deep, it pulled Mascherano out of position and exposed the back line." "Mmm," Lineker agreed. "You're right. That's the danger with only one true holding midfielder. Maybe the answer is to drop Toure back and firm up the middle again?" ••• Arthur stood silently near the touchline, hands clasped behind his back, watching the replays on the stadium screen. He'd seen exactly what the commentators had seen. Berbatov had played smart. His movement between the lines was giving Leeds real problems. Mascherano was being dragged out, unsure whether to follow him or hold his ground. It was the sort of calculated positional chaos that could throw even the best-organized systems off balance. But Arthur wasn't panicking. Not yet. He didn't agree with Lineker's suggestion. Pulling Toure back into a more defensive role would solve one problem—but create another. It would rob Leeds of the midfield power they needed to drive through Manchester United's lines. Bale's pace alone couldn't carry the attack, and long balls from deep weren't going to work against Vidic and Ferdinand. He needed to keep Toure high. Instead, he had another idea. Before play resumed, Arthur signaled to the bench and called over Kompany. Leeds' new captain jogged over quickly. Since Milner's departure, Arthur had made the bold decision not to hand the armband to the veteran Cannavaro, but to the younger, calmer Kompany. It had proven to be the right call. Arthur handed him a quick sip of water, then got to the point. "Vincent," Arthur said firmly, "if Dimitar keeps dropping deep after the restart, I want you to adjust your line and follow him forward. Not too tight—just enough to keep him in your zone. Don't let him have time on the ball." Kompany nodded, water still dripping from his chin. "And talk to Javier," Arthur added, pointing toward Mascherano across the field. "Cut the link between Dimitar and Scholes. Make them work for every pass. Don't worry about the score—we're only one down. Stick to the plan. Keep our shape." Kompany nodded again, then tossed the empty bottle aside and jogged back to his position, rallying the back line as he went. When the whistle blew and play resumed, it was clear Kompany had taken Arthur's words to heart. Every time Berbatov drifted away from the front line, Kompany subtly mirrored the move, just close enough to shadow him, just far enough to avoid getting spun. It didn't take long for Berbatov to realize he no longer had the time and space he'd been enjoying. After a few disrupted passes and two well-timed interceptions, it was clear—he was being tracked. Berbatov was clever enough to adapt. Realizing the middle was getting too crowded, he returned to his usual position up front, hovering just outside the Leeds box. United, recognizing the shift, began pushing their attacks wide again. Arthur watched carefully. The adjustment was working—for now. In the 35th minute, Manchester United nearly struck again. Scholes, with that signature look of quiet menace, spotted a window and pulled the trigger from outside the box. His low, powerful shot skipped just above the grass, slicing toward the bottom corner. Neuer was ready. The German keeper dropped low, arms stretched, and with a full-extension dive, managed to tip the ball just past the post. A fantastic save—and Manchester United were awarded another corner. Arthur let out a quiet breath. The danger wasn't over. Not even close. But his team was adjusting. Surviving. Holding firm. The next phase of the battle was about to begin. **** It was Ryan Giggs stepping up to take the corner for Manchester United. Unlike the previous one, where Berbatov had peeled out to the top of the arc for a surprise volley, this time Giggs opted for the conventional route—he sent the ball directly into the crowded Leeds United penalty area. But Arthur's team had clearly learned their lesson from the earlier mistake. They were now alert, focused, and fully prepared. Aside from Podolski, who stayed back near the halfway line as a precaution, every Leeds player had dropped deep and picked a man to mark. Berbatov, especially—fresh off scoring that brilliant opener—was being shadowed relentlessly. Mascherano had already tracked him through several runs in and out of the box, determined not to lose sight of him again. Seeing that his intended targets were well covered, Giggs switched his delivery to the far post, hoping to catch Leeds off-balance. But standing tall at the back post was Vincent Kompany. Just before Rooney could rise, Kompany leapt high, showing perfect timing and authority as he met the ball cleanly with his head, sending it arcing away from danger. The clearance dropped at the feet of Philipp Lahm, who didn't hesitate for even a second. With a calm touch, he nudged the ball forward to Yaya Toure, already moving into space near the edge of his own half. The crowd stirred immediately. Toure received the ball in stride, but Carrick was bearing down on him fast. The Manchester United midfielder had already been booked early in the game, and the yellow card still hung over his head like a warning light. So this time, instead of sliding in for a full-blooded tackle, Carrick tried to apply pressure with his body—leaning in, shoulder to shoulder, hoping to block the route without risking another foul. But Toure saw it coming. He gently stepped on the ball with his right foot, then, in one fluid motion, turned his body 180 degrees. His left foot swept the ball around to the other side of Carrick, and in that blink of a moment, he had pulled off a textbook Marseille turn—elegant, precise, unstoppable. "Wowwwwwww!" Eddie Gray's voice exploded in the commentary box. "What did I just see! That was a perfect Marseille turn! Yaya Toure with a bit of magic to glide past Carrick—Leeds United on the break!" Carrick was left behind, spinning helplessly, while Toure strode forward with those long, powerful strides that ate up the pitch. As he surged into Manchester United's half, the stadium came alive with noise—chants, cheers, clapping in rhythm. Bale, Ribery, and Torres all took off ahead of him, sprinting with purpose. The Manchester United players, caught high up the pitch from their set-piece, were reacting a half-second too late. What unfolded was a lightning-fast 5-on-3 counterattack, and the away side suddenly looked exposed. Toure crossed the halfway line with the ball still at his feet. Vidic began to step up to engage him, but Toure didn't linger. With impeccable timing, he nudged a pass to the left—right into the path of Gareth Bale, who was galloping down the wing like a racehorse released from the gate. Bale didn't slow down. He didn't need to. The left flank was open, and with Giggs out of position and Ferdinand scrambling to cover, Bale had space to attack. As he neared the box, Ferdinand angled his run, trying to shepherd him toward the byline, hoping to prevent an inside cut. But Bale didn't want to cut inside. He wanted the end line. With a quick tap of his left foot, he nudged the ball forward, just enough to get past Ferdinand's reach. Then, without breaking stride, he wrapped his foot around the ball and whipped a dangerous delivery across the face of goal. It wasn't a low cross. It wasn't a looping high ball either. Bale struck it with the inside of his foot just enough to keep it waist-high—a half-volleyed sweep that sliced through the penalty box with venom and precision. He had looked up just a second before delivering it. He'd seen the positions clearly. Gary Neville was the only red shirt in the penalty area, and he was already sandwiched between Podolski and Ribery. It was a 2-on-1 situation that any defender would dread. Bale knew that Podolski would attract Neville's attention, giving Ribery a chance to ghost in unnoticed. Neville, focused on Podolski, didn't even see the ball leave Bale's foot. His vision was blocked. His body language suggested he expected a low pass to the near post. But that wasn't Bale's plan. The ball soared just over Podolski's head, curling perfectly toward the far post—right where Ribery was arriving. The Frenchman had been kept quiet for over 30 minutes, pinned back by Ronaldo's presence and forced to defend. But now, finally, he had broken free. And the timing was perfect. He didn't need to take a touch. The ball was coming at the perfect height, the perfect speed. Eddie Gray's voice rose again, almost involuntarily, as the moment crystallized. "Ribery!" The roar inside Elland Road followed a beat later.