Chapter 142: Still Manchester !

As the referee's whistle echoed across Elland Road, the first half officially came to a close. The players from both teams began making their way off the pitch, their faces glistening with sweat and flushed with effort. The broadcast cameras, rather predictably, zoomed in on Yaya Toure. After all, it was his explosive counterattack and composed finish that had pulled Leeds United back level just minutes after conceding. He had been everywhere—charging through midfield, absorbing pressure, and breaking lines—and the fans knew it. As the screen showed replays of his Marseille turn and goal, commentators continued praising his first-half display. Meanwhile, near the touchline, Arthur stepped forward as Toure jogged toward the tunnel. The young manager reached out, clapped a firm hand on Toure's shoulder, and gave him a few quick words of encouragement. The gesture was brief but full of appreciation—Toure had been crucial, and Arthur knew it. Leeds United's fans roared with applause as their players exited the pitch, energized by the equalizer and the confident finish to the half. But in the away dressing room, the mood was far more subdued. Manchester United's players filed in one by one, uncharacteristically quiet. They had controlled the early stages, even taken the lead through Berbatov's brilliant strike. But just as they started to settle, they'd been sucker-punched by a lightning-fast counter. The timing of it—the sheer speed and precision—had knocked the wind out of them. Ferguson stood near the tactics board, arms crossed and expression thoughtful. He'd already let his frustration out once on the touchline. No need to repeat it now. Instead, he surveyed the dressing room. Rooney was toweling off his face. Carrick sat with his head slightly lowered, still chewing on the moment he got turned by Toure. Scholes leaned back on the bench, catching his breath. Ronaldo leaned against the wall, looking frustrated that he'd barely gotten space to operate. Ferguson finally stepped forward, voice calm but purposeful. "Alright, lads. Heads up." A few eyes lifted toward him. "We didn't lose the half. Let's not forget that. It's still 1–1. We're not behind—we're level. But yes, we let them back in. We gave them that counter. And no, it's not all on you. That was on me too. I didn't expect Arthur to tweak his midfield like that." His eyes flicked toward Carrick and softened slightly. "We didn't plan for Toure running through the middle like that. But now we know. Now we fix it." Carrick gave a short nod, appreciating the backing. Ferguson turned toward Rooney next. "Wayne." Rooney, still wiping sweat from his brow, looked up immediately. "In the second half, I need you to drop deeper. We'll leave Dimitar up front on his own for a bit. You're going to help out in midfield—cut the passing lanes, close down space, support Scholes and Michael. You alright with that?" Rooney didn't hesitate. "Yeah, got it." Ferguson then shifted his gaze to Scholes, whose face was still a little red from the half's tempo. "Paul," he asked, "how's your engine? You've got twenty more minutes in the legs?" Scholes gave a breathy grin. "Yeah. I'm good." "Right," Ferguson nodded. "Then in that time, I want you to play a little deeper. When we lose the ball, drop back quickly. Help Michael close down their No. 8—don't let him turn. Don't give him space to pick his pass." Scholes raised a thumb in acknowledgement. "And if you start to fade, I'll get Ji on. He's warming up now." As the players listened, Ferguson stepped back and clapped his hands loudly to rally the group. "Look, you were solid for most of that half. The goal they scored—yes, it stings—but it came from one moment of magic. That's what happens at this level. We lost our shape, they punished us. But that doesn't undo the rest of the work." He scanned the group again, making eye contact with several. "I want us to start the second half the same way we started the first—on the front foot. Keep the pressure high. Keep the ball moving. And most of all—don't let them hit us on the break again. If they want a goal, make them earn it." Rooney sat forward now, tying his boots with more purpose. Ronaldo adjusted his shin pads. Even Carrick, visibly still replaying his first-half mistake in his mind, gave a resolute nod. As Ferguson finished, the room began to shift from quiet reflection to focused determination. The plan was clear. The message was simple. There were still forty-five minutes left. And the match was far from over. **** In the home team's dressing room at Elland Road, the atmosphere was buzzing with energy and purpose. The equalizer before halftime had breathed fresh life into the squad, and now Arthur was standing in front of his players, calm but animated, ready to lay out the next phase of the plan. "Great work in the first half," he began, sweeping his eyes around the room. "Not only did we absorb a lot of pressure, but we bounced back immediately and punished them. That counter was textbook. That goal from Yaya... beautiful." As expected, the mention of Toure sparked a wave of laughter across the room. Cannavaro, seated beside him, gave Yaya a playful slap on the shoulder. "Man of the moment," he grinned. The usually stoic Toure allowed himself a sheepish smile, his face slightly flushed, but he nodded back. Arthur smiled too but didn't let the moment linger. He turned to the tactics board, picking up a marker and dragging it across the formation sketch. "Now listen," he said, his tone shifting into something more focused. "You can bet Alex is making changes right now. He's not just going to sit back after that. Yaya gave them problems—real problems—and Ferguson's not the kind of manager to let that happen twice." He paused, drawing a quick arrow from midfield toward the Leeds box. "If I know him, he'll shift Rooney. Pull him into midfield, just behind Berbatov, to help screen passes. Then he'll drop Scholes deeper, to help Carrick. They'll double up on Yaya and try to shut that channel down." Arthur clicked the pen closed and pointed it toward Podolski, who looked up attentively. "Lucas, this next part involves you." The room went quiet. Arthur continued, "If that happens—and it probably will—I may need to adjust our shape. Depending on how things look after the first few minutes, I might bring on Rivaldo and have us move into a two-striker system when attacking. You and Rivaldo would split the line." Podolski nodded slowly, already piecing it together. "But," Arthur added, walking over to gesture toward the midfield zone on the board, "when we lose the ball, Yaya drops deeper. He and Javier protect the middle together. Which means..." He turned back to Podolski. "You'll need to track back more than usual. Sacrifice a bit of your forward game. Support the shape, press where needed." There was no complaint. Podolski just nodded again, this time more firmly. Arthur turned to the rest of the squad. "I know this isn't how we usually set up," he admitted, "but today's match is different. Manchester United won't give us time on the ball, and they'll try to force mistakes. But if we're smart—if we read their shifts quickly—we can keep pinning them back." He looked toward Toure and Mascherano now. "Yaya, Javier, if Rooney drops into that hole, you need to talk constantly. Take turns stepping forward, keep him from turning. Scholes might try to pull strings from deep—so no loose pressure, understood?" The two midfielders nodded in unison, both already switched back into match mode. Arthur stepped back from the board, took a deep breath, and gave one final instruction before heading out. "Let's keep the energy up. Keep the communication sharp. This is our home. We've fought our way back into this game—now let's finish it." The dressing room clapped into life as the players stood, shaking out their legs and giving each other words of encouragement. Arthur gave Toure one last slap on the back as they headed toward the tunnel. Now it was time for the second half. **** As the 15-minute halftime break came to an end, both teams emerged from the tunnel and took their places on the pitch again under the lights at Elland Road. The scoreline was even, but both benches knew the balance could tip quickly in either direction. Arthur stood on the edge of his technical area, arms folded, scanning Manchester United's lineup as the players spread out across the field. His eyes narrowed slightly when he noticed something—or rather, the lack of something. "Still the same eleven," he muttered under his breath. "Ferguson didn't make a single change?" From a few steps away, Diego Simeone tilted his head. "Looks like it." Arthur gave a slight nod. "Interesting..." Up in the studio, Lineker picked up on the same detail and wasn't shy about sharing his thoughts. "Well, we're back underway at Elland Road for the second half," he began, his voice calm but laced with curiosity. "And here's something worth noting—neither manager has made any substitutions. Now, I can understand Arthur's thinking. That midfield adjustment he made before the game clearly worked. Yaya Toure was dominant, and Leeds got their equalizer." "But Kevin," Lineker continued, "you have to wonder what Sir Alex is thinking. Carrick really struggled against Toure in the first half. I half expected Park Ji-sung or even Wes Brown to come in and help contain that threat. Instead, he's stuck with the same setup. Risky." Blackwell was about to reply, but before he could, the referee's whistle echoed across the stadium—and the second half was officially underway. Leeds United had the kick-off. Rather than launching into an immediate attack, Arthur's team started with composure. They passed the ball methodically across their backline, switching sides and inviting Manchester United to press. This was clearly part of the plan: draw United out, create space behind their midfield, and look for the opening. United, for their part, had taken Ferguson's words to heart. They pressed high and hard, with Berbatov, Rooney, and Giggs stepping up quickly to close down Leeds' defenders. Cannavaro, cool under pressure as always, received the ball from Mascherano, took one touch to steady himself, and then pinged a diagonal long ball toward the left wing. Bale, already racing forward, timed his run perfectly and broke into space behind Evra. "Woohoo!" shouted Eddie Gray on commentary. "A pinpoint long pass from Cannavaro—and Bale is on the run again! But Evra's not letting him go easily!" Bale controlled the ball with his chest, let it bounce once, and surged down the touchline, but his pace was checked slightly as he had to keep the ball close to avoid losing it. That small delay gave Evra just enough time to close the gap. With Evra pressing on his heels, Bale looked momentarily boxed in. "This way, Gareth!" The shout came from Toure, bursting into view to Bale's right. Without hesitation, Bale played a left-footed pass toward the middle, trusting Toure's positioning. Toure was ready. He shoved Carrick's hands off his shirt and began accelerating into the space, anticipating the ball. But just two steps into his run, a flash of red darted into view. Paul Scholes, of all people, had dropped deep into the defensive zone, reading the play before it unfolded. With perfect timing, he intercepted the pass and toe-poked the ball neatly toward Ferdinand near the penalty arc. "Ahh, that's unlucky for Leeds," Eddie Gray groaned. "Toure looked set to charge through again, but Scholes appeared out of nowhere. That's clever defensive work from the veteran." Down on the sideline, Arthur's eyes narrowed as he watched Scholes jog back into midfield. Something didn't feel right. He turned his head and glanced at the Manchester United bench—then at Ferguson. "Hmm," he murmured, rubbing his chin. Something was different. No substitutions had been made, that much was true. But Ferguson had adjusted something—quietly, tactically. And now, Scholes was dropping deeper, essentially forming a double pivot alongside Carrick when Leeds had possession. Arthur had expected this sort of response eventually, but not without a personnel change. Ferguson had opted for a subtler route. He hadn't brought in a new midfielder; instead, he'd reshuffled his current pieces. Rooney had drifted slightly deeper, and Scholes was no longer lingering around the final third—he was shadowing Toure now. Arthur exhaled slowly, arms still crossed. "Smart move," he muttered, half to himself, half to Simeone beside him. "He's countering Toure without a sub. Classic Ferguson." Back in the studio, Lineker and Blackwell had picked up on the same thing. "Kevin," Lineker said, "take a look at where Scholes is operating now. That's a lot deeper than the first half." "You're right," Blackwell replied. "Ferguson's adjusted without changing personnel. He's shifted the shape. That'll reduce the time and space Toure gets to pick his passes or drive forward." "Well, now it's Arthur's turn," Lineker added. "He'll have to respond. We could be in for a fascinating tactical battle here in the second half." And indeed, Arthur was already weighing up his next steps. Something was definitely wrong with the picture on the field—something he'd have to fix before Manchester United tilted the momentum again.