Chapter 143: Still Manchester -2!

The match was still alive with intensity, but on the sidelines, the managers were just as busy as the players on the pitch. Arthur stood near the edge of his technical area, his eyes fixed not on the ball, but on Sir Alex Ferguson, studying him. The veteran manager, however, hadn't noticed. His attention was locked on the game, arms folded, face stern, fully immersed. On the pitch, Manchester United were building another attack. Ferdinand stepped up confidently and sent a sharp diagonal ball to the right flank, where Ronaldo had already begun accelerating. The Portuguese winger controlled it with ease, bursting down the channel despite two defenders rushing to close him down. With a sudden shimmy, Ronaldo slipped past the first defender, forced his way into the box under pressure, and managed to whip in a low cross from the byline. Rooney, charging in from the center, met the ball with a powerful first-time shot—but Kompany had read it well. The Leeds captain launched himself into a block, the ball smashing against his thigh and bouncing away. Fortune favored Leeds this time. The rebound fell kindly to Mascherano, who was already positioned just outside the penalty area. Without hesitation, the Argentine looked up, spotted Toure making space in midfield, and aimed a quick pass toward him. But just as the ball left his foot, a familiar red blur darted across the screen—Paul Scholes. With impeccable timing, Scholes cut across the passing lane and stuck out a boot, deflecting the ball cleanly out of play for a throw-in. Arthur's eyes narrowed. That confirmed it. Ferguson had pulled Scholes deeper. The idea was now obvious—pair Scholes with Carrick to neutralize Toure's influence. And looking further up the field, Arthur spotted another change: Rooney, who had spent the first half closer to the forward line, had dropped into midfield. "So... he's using Rooney to link the play now," Arthur murmured, rubbing his chin. His mind was racing. Should he counter now? Should he tweak the system? He glanced toward Toure, who was still patrolling midfield, and then back to the Manchester United players tracking him. "No," Arthur decided aloud. "Not yet." He had a different read on the situation. Scholes was 32. He'd already covered a lot of ground in the first half and was now being asked to work double-time in defense. Arthur doubted the veteran could keep up that intensity for much longer. "Wait until Ferguson moves first," Arthur muttered, stepping back slightly. And right on cue, the change came. In the 63rd minute, Manchester United won a corner kick. As the players jogged into position, Ferguson made his move. The fourth official raised the board, and Park Ji-sung prepared to come on. The number 18 flashed on the board—Paul Scholes was coming off. Arthur watched it happen with a small, satisfied nod. Now his window had opened. Without hesitation, he turned to the bench. "Lucas, you're off," he said, clapping Podolski on the back. "Rivaldo, warm up. You're going in." By the time the corner was taken, both teams had made their changes. Park had slotted into midfield to add energy and chase down Toure. Arthur's move was a bit less obvious—replacing a forward like Podolski with a creative midfielder like Rivaldo could mean several different things. In the broadcast studio, Blackwell was the first to question the logic behind Leeds' change. "Huh? That's... interesting," he said, leaning closer to the monitor. "I mean, Scholes looked absolutely gassed, so it makes sense for United to bring on Park. But Arthur replacing Podolski with Rivaldo? What's he playing at? Is Toure dropping deeper now to help Mascherano defend?" "Do you really think Arthur would settle for a draw?" Lineker cut in quickly, disagreeing with Blackwell's interpretation. "Remember the League Cup final earlier this year? Leeds were down to ten men and he still didn't back down. If anything, I think this is a setup to hit United harder. Rivaldo brings more creativity, and Toure—he might just push even higher now." "Hmm..." Blackwell didn't sound convinced. Back on the sideline, Arthur crossed his arms and stared out at the field as the corner was cleared away. He could feel it—Ferguson had blinked first. Now it was his turn to strike back. **** After both teams completed their substitutions, the game resumed with renewed intensity. Giggs stepped up to take the corner once again. This time, instead of his earlier back-post delivery, he whipped the ball toward the front of the Leeds United penalty area. Ronaldo, who had been quietly lingering behind Maicon, suddenly exploded into action. With a quick burst, he shook off the Brazilian defender and darted forward, leaping high into the air as the ball arrived. It was a clean jump, and the connection was solid—but the placement wasn't ideal. Ronaldo had aimed for goal, but the header lacked the right angle. Instead of flying toward Neuer, the ball sliced across the box at a high speed and ended up heading toward the back post. Standing in that exact area was Wayne Rooney. Though not known for his height, Rooney was quick to react. As the ball came flying toward him, he prepared to trap it and pounce. But Ronaldo's header had more power than expected. When it struck the top of Rooney's right foot, it didn't settle—it bounced awkwardly and rebounded forward a few feet. It was a loose ball now. Behind Rooney, Philipp Lahm had already assumed he was out of position and would need to recover. But the moment he saw the ball come free, instinct took over. He surged forward, reacting faster than anyone else. Rooney, realizing the opportunity was slipping away, planted his left foot and launched forward, throwing his body to the right to cut off Lahm and shield the ball. The two collided as they converged on the ball. Lahm did get there first and managed to poke it—but under Rooney's physical pressure, he couldn't get much on it. The ball trickled just a few feet, not enough to clear the danger. Rooney lunged again, desperate to regain possession. But before he could make his move, a blur of blue and white came flying in. It was Yaya Toure. Sensing the danger and reading the play perfectly, Toure had charged in from the left side of the box. With calm authority, he stepped in and swept the ball away with one clean touch, moving it well clear of the skirmish and into open space. Rooney tried to chase, but Toure was already ahead. By the time Rooney rounded Lahm and looked up, Toure had carried the ball twenty yards and was nearing the center circle. Carrick, seeing the unfolding threat, took off after him immediately. From the other side, Park Ji-sung—fresh onto the pitch—was also sprinting to intercept. But Toure had no intention of dancing past either of them. Arthur's philosophy was drilled into every Leeds United player on the training ground: when you counter, it must be fast. There was no room for hesitation, for fancy footwork, or for unnecessary risk. Speed was the heart of the counterattack. And Toure understood that perfectly. As he approached the center circle, he glanced to his left and right. Park was closing in from the flank, and Carrick was bearing down from behind—but Toure had already made his decision. He dropped his shoulder, angled his body just slightly, and shifted the ball forward with one long stride. With Carrick still behind and Park just out of reach, Toure opened up his body and prepared to release the next pass. Everything about his movement was purposeful—controlled but quick, urgent but composed. Leeds United weren't just clearing their lines—they were about to strike again. On the touchline, Arthur watched the whole sequence unfold with sharp eyes. The way Toure turned defense into attack, the pace, the timing—it was exactly what he wanted to see. A small smirk crossed Arthur's face. Ferguson might've thought pulling Scholes back and sending on Park would contain Toure. But as far as Arthur could tell, it wasn't working—not yet. And now Leeds were charging again. **** As Park Ji-sung closed in, Toure slowed down slightly. With just two meters of space left between them, he executed a quick drag with the sole of his right foot, shifting the ball sharply to his left. Before Park could even react, Toure sent a diagonal pass slicing through the grass—angled precisely to the left flank. And there, tearing forward like a bullet, was Leeds United's fastest weapon—Gareth Bale. His boots glinted under the floodlights as he accelerated toward Manchester United's penalty area. Toure didn't stop to admire his pass. As always, he kept moving—charging forward with long, powerful strides, following the trajectory of the play and angling his run toward the top of the box. Eddie Gray's voice rang out in excitement from the commentary booth. "Here it comes—Leeds United's iconic counterattack is coming again!!" Gray shouted over the rising roar of the Elland Road crowd. "Manchester United's players are scrambling to get back! Park Ji-sung and Carrick are chasing hard, sticking tight to Toure. But trailing behind all three, completely unnoticed—look out! That's Rivaldo arriving late on the far right!" Indeed, the Brazilian veteran had ghosted into the edge of the box, keeping his run just under the radar, his timing impeccable. Meanwhile, Bale had already taken a sharp touch to receive Toure's pass just outside the penalty area. The young Welshman didn't hesitate—his head came up briefly, assessing the chaos unfolding ahead of him. Toure was sprinting toward the top of the box. Torres was occupying Vidic in the center, tangling with him and drawing his attention. Evra was still clinging to Bale's back, trying to make up the gap. Ferdinand, caught between decisions, glanced quickly toward both Toure and Torres. With his teammates already marking those two, he made a snap judgment and burst out of the box to confront Bale directly. But Bale was ready. He cut hard inside and, without a second's pause, struck the ball low and early with his favored left foot. It was a clever decision. Everyone—Ferdinand included—expected him to drive to the byline or take another touch. Back in goal, Van der Sar had already started shifting into position. He remembered the first half. Bale had let fly from this same area before, and the Dutchman had parried it well. This time, though, the shot wasn't along the ground nor was it a curler toward the top corner. It was a half-height bullet—awkward, fast, and just high enough to be difficult. Van der Sar didn't try to smother it. Instead, with years of instinct, he clenched both hands into solid fists and punched the ball with force away from danger—sending it rocketing toward the right side of the box. It looked like a successful save. But just as the ball spun off into open space—there was movement. "Rivaldo!!" Eddie Gray's voice exploded across the stadium sound system. "It's Rivaldo on the right side!" The Brazilian, now well into the twilight of his career, appeared in the penalty area like a phantom—his movement graceful and perfectly timed. He didn't panic. He didn't rush. As the ball descended, Rivaldo shifted his body, fully extending his right leg to control the timing. Then, with that magician's touch only he had, he swung his left leg around in a tight arc and struck the ball before it even touched the grass. "Bang!" The connection was clean, and the sound of boot meeting ball echoed like a cannon shot through Elland Road. The ball curved instantly, arrowing toward the left corner of the goal. Van der Sar, still recovering from his earlier save and now sprinting across to the far post, dove—fully extended, eyes wide, fingertips outstretched. He wasn't going to reach it. The ball kissed the inside of the post, spinning past the line and into the net. GOAL. Rivaldo wheeled away, arms outstretched in a celebration that felt both ageless and majestic. For a moment, it was like Barcelona all over again. The fans in the stands behind the goal erupted into chaos—flags waving, scarves thrown into the air, people leaping over seats. On the pitch, his teammates rushed toward him—Bale slid on his knees in celebration, Torres jumped into the pile, and even Toure, the man who started it all, jogged over with a wide smile. On the sideline, Arthur clenched both fists and gave a triumphant shout. He turned and gave Simeone a heavy slap on the back, laughing as the Argentine assistant stumbled forward in surprise. Arthur was ecstatic—not just because they'd taken the lead, but because this was exactly how he'd imagined it. Quick. Precise. Ruthless. From interception to finish, the entire sequence had taken just seconds. It was a classic Leeds United goal—direct, devastating, and impossible to stop.