Chapter 175: Against Chelsea -3

Just like Jon had pointed out earlier in the studio—after those opening few minutes of fierce clashes, the tempo of the match at Elland Road started to shift. Once Schmeichel restarted the game with a goal kick, both Leeds United and Chelsea seemed to ease off the throttle a bit. The frantic, aggressive energy gave way to a more calculated rhythm. Both teams, like seasoned chess players, began probing cautiously around the midfield. Instead of wild rushes forward, they took turns testing each other's formations, looking for cracks to exploit. As soon as one side detected a potential gap—maybe a full-back out of position, or a midfielder a step slow—they'd attempt a direct through pass to punch through the defensive lines. This slower, tactical tug-of-war dragged on for the better part of half an hour. It wasn't dull by any means. The match had its share of sparkles—those moments that made the crowd lean forward—but no one had quite managed to light the fire. Leeds United had come the closest on two occasions. Ibrahimovic had a decent look at goal, as did Torres, but both attempts lacked the venom to truly trouble Cudicini. The Chelsea keeper handled both efforts with ease, each shot flying straight at him as if politely asking to be caught. Chelsea, on the other hand, had their most promising moments through the wizardry of Arjen Robben. The Dutchman had clearly found his rhythm and was causing headaches for Danny Mills. On three occasions, Robben cut inside beautifully, twisting and shimmying to shake Mills off and create space for a shot just outside the penalty area. One of those efforts even had a hint of danger—but Schmeichel was sharp, reacting with feline quickness to push the ball out for a corner. As the clock ticked past the 37th minute, the scoreboard still read 0-0. No goals yet, but tension hung thick in the Yorkshire air like the threat of a snowstorm. Meanwhile, in the Sky Sports studio, Jon and Lineker were keeping a close eye not just on the players, but on the two men pulling the strings on the touchlines. "Gary, I don't know if you caught that, but Arthur looks a little anxious," Jon said, his eyes narrowing as the broadcast showed the Leeds United manager pacing on the sideline while his team cycled possession in midfield. "I think you're right," Lineker replied with a nod. "I noticed it a couple of minutes ago too. Mourinho's already taken his usual spot on the bench, arms folded, looking like he's just been told Christmas has been canceled—but that's just his resting face." Jon gave a chuckle before continuing. "But Arthur's been frowning since kickoff. Hands in his pockets, pacing like a dad watching his kid take their first driving test. And just now, after Bale lost the ball to Ferreira again, Arthur called him over. He definitely said something, waved his hands a bit. Looked like he was frustrated that Bale just couldn't get past Ferreira." Lineker didn't hesitate to agree. "Makes sense. Ferreira's a wily old fox—he knows full well he's not going to outrun Bale, so he's been positioning himself brilliantly, cutting Bale off before he can really start sprinting. More than half an hour gone, and Gareth's barely had a clean run. That's the kind of performance you'd expect from a guy who lifted the Champions League with Mourinho." "Exactly. If Arthur doesn't make some kind of adjustment soon," Jon added, "I don't think Bale's going to get much joy on that wing today." Their analysis was good. But not perfect. Yes, Arthur had seen the problem—Bale was struggling to get past Ferreira in the traditional one-on-one situations. The Portuguese full-back was proving to be a real thorn, always anticipating the next move, always just a step ahead. On paper, it looked like Bale had hit a wall. But Arthur had noticed something that perhaps even the commentators—and certainly the cameras—had missed. In the previous sequence, Bale had actually found a sliver of daylight. He hadn't beaten Ferreira cleanly, no. But when he picked up speed and ran at him with the ball, Ferreira couldn't quite keep up. Not fully. He was clinging on, yes, but it wasn't as tidy as it seemed. That moment revealed something critical to Arthur: Ferreira was reaching his limit. The Leeds United manager had already tracked the patterns. Nearly all of his team's attacking efforts had come from the left—Bale's side. Both of the best chances—one for Zlatan, one for Torres—had started with movement on that flank. Bale hadn't done it alone, but his ability to stretch Chelsea's shape, to drag their defense wider, was starting to chip away at Ferreira's stamina. And it wasn't just a tactical note. Arthur could see it in Ferreira's body language. The Portuguese full-back was sucking in deeper breaths now. He'd run hard for nearly forty minutes, constantly tracking Bale, closing angles, leaning and lunging. Ferreira still had some fuel in the tank, but the needle was dangerously close to empty. In the last few minutes, Ferreira was surviving on grit alone. Arthur could tell. The man was praying for halftime—fifteen golden minutes to rest, recharge, and reset. So when Arthur had waved Bale over earlier, it hadn't been to scold him. Not at all. What he actually said to the young winger, leaning in just close enough to be heard over the roar of Elland Road, was far more encouraging. "Well done, Gareth," Arthur said, eyes gleaming with something fierce. "Keep up this impact. He's about to be unable to hold on." It wasn't anger. It was belief. Bale had nodded, eyes blazing with fresh intent, before jogging back to his position on the touchline. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He understood exactly what Arthur meant. But of course, in a stadium packed with more than 50,000 roaring fans, where even the sounds of a manager's shout could be swallowed up by chanting and clapping and stomping feet, Arthur's words hadn't carried far. Simeone, standing just a few feet behind him on the touchline, hadn't heard a thing. And as for Jon and Lineker, sitting miles away in a studio? Not a chance. They were right about one thing: Ferreira was having a solid game. But Arthur knew the truth. The cracks were starting to show. And Gareth Bale was about to hit the gas. **** In the 41st minute of the match, the game suddenly crackled with a jolt of electricity. Chelsea, who had been chipping away patiently in midfield, finally pieced together a relatively dangerous attack. The ball zipped around with intent before landing at the feet of Shevchenko. The Ukrainian striker glanced up and spotted Drogba charging into the penalty area, arms waving like an air traffic controller signaling a landing. The obvious choice, the sensible choice, was a quick pass to Drogba—who was already carving through the Leeds United defence like a hot knife through butter. But Shevchenko, perhaps feeling a sudden urge to relive his glory days, ignored his strike partner and chose to go solo. Unfortunately for him, Philipp Lahm was in no mood for nostalgia. Shevchenko took a heavy touch forward, trying to muscle past the pint-sized German defender, but Lahm was ready. He pounced with surgical precision—positioning, timing, execution, all perfect. His foot whipped in and nicked the ball away before Shevchenko could even blink. "Wow! I want to give 100 points for this steal!" Lineker shouted in the Sky Sports commentary box, clearly impressed. "Perfect positioning, quick feet—clean as a whistle!" "Beautiful stuff!" Jon agreed, despite his usual lean toward Chelsea. "And look, Leeds United are launching a counterattack right on the spot!" He wasn't exaggerating. Because in that one moment, the tempo of the match flipped like a coin. Chelsea, still high up the pitch from their offensive press, had left a yawning gap of open grass behind their back line. From the studio miles away, even Jon could see it. And if Jon could see it from a television screen, you'd better believe Arthur and Mourinho had noticed it ages ago. From the sidelines, Arthur transformed into a man possessed. He waved both arms frantically like he was guiding a commercial airliner. His voice cut through the wind and the noise like a siren: "Philipp! Pass the ball!" Meanwhile, Mourinho was doing a spring-loaded jack-in-the-box impression on the other side of the technical area. One second he was seated, the next he exploded to his feet and bolted toward the touchline, barking like an irate drill sergeant: "Get back!! Paul! Mark the Welshman!! I don't care if you have to foul him—STOP HIM!!" But by the time Ferreira could react, it was already too late. Lahm didn't hesitate. He'd already glanced up, saw Bale streaking down the left flank like a turbo-charged gazelle, and unleashed a pinpoint long pass with the outside of his boot. The ball soared through the air with perfect backspin, landing gently in the open field in front of Bale like a welcome mat. And off Bale went. Ferreira tried to keep up, but he may as well have been chasing a shadow in rollerblades. Even Ashley Cole, sprinting at full tilt from the opposite side, looked like he was running through syrup. Bale, meanwhile, looked like he had rocket boosters in his socks. With the ball rolling smoothly across the lush green turf, Bale glided past the halfway line, past the final defender, and surged toward Chelsea's goal like a man on a mission. Behind him, the rest of the Chelsea defenders were scattered in various stages of futility. Ibrahimovic and Torres were tearing down the middle as well, just in case, but this was Bale's show now. Ahead of him, the only obstacle was Carlo Cudicini. The Italian keeper stood alert on his line, eyes narrowed, knees bent like a coiled spring. As Bale entered the penalty area, the keeper made his decision. He charged out. The two locked eyes for the briefest of moments, and then Bale dropped his left shoulder slightly. His left foot twitched, hinting at a shot. Cudicini bought it. He hit the turf early, sprawling to his right with arms outstretched like a goalie in a movie. But there was no shot. Instead, Bale simply nudged the ball to the left with a subtle touch, slipped around the falling goalkeeper like water around a rock, and left him grasping at empty space. The move was so smooth, it looked like it belonged in a video game. Cudicini didn't even bother turning his head. He knew. The roar from the stands behind him told him all he needed to know. Elland Road erupted like a volcano. White shirts flew up into the air. Fans hugged strangers. Beer sloshed onto scarves. It was pandemonium. 1–0. Bale jogged toward the corner flag with the kind of casual swagger that only someone who knows they just pulled off something glorious can manage. He didn't scream or rip off his shirt. He just raised his fists and smiled as teammates swarmed him. The scoreboard ticked up. Just minutes before halftime, Leeds United had drawn first blood. Back on the sideline, Arthur clenched his fists and punched the air with both hands. His plan had worked—finally. Not just the goal, but the timing. The psychological impact of a goal just before halftime was pure gold. Chelsea, who had done well to keep Leeds United at bay for most of the first half, now had to digest a gut-punch just before heading into the dressing room. And Arthur? He was already planning the second half. Meanwhile, Mourinho stood still, frozen for a moment with one hand on his head. He muttered something under his breath in frustration. Then he turned and walked slowly back to the bench, face like thunder. Up in the Sky Sports studio, Jon let out a whistle. "Well... I don't think you can say that wasn't coming." "Nope," Lineker replied, still grinning. "Bale's been hammering on that door all half. Ferreira did his best, but you could tell—he was running on fumes. That final burst? Unstoppable. Lahm's pass was genius, and that finish... pure class." "Exactly. One moment of brilliance. That's all it takes," Jon said. "Chelsea played well. But Arthur's side were patient. And now it's 1–0." As the cheers rang on and Bale basked in the applause, Arthur stayed near the touchline, arms crossed now, watching calmly. He knew this game was far from over. But with a lead on the board and momentum on his side, he was right where he wanted to be. **** Forgot to upload lol. Work is killing me. But better late than never, eh? As always, you can read advance chapters on Patreon if you wish to.