Chapter 212: So it Begins

Words : 1876 Updated : Oct 3rd, 2025

While Lineker and Jon were still chatting away in the Sky Sports studio with their usual blend of smug analysis and playful banter, over 1,000 kilometers away in the depths of Camp Nou, the real tension was brewing. And right in the heart of it all stood Arthur, pacing slowly in front of the whiteboards in the Leeds United locker room. He stopped, turned to his squad, and asked with a grin that tried to mask his own nerves, "Alright, lads... be honest. Anyone nervous?" The moment the question left his mouth, the room—which had just been buzzing with the familiar clatter of boots, murmured chats, and last-minute tape wrappings—fell into a heavy silence. The kind of silence that creeps in when nobody wants to be the first to admit something. Arthur's eyes scanned the room. Sure, they were all trying to play it cool—leaning back against lockers, pretending to double-knot their boots, sipping from water bottles like it was just another Tuesday training. But Arthur knew better. He noticed the tapping knees, the fidgeting hands, the players glancing at each other out of the corner of their eyes. Yeah, the tension was real. This was the Champions League knockouts. Not a random Tuesday. Not some pre-season friendly in Yorkshire. No, this was Camp Nou. Ninety thousand fans. Against Barcelona. The defending champions. Every camera in Europe pointed at them. Arthur was just about to break the silence with a proper motivational monologue when—out of nowhere—a voice cut across the room. "Don't be nervous!" Everyone's head turned at once toward the source, like a class of schoolchildren caught off guard by a substitute teacher. It was Rivaldo—Ferreira, as he was called in training sessions. Sitting in the far corner, casually lacing up his boots, completely unaware that he'd just accidentally hijacked the entire locker room vibe. The man looked up and blinked at the sudden attention. "What?" he asked, genuinely confused. "Is there something on my face?" He patted his cheeks, rubbed his chin, then raised both arms in mock surrender. "Did I spill water on my kit again?" Arthur couldn't help himself. He burst out laughing. "Get lost, Ferreira! Of course you're not nervous. You've played here more times than Messi's changed haircuts." A wave of laughter rippled through the squad. Even the usually stone-faced defensive line cracked a grin. It was like someone had turned a pressure valve and let all the steam out. Just like that, the tension was broken. "Hey, you lot!" Arthur clapped loudly, pulling everyone's attention back to him. "Eyes front. Good. Now listen up." He stepped toward the center of the room, letting his voice drop slightly. "There's no doubt about it—Barcelona are going to come at us hard tonight. They've got the home crowd, the pedigree, and they're going to want to kill this tie off in the first leg. When the defending champs crank it up, it's no joke. So we have to be ready. We need to be mentally sharp from the first second." He paused, scanning each face. The jokes were over now. "They're going to push us, maybe even pin us back. The first twenty minutes? Might be ugly. But you hold the line. Stick together. Stay compact. Don't give them space. If we ride out the storm, we'll get our moment." Then Arthur's voice took on that same cheeky confidence that had won him the dressing room months ago. "And remember—if we score one away goal here tonight, we've already won half the war. Just one. That's all it takes. Got it?" The squad nodded, a few voices murmuring "Yeah" and "Let's go." The confidence was returning, the butterflies slowly dissolving into adrenaline. The sound of boots thudding against the concrete floor echoed louder now as the players rose from benches, doing last-minute stretches, tugging their shirts down, and slapping each other's backs. Arthur didn't say another word. He didn't need to. ···· Meanwhile, the broadcast was back on Sky Sports, and Lineker's familiar voice returned to English living rooms everywhere. He was now dramatically motioning at the screen as footage showed the players lining up in the tunnel. "Alright, folks, as you can see, the players are lining up in the tunnel here at Camp Nou. We're minutes away now. Let's go over the starting elevens. Jon, take it away!" Jon gave him a look that could best be described as "utter betrayal." "You've literally got the lineup right there in your hand," Jon muttered off-mic, eyes narrowing at Lineker. But like a true pro—or perhaps a man who knew the production team was listening—he grabbed the duplicate sheet from the desk with a sigh and turned to the camera. "Right, let's take a look at tonight's starting lineup for Barcelona, the home side." He cleared his throat and began. "Barcelona are going with their tried-and-tested 4-3-3 formation under Frank Rijkaard. No surprises between the sticks—Victor Valdés keeps his place in goal. Now, onto the defense, and here's where it gets interesting..." Jon raised his eyebrows for emphasis. "With Thuram out injured, Rijkaard's been forced into a bit of a patchwork backline. Zambrotta slots in at left-back, Belletti on the right, and the centre-back pairing is captain Carles Puyol alongside the lesser-used Marc Crosas." Lineker leaned into the mic. "Bit of a makeshift partnership, that." Jon nodded. "It is. And that could be where Leeds look to exploit some gaps." He continued. "In midfield, Motta sits deep as the holding midfielder. In front of him, they've gone for the technical double-act of Deco and Xavi—no surprises there." Then Jon's tone shifted slightly as he reached the forward line. "Now this is where it gets spicy. Rijkaard's made a big call here—he's left Eto'o on the bench." After tossing the job of announcing the starting lineups over to Jon, Lineker barely glanced at the sheet in his hand again. It was typical Gary — cool, laid-back, and maybe a little too casual for this big Champions League night. The weight of the moment seemed to roll off him like water off a duck's back. But then Jon dropped a little bombshell. "Barcelona's starting center forward today is Saviola instead of Eto'o," he said, raising an eyebrow as if that fact alone might cause earthquakes in the footballing world. Lineker's face flickered with surprise. "Huh? Is Eto'o injured? What's going on? Rijkaard's throwing us a curveball here!" Gary mused, glancing again at the lineup sheet like maybe the ink might change. Jon just shrugged, spreading his hands in a 'no clue' gesture. "Beats me," he said. "Maybe a tactical decision, or maybe Eto'o woke up on the wrong side of the bed. We'll see." Then Jon's eyes caught the Leeds United lineup, and suddenly his expression shifted from mild curiosity to genuine excitement — the kind you get when you're about to spill some serious tea. Lineker noticed the change immediately. "What's up? What's got you so fired up?" he asked, leaning in. Without answering directly, Jon launched into his commentary with a bit more gusto. "Alright, folks, here's Leeds United's starting eleven. Manager Arthur has gone with a 4-5-1 formation — the same cautious approach he used against Arsenal last time out. Looks like he's all about securing a solid defense on enemy turf before thinking about scoring goals." He kept going, voice growing warmer. "At the back, goalkeeper Schmeichel stands between the sticks — no surprises there, dependable as ever. The defense line is refreshed with some players who had a break in the last match, ready to rock. From right to left, it's Alves, Kompany, Cannavaro, and Lahm. A formidable quartet, to say the least." Jon's tone dipped into reverence as he continued, "In midfield, the double shield of Alonso and Modric remains the iron wall, blocking attacks and launching counters. But the real twist is in the attacking midfield three. Sneijder on the right, De Bruyne on the left — two wizards with the ball — and right in the center, none other than veteran Rivaldo. And up front, leading the line, Torres." Lineker nearly dropped the lineup sheet in disbelief. "Wait... Rivaldo? Has he even played more than ten times this season? I swear I haven't seen him much!" Gary exclaimed, eyes wide. Jon nodded emphatically. "Exactly. This is what has me buzzing. Arthur has so many options in midfield, yet he picks Rivaldo to start. You gotta wonder if this is a masterstroke to throw Barcelona off, or if he's just feeling nostalgic and wants to remind everyone Rivaldo still has fire in his belly." Lineker shook his head, chuckling. "Masterstroke? I'm not sure. Sounds more like Arthur is about to shake the chessboard and see what falls off." Jon laughed. "More like a shockwave, Gary. Not a subtle hint — a full-on bombshell." While the two commentators were dissecting the lineups with their usual banter, the scene at Camp Nou was electric. The players filed out of the tunnel one by one, their steps syncing to the pounding Champions League anthem reverberating through the stadium. The crowd, a kaleidoscope of over 90,000 fans, was a sea of red and blue stripes, with a sprinkling of Leeds white shirts daring to stand out. Kompany led the Leeds charge, shoulders squared, eyes scanning the vast expanse of the stadium. As he stepped onto the pitch, he was immediately swallowed by the deafening roars and chants cascading from every corner. It was the kind of atmosphere that could unnerve even the steeliest veterans. Massive TIFOs stretched across the stands like war banners — artistic masterpieces designed to intimidate and inspire. Giant screens flashed player photos and stats, the crowd erupting at each familiar face. At the back of the Leeds line, Rivaldo strolled out alongside a ball boy. The moment the big screen caught his image, the crowd's reaction turned venomous. A tidal wave of boos and jeers thundered from the stands, a brutal welcome for the veteran. But Rivaldo wore his calm like armor. He didn't flinch, didn't speed up his pace. Instead, he moved slowly, deliberately, his face a mask of quiet determination and maybe a hint of satisfaction. As he passed the Leeds bench, Rivaldo caught Arthur's gaze. For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them amid the chaos. His eyes said something unspoken but clear — a message filled with grit, resolve, and a touch of defiance. It was as if he was telling Arthur, "See this? This is exactly why I needed to start today." Arthur nodded slightly, understanding the unspoken bond between player and coach — a bond forged by battles past and present, by trust and unyielding belief. The players were now set, the stadium alive, the atmosphere thick with anticipation and adrenaline. The Champions League stage was ready for its next epic chapter.

Chapter 212: So it Begins

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