Chapter 214: Against Barca -1

Words : 1937 Updated : Oct 3rd, 2025

Arthur's thinking, as it turned out, was nowhere near as complicated as everyone around him seemed to believe. On one level, it was almost sentimental — which was ironic for a man who had been accused of having the emotional range of a granite countertop when selling players. Rivaldo had once quietly mentioned a lingering regret, a small wish he'd never managed to fulfill before hanging up his boots. Arthur, for all his dry wit and sometimes brutal pragmatism, wasn't entirely immune to moments of generosity. This match felt like the perfect chance to grant that wish. On another level, there was the hard-nosed tactical side. Arthur had binge-watched five or six recent Barcelona games like they were a Netflix series, hoping for that "aha!" moment where a glaring weakness would leap off the screen. But every time he replayed the footage, Barcelona just kept looking... well... annoyingly good. No gaping holes, no obvious patterns to exploit, no full-back constantly caught ordering a sandwich from the touchline kiosk. Just an efficient, well-drilled machine. The footballing world had agreed that Leeds United had pulled the short straw in this draw for a reason. Barcelona weren't just good — they were a nightmare to play against. Sure, Guardiola's tiki-taka would soon become the new religion of European football, but even before him, this team's DNA had been infused with decades of clever Dutch footballing philosophy. Cruyff, Van Gaal, Rijkaard — each had left their fingerprints on the blueprint. Now Rijkaard's "Dream Team II" was a beast with perfect balance: artistry up front, intelligence in the middle, steel at the back. Yes, Ronaldinho was the poster boy — the smiling assassin with the big hair and bigger grin — but anyone who'd actually studied them knew the real heartbeat of their attack wasn't at the tip of the spear. It pulsed in midfield, right in the feet of Xavi and Deco. Calling them "attacking midfielders" was only half-right. Rijkaard's three forward line wasn't fixed in place like statues. Ronaldinho, especially, drifted freely — often sliding infield from the left to combine with his midfielders, exchanging slick one-twos, and slicing open defensive lines like a hot knife through butter. Trying to contain him was like trying to catch a balloon in a hurricane. So Arthur, after much mental wrestling and the occasional moment of staring at his ceiling in the middle of the night, had decided: fine, if you want a midfield battle, you'll get one. And he wasn't going in to merely survive it — he was going to meet it head-on. Rivaldo's little personal request gave him the perfect excuse to field a starting XI designed not just to cope with Barcelona's passing carousel, but to jump right on and spin it their way. If they wanted possession football, Leeds would give them possession football. And maybe — just maybe — use it to knock them off their own rhythm. Once the players were lined up on the sideline, the ceremonial handshake procession began. As hosts, Barcelona went first, moving down the line to greet each Leeds United player. It was a polite, professional formality — but Rivaldo, standing tall in Leeds white, inevitably drew extra attention. Not from the fans — the Catalan faithful weren't exactly handing out roses for visiting players — but from the men in blaugrana. Great players tend to respect each other, even when they're on opposite sides of the pitch. Ronaldinho, especially, had history with Rivaldo. They'd lifted a World Cup together, and that sort of bond doesn't dissolve just because you're wearing different shirts today. When Ronaldinho reached him, the noise from the stands spiked into a loud mix of boos and whistles — the sound of the home crowd trying to drown out any sentiment. Ronaldinho just flashed that enormous, trademark grin, the one that could disarm referees and make TV cameras fall in love. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and embraced Rivaldo warmly before moving along. Meanwhile, the captains stepped up for the coin toss. Vincent Kompany — Leeds' bald defensive rock — stood opposite Carles Puyol, Barcelona's lion-maned warrior. The coin spun into the chilly air, glinting under the floodlights, before clattering back into the referee's palm. Arthur's side lost the toss. Kompany gave a small shrug — he'd clearly had better luck flipping coins for parking meters. Puyol, grinning faintly, chose to defend the half by the north stand. Arthur clocked all of this from the technical area, eyes narrowing. The plan before kickoff had been clear: Leeds would open cautiously, focus on holding shape, and weather the early storm that Barcelona would inevitably throw with their home advantage. But now... now they had the ball to start the game. And that got the wheels turning in Arthur's head. "Why should they be the only ones to set the tone?" he thought. "Why not punch first?" The idea was bold, maybe even reckless. Which, of course, made it all the more tempting. While Kompany and Puyol were still going through the ceremonial exchange of miniature team flags, Arthur cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted toward the forward line. "Rivaldo! Over here!" The Brazilian veteran, standing in position for kickoff, jogged over with a puzzled expression. "What's up, boss?" Arthur leaned in, voice low but urgent. "Forget taking the kickoff yourself. Tell Kevin he's doing it with Fernando. They start, pass it straight back to you — no dithering. The second you get it, I want Fernando tearing into their box at full tilt. And make sure he looks back for the ball when he breaks past their back line!" **** The moment Arthur whispered his little scheme, Rivaldo's eyes lit up. He didn't need a chalkboard diagram or a ten-minute lecture to understand the idea — the man had played at the very highest level for decades. Of course he knew exactly what Arthur was hinting at. It was cheeky, it was risky, and it was aimed straight at Barcelona's heart. But his smile wavered almost immediately, and he leaned in closer, speaking out of the corner of his mouth like a spy in a Cold War movie. "Boss... are you sure about this? I mean, it sounds a lot like... giving them the ball on purpose." Arthur gave him the look of a man who'd just been told the sea was wet. His eyebrows pulled together in that you're overthinking it way. "Whether it works or not is irrelevant — we try it first. Barcelona will come charging the moment we start, right? Fine. Let them. And if we catch them sleeping? Well... imagine the look on their faces." Rivaldo grinned now, properly this time. "Alright then. Let's try it." Without another word, he jogged off toward the halfway line, his long strides eating up the turf. He found De Bruyne and Torres standing ready for kickoff and quickly relayed Arthur's instructions in rapid-fire whispers. Torres raised his eyebrows; De Bruyne gave a little smirk. Both nodded. The whistle blew. But the beautiful chaos Arthur had pictured didn't exactly unfold the way it had in his head. See, Barcelona's backline still had a certain Carles Puyol in it — and Puyol didn't do "sleeping." When Torres played the kickoff pass to De Bruyne and immediately took off like a greyhound, head down and charging toward the space behind Barcelona's defenders, Puyol's instincts flared like an alarm siren. Most defenders, in that moment, would have stepped up with their teammates to squeeze the space and win the ball higher up. Not Puyol. He read the situation instantly, dropped back like an anchor, and tracked Torres step for step. If Torres had hoped for an early counter-offside sprint, he'd just found himself locked in a running battle with a man whose hair alone looked like it could tackle you. Rivaldo, who had received the return ball from De Bruyne, saw it all unfold in front of him. One glance told him that if he went ahead with Arthur's original long-ball plan, it would be like gift-wrapping possession and handing it to Barcelona with a bow on top. No, thank you. So he adjusted on the fly, slotting a quick pass backward to right-back Dani Alves. Alves, being Alves, always fancied himself a man who could solve problems with the ball at his feet. He shaped his body as if to glide forward past the onrushing Javier Saviola — a little shimmy to the right, a feint to open a lane — but just as he was about to make a move, he spotted another familiar figure charging in from the flank. Messi. And not the wide-eyed, baby-faced Messi people remembered from his early days — this one was already a menace with the ball, and apparently without it too. Alves decided he wasn't in the mood to be the answer to a trivia question about Messi's first major interception in Europe. A quick, smart pass inside to Modrić instead. Now Modrić had no shortage of skill, but he also had Deco breathing down his neck like a particularly persistent debt collector. Modrić's first touch was clean, but he didn't fancy spinning into a trap this early in the game. So he knocked it back toward the safety of his goalkeeper, Kasper Schmeichel, who was waiting inside the penalty area. Upfield, Torres was already slowing his run, recognising that the plan had fizzled before it even began. With the Barcelona line restored and no surprise gap to exploit, he drifted back toward the halfway line, watching for his next opportunity. Schmeichel, meanwhile, found himself in an awkward spot. He looked up, scanning for a target, but everyone seemed to be covered. Barcelona's press was a net closing fast, and every Leeds shirt had a shadow in blue and red. The Dane decided not to risk threading a dangerous pass through the middle. Instead, he nudged the ball slightly to his right, waited for Messi to start angling toward him, and then launched a firm kick toward the centre circle. The ball drifted just off to the right side, where Wesley Sneijder and Gianluca Zambrotta both went up for it. The clash was immediate — a tangle of arms, jerseys, and not-so-subtle nudges. Sneijder's body position was better, enough to make Zambrotta's header awkward. The Italian couldn't send it far; instead, the ball popped upward at a half-height bounce, dropping neatly toward Rivaldo, who had been charging toward that very zone. It wasn't a perfect moment — Rivaldo's first contact was rushed. The ball clipped his thigh, skidding forward into space. Xavi, sharp as ever, pounced, sprinting in from the side. But Rivaldo, all muscle memory and veteran instinct, darted two quick steps and wedged his body between man and ball, shielding it just enough. One deft flick with the outside of his left foot, and the ball rolled clear into open space... straight to Torres, who had now returned to the centre circle and, crucially, had no one marking him. In one motion, Torres took the pass, turning to face forward with acres of green in front of him. And in that instant, without meaning to, they were about to execute Arthur's pre-match plan — just... not in the way he'd drawn it up.

Chapter 214: Against Barca -1

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