Chapter 56: Against Manchester United 3

The second half kicked off with Leeds United on the ball, and Arthur, standing on the touchline, was already barking orders. He'd spent the entire break working out how to untangle the tactical mess from the first half, and now it was time to see if his plan would actually work. Leeds United started with a few quick ground passes to settle the tempo. Modric, as usual, was at the heart of it, effortlessly gliding past Rooney before sending a sharp pass out to Ribery on the left. Arthur's eyes immediately locked onto Ribery—this was the moment. Ribery took the ball with the usual smooth touch, but there was a difference. Instead of looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, he actually looked... determined. Maybe even a bit cocky. Arthur couldn't help but crack a slight smile. That's what he wanted to see—a bit of that fiery Ribery spirit. Because of Arthur's tactical switch, Leeds had committed plenty of players forward, their back line now hovering dangerously near the halfway mark. Meanwhile, Ferguson, on the other side, had his Manchester United players set up for man-to-man defense. However, it seemed Ronaldo wasn't particularly interested in helping out on defense. He lingered closer to the center circle, clearly planning to pounce on any loose ball and launch a counterattack. Arthur noticed this and muttered to himself, "Yeah, just hang out there, mate. Makes our lives easier." Ribery, meanwhile, had his head down, eyes fixed on O'Shea, who looked like he'd rather be marking anyone else at that moment. In the first half, O'Shea had barely needed to break a sweat. Now, though, Ribery looked like a man possessed—or at least someone who'd remembered how to play football. O'Shea seemed cautious, keeping a respectable distance from Ribery, shuffling his feet to block any sudden movements. He couldn't help but think back to the first half, when Ribery had been Manchester United's secret weapon, practically gifting them two goals. Why was this guy still on the pitch? He glanced over at Arthur and thought, That young coach must be out of his mind. Ribery, of course, couldn't read minds, but he didn't need to. He could see the skepticism in O'Shea's eyes, and that was enough to fuel his determination. In his mind, Ribery thought, Breakthroughs are my thing. I'm not afraid of anyone! He continued to advance, dribbling with a calculated rhythm, his pace calm and unhurried. O'Shea hesitated, unsure whether to commit or hold his ground. Then, in an instant, Ribery switched gears. Without warning, he nudged the ball a few feet ahead, increasing the gap between him and the ball just enough to give himself a burst of speed. O'Shea had been eyeing Ribery like a hawk for the past few seconds, his gaze locked onto the ball at Ribery's feet. When Ribery's touch seemed just a little too heavy, O'Shea's eyes lit up like he'd just spotted an open bar. This is it, he thought. Time to nick it and launch the counter. Without hesitation, O'Shea lunged forward, planting his right foot and stretching his left leg out like he was auditioning for the splits. His boot angled perfectly toward the ball—he was already picturing the clean steal, the ball at his feet, a crisp pass to Ronaldo, and a lightning-fast break down the wing. But just as his foot was about to make contact, a flash of white zipped past his line of sight. A single white boot, light as a feather, tapped the ball away with the kind of smugness usually reserved for magicians pulling rabbits out of hats. O'Shea's brain took a half-second to catch up. Wait...what? Ribery was gone. Not just moved—gone. Like he'd teleported to the other side of him, the ball now rolling gleefully through O'Shea's legs. It was the classic nutmeg. Textbook. Ribery didn't even look back; he just darted forward, grinning like a kid who'd just stolen a cookie right under the baker's nose. From the touchline, Arthur couldn't help but laugh. He clapped his hands and shouted, "Oh, I hope you charged him rent for that, Frank!" The crowd gasped and then burst into cheers—well, the Leeds fans did. The Manchester United side of the stadium looked like someone had just announced a tax audit. O'Shea, meanwhile, was still spinning around, trying to figure out where exactly Ribery had gone. He turned left, then right, like he'd just lost his keys. By the time he'd reoriented himself, Ribery was already streaking down the wing, leaving O'Shea to mutter a string of words that were probably best left off the broadcast. "Ribery's through! What a stunning bit of skill!" shouted the commentator. "That's a nutmeg straight out of the highlight reel! Now it's Ferdinand stepping up to meet him!" Ferdinand wasn't about to be embarrassed like his teammate. He charged forward, cutting off Ribery's path and angling his body to force him toward the byline. If Ribery wanted to do anything with the ball, it was going to have to be from the worst angle possible. Ribery glanced up, catching a glimpse of Ferdinand's positioning. He saw what Ferdinand was trying to do—funnel him into the corner where his options would dry up faster than a puddle in the desert. But Ribery, for once, was a step ahead. He faked a slight drop of his shoulder, hinting at a cross, and Ferdinand bit, leaning just a little too far. That was all Ribery needed. He zipped past Ferdinand on the outside, cutting along the baseline like he was on a rail. Ferdinand's recovery attempt came too late; Ribery was already in full stride. Arthur slapped his hands together on the touchline. "Yes, Frank! Keep going! He's got ankles made of glass—take him on!" Ribery didn't need the encouragement. He reached the baseline and lifted his head. In the box, Falcao was tussling with Keane, looking like two wrestlers in a bad mood. Further out, Deisler hovered at the edge of the box with Scholes snapping at his heels. Sylvestre was scrambling back, while O'Shea...well, O'Shea was still trying to remember what day it was. Ribery found himself stuck in the corner, squeezed between the baseline and a wall of red shirts. He squinted, frantically scanning for options. Deisler was waving his arms wildly at the edge of the box, practically doing jumping jacks for attention, but Ribery knew better. If he passed it there, it would be gobbled up in seconds. Manchester United's defenders were swarming like ants at a picnic, ready to stomp out any sign of creativity. Just as he was about to give up and lump it into the box out of desperation, he saw it—a white jersey on the far side of the pitch waving like a madman. Ribery didn't even bother checking who it was. For all he knew, it could've been a ball boy who'd wandered onto the pitch, but it was his best shot. Without hesitation, he swung his left foot around, catching the underside of the ball perfectly. It flew through the air with almost supernatural precision, like it had been shot out of a cannon. And there, standing completely unmarked with enough space around him to start a picnic, was Maicon. Manchester United had gone full man-to-man, and apparently, Maicon's man had decided to man-mark the concession stand instead. Gary Neville was glued to Milner, Giggs was wrestling Mascherano, and Maicon had roughly the same amount of freedom as a kid in a candy store. "Oh-ho! Look who's wide open!" the commentator practically shrieked. "Maicon has time to check his watch, write a postcard, and still take a shot!" Maicon didn't even bother to take a touch. His eyes locked onto the ball like a hawk, and with the kind of swagger only a Brazilian right-back could have, he lined up for a volley. His left foot planted, his right foot swung, and the connection was pure. The ball shot off his boot like it was fleeing the scene of a crime, screaming low and viciously across the grass. It barely had time to pick up any spin before it zipped past Van der Sar, who didn't so much as flinch. The Dutch keeper was still squinting through traffic when he heard the unmistakable thud of the ball slapping against the net. "GOOOOOOOAAAL!!!" Ere Gedi's voice cracked through the broadcast like he'd just won the lottery. "MAICON! Leeds United is back in it! 2-1! And what a hit, my word! That is a howitzer from the right-back! Ribery with the assist, he's redeemed himself in the biggest way possible!" Arthur was already on the touchline, punching the air like he'd just taken down a heavyweight champion. His face was alight with pure adrenaline. "Get the ball! No celebrating! Get it back to the middle! We've got a game to win!" he barked, his voice cutting through the noise. Milner didn't need telling twice. He sprinted into the goal, snatched the ball out of the net with all the urgency of a man stealing from a supermarket, and hoofed it towards the center circle. Falcao followed behind, urging everyone to get back into formation. Leeds United weren't here to make up the numbers anymore. On the other side of the pitch, Sir Alex Ferguson's face twisted into a scowl. He rubbed his chin, clearly unimpressed by what he'd just witnessed. His assistant leaned in and whispered something, but Ferguson held up a hand, signaling him to wait. His eyes were locked on Ribery, who now looked like he'd been injected with pure confidence. Whatever Arthur had done to him at halftime, it was working, and Ferguson knew it. The old Scotsman pulled his assistant close and murmured, "Get them warmed up. We need fresh legs. And keep an eye on that little Frenchman. He's starting to believe in himself. Can't be having that." The assistant nodded and jogged off to get the substitutes moving. Ferguson, meanwhile, crossed his arms and stared at the pitch with the expression of a man who was just starting to realize his afternoon might not go as smoothly as he thought.