Chapter 76: Arsenal claws back

The teams switched sides for the second half, the atmosphere buzzing with anticipation. Arthur, hands tucked casually into his coat pockets, looked as relaxed as a man waiting for a bus. Why mess with a good thing? Leeds United had played brilliantly in the first half, so he kept the same eleven on the pitch. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it," he muttered to himself, nodding in self-approval. Meanwhile, over in the Arsenal dressing room, things were a little less rosy. Robert Pires, who had spent the first 45 minutes running around like someone who'd just remembered he left the oven on, was practically gasping for air. He plopped down on the bench, chest heaving, eyes glazed over like he'd just finished a marathon. For a moment, it looked like he might actually turn into a puddle right there in the changing room. Wenger paced back and forth, rubbing his chin like he was considering the secrets of the universe. After a few moments of thoughtful frowning—and probably realising Pires might need an oxygen mask—he made his decision. Adebayor got the nod, much to the delight of the travelling Arsenal fans. As he stripped off his tracksuit and jogged to the touchline, you could hear the murmur of anticipation ripple through the stands. The switch wasn't just a like-for-like change; it came with a tactical shift. Arsenal moved from their traditional 4-4-2 setup to a more aggressive 4-3-3. Adebayor slotted into the central striker role, with Henry drifting to the left and Van Persie gliding over to the right. It was a statement of intent from Wenger—one that said, "We're coming for you." The Elland Road crowd took notice immediately. Adebayor had once been a fan favorite at Leeds United, banging in goals for fun before his high-profile move to Arsenal. When his name was announced, the Leeds fans, despite their obvious reservations, broke into respectful applause. Some even gave him a standing ovation, though it was hard to tell if that was out of respect or just stretching their legs after sitting through Wenger's tactical tinkering. Up in the commentary box, Martin Tyler chimed in, his voice filled with that familiar sense of drama. "Arsenal have made their first change of the match—Adebayor is on for Pires. And it looks like Wenger is opting for a 4-3-3 setup. This is quite the adjustment. Pires was clearly feeling the effects of that first half, and Adebayor brings fresh legs and a lot of power up top." Beside him, Andy Gray chuckled. "I like the change, Martin, but you've got to wonder... is Wenger sacrificing his width? Ljungberg's been pushed into the middle, and Cole and Eboue aren't exactly marauding down the flanks. It's like he's gone all in on the middle of the park. Bold or bonkers—we're about to find out!" On the touchline, Arthur squinted across the field, hands still firmly in his pockets. "Wenger's going for it," he murmured to his assistant, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "Good. Let him come." He clapped his hands together loudly, startling one of the substitutes. "Alright, lads! Same as before! Eyes on the flanks, hit them on the break! They've just handed us the wings on a silver platter!" Back on the pitch, Adebayor trotted up front, already stretching his legs and flashing that familiar grin. The Leeds defenders exchanged glances, silently acknowledging that their afternoon had just become a little more complicated. But Arthur didn't seem bothered. In fact, he looked almost amused. "Let's see what you've got, Wenger," he muttered under his breath, nodding at the field as if it had personally offended him. For Arthur, the game had just become even more interesting. Arthur stood on the touchline with his arms crossed, watching Wenger's tactical shuffle with all the enthusiasm of someone witnessing a rerun of a show they'd already seen. The moment Adebayor stepped onto the pitch, Arthur barely raised an eyebrow. It was like watching someone play out a script he'd already memorized. "Right on schedule," he muttered to himself, a smirk creeping onto his face. "Knew he'd go for it." Wenger's hand had been forced. High-press football was like running a marathon at a sprint pace; it looked glorious for 45 minutes, but the second half was always a different story. Pires, who had spent the first half running like his legs were made of glass, finally gave out. Adebayor came on, and with him, Arsenal shifted to a 4-3-3. It was Wenger's classic backup plan when the wingers were spent and the middle needed some muscle. Arthur had expected this. He knew Hleb, Wenger's usual go-to for the flanks, was out with a knee injury from international duty. So when Adebayor jogged onto the pitch, Arthur's first instinct wasn't surprise but calculation. Arsenal were clearly moving away from their wide play, likely opting to grind through the middle or pick their spots for those neat little one-twos around the box. It was vintage Wenger—if the flanks ran out of steam, just hammer the center until something gave. Without missing a beat, Arthur turned and whistled sharply. Milner jogged over, eyebrows raised. Arthur didn't waste time. "Go tell Mascherano: Fabregas doesn't get to breathe. Stick to him like glue. If he so much as sneezes, I want Mascherano there with a tissue." Milner grinned and nodded, jogging back onto the pitch. Arthur watched as he relayed the message, Mascherano nodding with the enthusiasm of a bulldog let off its leash. The referee's whistle blew, and the game resumed. True to Arthur's prediction, Arsenal began funneling everything through the middle. Mascherano and Modric closed in on Fabregas like a pair of stubborn guard dogs. Every time the young Spaniard tried to get on the ball, Mascherano was there, breathing down his neck, nipping at his heels, and generally making his life miserable. Modric hovered nearby like a second shadow, ready to pounce on any slip-ups. It was working. Fabregas couldn't get a rhythm going, and Arsenal's usually slick midfield looked sluggish and cramped. Arthur clapped his hands together, nodding in approval. "That's it! Make him work for it!" he shouted from the touchline, voice cutting through the roar of the crowd. But football is never that simple, and Arthur knew it. His eyes scanned the pitch like a hawk, and soon enough, the crack in the armor showed itself. While Mascherano and Modric hounded Fabregas, Ljungberg started drifting into pockets of space, completely unmarked. The Swedish winger had been lurking quietly, almost too quietly, slipping between lines and waiting for that one moment of carelessness. In the 53rd minute, things started to unravel for Leeds United in the blink of an eye. Van Persie, looking as casual as if he were out for a Sunday stroll, rolled a straightforward pass out to Fabregas on the wing. Arthur, arms folded on the touchline, squinted suspiciously. "Why is he that open?" he muttered under his breath, waving his hands frantically at Mascherano and Modric to close down. They got the message and immediately converged on the young Spaniard like bees to honey. But just as the ball was about to reach Fabregas, he did something completely unexpected. Without even taking a touch, he flicked it straight behind him—like he'd just remembered Ljungberg existed. The ball rolled perfectly into the Swede's path. And the worst part? There wasn't a Leeds shirt within shouting distance. Arthur's jaw practically hit the grass. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" he groaned, slapping his palms together. Ljungberg didn't waste a second. Head down, he accelerated like a man who'd just been told the pub was doing free rounds. He darted straight through the gap where Modric and Mascherano were supposed to be. Both of them turned, sprinting back like they'd just realized they'd left the oven on. But Ljungberg was already off, breezing past the midfield pair as if they were jogging in quicksand. "Ljungberg's through! This is trouble for Leeds!" cried Martin Tyler from the commentary box. Alan Smith chimed in, "They completely lost him. It's like he vanished into thin air!" Arthur's hands were waving wildly now. "Track back! Where are you going? Track back!" he yelled, voice nearly cracking. But it was too late. Before Leeds' midfield duo could catch up, Ljungberg squared the ball back to Fabregas, who had neatly glided into space at the edge of the box. Chiellini, seeing the ball roll to Fabregas, made a split-second decision. He abandoned Adebayor—who was lurking ominously in the box—and charged toward Fabregas with all the grace of a runaway shopping cart. Arthur's eyes bulged. "Chiellini! What are you—oh, you madman!" But Fabregas wasn't even thinking about holding onto it. He took one smooth step forward, and with the outside of his right boot, flicked the ball with a casual elegance that seemed almost insulting. The ball spun gracefully through the air, curving away from Schmeichel's desperate dive, and nestled neatly into the top left corner. Thwack! The net rippled, and Elland Road fell silent for half a heartbeat. Then came the groans, loud and heavy, like the collective sigh of 30,000 people who had just watched their favorite balloon pop. "2-2! Arsenal are level! Cesc Fabregas with a stunning finish!" shouted Martin Tyler, his voice booming across the airwaves. "That is pure class from the young Spaniard. The Leeds defense looked like they were chasing ghosts!" Alan Smith chuckled. "I think Arthur's going to need a bigger whiteboard. That was a mess, pure and simple." Arthur, meanwhile, was standing on the touchline, hands on his head like he'd just watched someone drop his favorite mug. "How does he have that much space? It's like we're defending with traffic cones!" he shouted, smacking his hands together furiously. The Arsenal players gathered around Fabregas, patting him on the back and ruffling his hair. Wenger allowed himself a modest clap, hands folded neatly over his chest, a smirk creeping onto his face. Arthur saw it and huffed loudly, shaking his head in disbelief. But what really concerned Arthur wasn't the goal—it was the look on Modric and Mascherano's faces. The two young midfielders stood there, hands on hips, glancing around like someone had just unplugged their controllers. Arsenal's equalizer didn't just even the score; it rattled Leeds United's confidence, and Arthur knew it. The real question now was how quickly they could recover—because Arsenal certainly weren't slowing down. After the restart, Arsenal wasted no time cranking up the pressure. Fabregas seemed to be everywhere at once—collecting the ball, spraying passes around like confetti at a wedding, and linking up effortlessly with Van Persie and Henry. Within just a few minutes, Arsenal had already carved out two decent shots on goal, both of which required Schmeichel to throw himself around like a human trampoline to keep them out. Arthur stood on the touchline, arms crossed, jaw clenched. "What are we doing out there, knitting sweaters?" he muttered, shaking his head. Another slick Arsenal move saw Van Persie break down the left and whip a low cross into the box. Schmeichel flung himself forward, smothering the ball just before Henry could pounce. Finally, Arthur had seen enough. He stormed to the edge of his technical area, cupping his hands around his mouth like he was trying to shout across the English Channel. "JAVIER!" he bellowed, voice cracking with frustration. Mascherano turned, startled. "What are you doing? Setting up a picnic? Keep an eye on that Spaniard! I don't want him turning and playing through us like it's a training drill! Think about the first half! You had him in your pocket! Where's that gone, huh?" Mascherano gave a thumbs-up, looking more like a nervous student who'd been called out in class than the fierce tackler he was supposed to be. Arthur wasn't finished. He spun around to face Modric, who was lingering just outside the box, looking a bit like he'd just woken up from a nap. "LUKA!" Arthur's voice cut through the Elland Road noise. "Help with the defense! If it's not on, pass it back! Control the rhythm! We're not in a rush to hand them the ball on a silver platter! It's just one goal, alright? We haven't lost! Nobody's blaming you! You're our metronome, yeah? Keep it ticking, don't panic!" Modric gave a little nod, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Arthur clapped his hands together and pointed aggressively back toward the midfield. "Let's go! Back to it! Switch on!" Gradually, like a sputtering engine roaring back to life, Leeds United started to find their footing again. Mascherano pressed up on Fabregas, snapping at his heels with the kind of aggression that made the Spaniard think twice before turning. Modric, now with a clearer head, began to string passes together with calm precision, shifting the ball left and right, frustrating Arsenal's attempts to break. The match slipped back into a stalemate, the ball pinging back and forth as both sides jockeyed for control. Wenger, who had been pacing nervously in his technical area, paused for a moment, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. His gaze flicked across the pitch to Arthur, who had settled back onto the bench with a look of mild irritation but undeniable confidence. Wenger raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. "Not bad," Wenger murmured under his breath, almost amused. He hadn't expected Arthur to be so quick to steady the ship. It wasn't just about tactics—it was about confidence, about calming your players when things went sideways. And it was clear to him now that Leeds United's squad believed in their young manager with a kind of blind faith. Arthur, oblivious to Wenger's new sense of respect, was back on the edge of his seat, fingers drumming against his knees. He knew the match was still finely poised, but at least now his team wasn't playing like they'd just been woken up from a nap. There was still plenty of time, and Arthur was determined to make it count.