Chapter 84: Facing Liverpool-2

The match had barely kicked off, and Anfield was already in full voice—like a stadium full of caffeinated opera singers. Just as Arthur warned in the dressing room, Liverpool were no slouches despite the headlines painting them like a washed-up band trying to relive their glory days. From the opening whistle, the Reds came out like a team possessed. Within ten minutes, they'd already fired off three shots and had Leeds United's back line sweating like they'd left the oven on back in Yorkshire. The loudest moment came when Xabi Alonso, gliding through midfield like a man on a mission, spotted a narrow lane and zipped a perfect low pass straight through the Leeds defense. It sliced through the back line like a hot knife through butter and landed right at Djibril Cissé's feet in the box. It was the kind of moment that makes coaches raise their arms, photographers lift their cameras, and fans rise in anticipation. Cissé had time, space, and one job—put the ball in the net. Instead, he absolutely hammered the ball like he was trying to blast it into orbit. It flew high, wide, and probably terrified a few seagulls. The ball hadn't even landed yet when Benítez, already halfway into a premature fist-pump, snapped into a red-faced rage on the touchline. "¡Qué demonios fue eso!" he shouted, flailing his arms like a windmill caught in a storm. The fourth official just blinked and slowly stepped away. Arthur, meanwhile, stood cool as a cucumber in his technical area, arms folded, chewing a piece of gum like a man watching a documentary. His plan was working exactly as intended. He didn't panic. He didn't yell. Instead, he calmly signaled his players to slow the tempo. Leeds United weren't there to play pinball football—they had practiced this approach to death. Every time they got possession, the Leeds players passed the ball patiently across the back—sideways, backward, rinse and repeat. To some, it looked like stalling. But to Arthur, it was beautiful chaos in disguise. They were baiting Liverpool. Every back pass was a little wink, a little tease, tugging at Liverpool's shape, luring defenders out of position like moths to a flame. And once that gap appeared, the real plan would kick in—accelerate and strike fast, right through the cracks. Arthur didn't need noise. He needed timing. And right now, the match was ticking exactly how he wanted. In the 13th minute, the match suddenly snapped to life like someone had turned up the brightness on the TV. Leeds had been methodically passing the ball around in the back, lulling Liverpool into pushing their defensive line forward—just a few steps, just enough. But that "just enough" was exactly what Arthur and Yaya Touré had been waiting for. Yaya, who'd been stationed in midfield like a calm traffic officer, received a pass from Modrić near the left side of Leeds' half. With one glance up, he noticed Liverpool's line creeping forward—Hyypiä and Carragher drifting up like they were late to a dinner reservation. And that was the moment. Boom. One touch, straight pass—Yaya didn't even hesitate. Like a trio of sprinters at the Olympics, Falcao, Deisler, and Berbatov turned on their heels and bolted towards goal at full tilt. The trap was sprung. Arthur didn't even need to shout—this was a routine they'd drilled until everyone could run it in their sleep. "Deisler!!! Good shot!! Beautiful offside!!" screamed Eddie Gray in the studio, nearly choking on his tea. He was practically vibrating in his seat. Carragher and Hyypiä immediately realized they'd been played. Credit where it's due—they both turned and chased like angry uncles in dress shoes—but they were already behind. Carragher, in particular, looked like he was sprinting through jelly compared to Deisler, who had accelerated with perfect timing and was now thundering into the penalty area with the grace of a German gazelle. Reina, eyes wide and heart racing, rushed out from goal like he was trying to close a garage door before a raccoon ran inside. It was now a direct showdown: Deisler versus the keeper, no time for hesitation. But Deisler didn't panic. He took one more touch and unleashed a clean, low shot with his right foot, aiming for the far bottom-left corner. It skidded across the grass, fast and sharp like it had somewhere important to be. Reina stretched like a yoga instructor in slow motion, arms flailing to cover as much ground as humanly possible. But the ball zipped just beyond his fingertips, heading straight for the corner... And then—BANG! The stadium jolted as the ball smashed into the post with a loud thwack that echoed across Anfield like a cruel punchline. The sound was so sharp it could've been used in a horror film. The ball rebounded off the upright and bounced harmlessly out over the byline. Deisler stopped mid-stride, arms raised, ready to celebrate. Then he realized. The goalpost had betrayed him. He let out a loud, frustrated yell and shook both fists like a man who'd just watched his sandwich fall on the ground, mayonnaise side down. Behind the goal, Liverpool fans, who'd been holding their collective breath like someone had paused time, suddenly erupted into gleeful cheers. It was like watching someone dodge a bullet in slow motion—relief turned into noisy joy. Grown men were hugging. One fan in the front row even gave a sarcastic clap that only made Deisler more annoyed. In the commentary box, Eddie Gray looked like he needed a stiff drink. He slapped both hands to his forehead and groaned in disbelief. "Oh! What a pity... Deisler's shot actually hit the post!!!" He slumped into his seat, still staring at the pitch like someone had unplugged the universe. "But it was also good news," he quickly added, trying to keep it positive, "At least we blew the horn of counterattack, and Liverpool now needs to think long and hard about whether they still want to keep playing so aggressively!" Arthur, meanwhile, stayed quiet on the sideline. He didn't need to shout. That one move had said enough: Leeds were here to win. Sure enough, Eddie Gray's words turned out to be prophetic. Deisler's thunderous shot off the post had rattled more than just the woodwork—it shook Liverpool's entire midfield into caution. From the moment the game restarted, the home team began playing with less urgency, like they'd just remembered they left the oven on. Their attacks slowed down, the tempo dipped, and Leeds seized the chance like a cat spotting an unattended fish sandwich. Arthur watched from the sidelines with arms folded and the faintest smirk on his face. This was his plan all along: survive the early storm, then flip the game on its head. In the 17th minute, Leeds struck again. Falcao, lurking near the top of the box, spotted Berbatov drifting into space on the left and slipped him a pass. Berbatov took one touch and curved his run diagonally, dragging Hyypiä with him like a kid pulling a confused Labrador. Just before the towering Finn could close him down, Berbatov threaded the ball across the penalty area. Deisler, moving like a heat-seeking missile, met it on the right side with a first-time shot that screamed toward goal. It was clean. It was low. It was going in— Until Reina, clearly still in superhero mode, dove to his right and smacked it away with a single outstretched hand. The ball spun out for a corner, and Deisler let out an exaggerated groan like a man who'd just dropped his phone face-down. Leeds didn't stop. Deisler jogged over, placed the ball for the corner, and whipped in a beauty. Kompany rose like a missile in the box and smashed a header straight at the goal—but Reina was there again. This time, he clutched it like it was his newborn baby. The crowd roared in appreciation. Arthur looked mildly annoyed, muttering something about Reina needing to calm down. Just three minutes later, Leeds came knocking again. This time it was a clever rotation between Falcao and Berbatov. The two forwards switched sides quietly—so quietly that Liverpool's defense didn't even notice. Falcao collected the ball wide on the left, danced around a sluggish Arbeloa, and cut it back toward the center. Yaya Touré came thundering in like a runaway train. One touch to set, second touch to shoot—and the ball soared high, rocketing just inches over the bar. He slapped his thighs in frustration. Arthur yelled out, "Next time, aim at the big rectangle with the net!" In those four frantic minutes, Leeds United looked like a team possessed. They were sharp, fluid, and relentless. Liverpool's defenders were holding on like tourists caught in a monsoon. Then, in the 26th minute, came the breakthrough. It started innocently enough—Mascherano poked a ball to Yaya Touré in midfield. Touré shrugged off Xabi Alonso like he was swatting away a toddler, then drove forward. Just as he stumbled slightly, he slid the ball out wide to Philipp Lahm, who was sprinting up the right flank. Lahm took one look at Riise charging toward him, red hair flapping in the wind like a Norse berserker, and made a quick decision. Physical duel? No thanks. Instead, he tapped the ball forward and slipped it between Riise's legs. Clean nutmeg. Riise spun around like a man who'd just lost his wallet. Lahm was gone. With a quick glance, Lahm sent in a low cross. It skidded across the face of goal towards Deisler, who had Hyypiä breathing down his neck. From his body position, there was no way to shoot—not without turning his whole torso and losing the ball. Everyone, including Hyypiä, assumed he'd lay it off for a teammate. But Deisler had other plans. Without so much as turning around, he casually flicked his right heel behind him, just as the ball arrived. The ball nudged off his heel with surgical precision and changed direction—zipping low and unexpected through Hyypiä's legs. Reina, now partially screened, saw it late. By the time he realized where it was going, the ball was already sliding past him into the net. 1–0. Leeds United had taken the lead at Anfield. Eddie Gray exploded from his seat in the studio like a toaster springing a slice of bread. "LAHM with the cross! Deisler—OH MY WORD—imaginative heel shot, and he's broken through Liverpool's door!!! 1–0! Leeds United take the lead away from home!" he yelled, practically bouncing with joy. Deisler sprinted to the sideline, arms out like an airplane, before throwing himself into Arthur's arms. The hug was so enthusiastic, it looked like the celebration of two men who'd just won the lottery. Arthur's face was lit up like a Christmas tree. "That's how we do it!" he shouted, almost lifting Deisler off the ground. It wasn't just a goal—it was a masterpiece. A cunning, cheeky, wonderful goal. Everyone watching knew it too. Hyypiä turned around with the kind of expression that said, Did that really just happen? Reina, hands on hips, stared at the goal like it had personally betrayed him. And Arthur? Arthur just smiled. He knew this was only the beginning.