Chapter 96: Bolton is confused

From his perch high up in the commentary booth, Eddie Gray had a bird's-eye view of the chaos unfolding on the pitch—and the man was in full flight. Ever since Alonso's slick nutmeg and burst past George, Eddie had barely taken a breath. His voice danced between disbelief and delight, flipping through octaves like a rock singer doing warmups. "Ogbeta's charging in now! He's trying to cut off Alonso head-on! George's caught up from behind too—he's right on Alonso's tail now! Alonso's in a sandwich here—he's got to be careful!" You could practically hear Eddie sliding to the edge of his seat, eyes bugging out behind his glasses. But before anyone could yell "Watch out!" or "Pass it, man!"—Alonso pulled another rabbit out of his boots. "Oh! BEAUTIFUL PASS! Where did that come from!? How did he even see that?! He was running full speed!!" Eddie hollered, voice cracking mid-sentence. But nobody had the time or mental capacity to answer. Everyone—players, fans, even the cameraman—was watching the ball float through the air like a guided missile programmed by a genius. One second, Alonso looked like he was about to lose possession. Ogbeta had charged in full steam, George was closing the trap, and it seemed the whole move would collapse. But then—stop. Not a stumble. Not a wobble. A deliberate, cheeky pause in stride. Alonso stopped with the casual confidence of someone checking his watch while two wild dogs ran at him. Then came the pass. Not a thunderbolt. Not some flashy outside-foot trick shot. Just a clean, simple lob over Ogbeta's head with perfect weight—like a man tossing bread to ducks. And where did the ball land? Right behind Ogbeta, in the gaping void left behind him, where his teammate Santos was still dawdling, a step late to cover. And standing there like a man waiting for a bus was Falcao—alone, untouched, practically sipping tea. Falcao's eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. He took a clean first touch, bolted into the penalty area, and found himself face-to-face with Bolton goalkeeper Baxter. Now, Baxter's a brave lad. He came rushing out, arms wide, eyes focused, determined to stop the league's top scorer. Falcao didn't flinch. As Baxter flung himself low to the ground in a desperate slide, Falcao gave him a gentle nudge with the outside of his left boot. It wasn't even a move—it was a polite "Excuse me" on legs. He walked the ball around the helpless keeper and tapped it into the empty net with the calm of a man putting his keys on a table. Eddie Gray exploded. "RADA-MEL FALCAOOO!! Our top scorer!! That's number 12 in the league for him, and it's only the 11th minute!! What a start from Leeds United!! That goal had it all—vision, composure, and a pass that deserved its own museum exhibit!! Applause, Elland Road! Applause for Falcao who finished it—and for Alonso who made magic happen!!" Elland Road roared in approval. The fans leapt up as one, scarves flying, beers nearly spilling. The noise was thunderous. Falcao's celebration was the cherry on top. He spun around, arms outstretched, and pointed straight at Alonso like a man shouting, "That's the real MVP!" Then he jogged back, knelt in front of Alonso, and with great ceremony began mock-polishing Alonso's right foot with both hands, grinning like a fool. Alonso burst out laughing. "Get up, you clown," he muttered, trying not to smile too hard. But the fans were loving it. Phones were out, cameras flashing, and the celebration had instantly become meme-worthy. Their teammates caught up quickly, ruffling Falcao's hair, slapping Alonso on the back. It was pure joy—chaotic, genuine, and infectious. As the crowd noise finally died down and the players jogged back toward the halfway line, Alonso glanced toward the touchline. That's when he saw him. Arthur, standing in front of the Leeds bench, arms crossed—but with a grin that couldn't be hidden. When he caught Alonso's eye, he raised both hands and gave him an emphatic double thumbs-up. It was simple. It was silent. But it meant the world. Alonso blinked, heart swelling just a bit. "It feels so good to be valued," he thought, still smiling as he turned back toward the center circle. After Falcao's goal, Leeds United looked like they'd just been plugged into a power socket. The energy shift was immediate. The players moved faster, passed sharper, and even their hair seemed to bounce with more confidence. It wasn't just a goal—it was like someone had poured Red Bull into their water bottles. On the other side, Bolton's bench was in crisis mode. Sam Allardyce looked like a man who'd just realized he'd left the oven on at home. Arms crossed, brow furrowed, he barked instructions at his midfielders like a drill sergeant. The new plan? Smother Alonso. The moment the Spaniard touched the ball, two men were to close him down immediately—same treatment Modric had been getting all match. No space, no time, no fun allowed. But Arthur, standing calmly by the Leeds dugout, saw it all unfold and didn't lift a finger. Not a single tactical tweak. No frantic hand gestures. No substitutions warming up. He just watched, hands in his pockets, with a little smirk playing on his lips—like he was waiting for Bolton to walk into the trap he'd already set. In the past, when Modric got double-teamed, Arthur would tell his players to shift focus to the wings, stretch the pitch, and exploit space wide. Classic stuff. But now? Now he had Alonso. And Alonso was no ordinary midfielder—this man had a brain like a chess master and vision like a hawk with a telescope. The moment he realized Bolton were now hunting him in packs, Alonso adjusted without needing a whisper from the sideline. Instead of trying to wiggle his way out of every trap, he started baiting them—on purpose. He'd hold the ball just long enough for a second defender to commit, then calmly lay it off to Modric, who suddenly had the freedom of Yorkshire to dictate play. It was like a football version of "Now you see me, now you don't." Every time Bolton thought they were about to win the ball off Alonso, he'd already released it. Their midfielders ended up doing shuttle runs for no reward—huffing, puffing, and gradually getting sloppier. And while they chased shadows, Leeds kept the pressure up. One touch passing, crisp switches, and darting runs from midfield. It was beautiful chaos—at least for Leeds. For Bolton? It was a slow descent into confusion. The 31st minute had barely ticked onto the clock when magic unfolded in the middle of the park. Modric, with that baby-faced innocence that hid the brain of an evil genius, spotted a gap in Bolton's defensive line. Without hesitation, he threaded a pass so precise it could've sliced bread. The ball zipped through the midfield like it had GPS, heading straight for Ribery, who was already sprinting like someone had lit a firecracker under him. Cogley tried to chase, bless him, but it was like watching a milk float race a Ferrari. Ribery shrugged him off with a cheeky burst of pace, reached the ball on the left wing, and whipped in a low, vicious cross toward the penalty area. There, the chaos began. Ogbeta leapt up to challenge Berbatov, who wasn't exactly the most explosive player in the air but was annoyingly effective at just being there. Berbatov didn't even jump that high—he just sort of loomed, arms flailing, doing enough to throw Ogbeta off. The result? Ogbeta won the header, technically, but it was one of those defensive clearances that didn't really clear anything. He barely got any distance on it. The ball looped pathetically out of the box like it had lost all will to live. Everyone's eyes tracked it as it floated, awkward and slow. Everyone except one man. Alonso. The Spaniard had crept up just outside the box like a silent assassin. No dramatic run-up, no yelling, no waving for the ball. Just cool anticipation and a little glint in his eye. As the ball dropped from the sky, one Bolton defender rushed forward to close him down—too late. Alonso didn't wait for it to bounce. He swung his right leg and hammered the underside of the ball like he was punting it into another dimension. THWACK! There was no spin. No curve. No swerve. It was a straight-up missile. Baxter saw it coming. He'd been bracing himself from the moment Alonso's leg swung. He even guessed the right direction. But that ball was moving like it was powered by jet fuel. The poor keeper stretched every inch of his body mid-air, fingertips grazing the leather, but it made no difference. SHUA~ That glorious sound of the ball slapping into the net made it official: 2–0. Arthur nearly did a full somersault on the sideline out of sheer joy. The fans around him erupted like someone had set off fireworks in the stands. As for Eddie Gray up in the commentary box? "WHAT A HIT! WHAT A HIT, SON!" he shouted into the mic, nearly knocking it over. "Leeds United lead two-nil! And that was Xabi Alonso with a thunderbolt from another planet!" The crowd roared louder. Flags waved. Shirts flew. One bloke in the crowd took his shoe off and waved it around like a lunatic. Leeds were cooking. And Arthur? He just stood there grinning like a proud father at a school talent show. "If the lads keep this up," Eddie continued, catching his breath, "I'll say it right now—they're marching straight to the semi-finals of the League Cup!" After Leeds United finished celebrating Alonso's thunderbolt of a goal—complete with chest bumps, wild hugs, and Ribery pretending to faint from sheer beauty—the game resumed. But Bolton weren't ready to roll over and die just yet. Sure, they were two goals down and visibly rattled, but now they suddenly remembered that football also involved attacking. Their players, who had spent the first half looking like they'd been dragged out of bed, now looked like they'd had a double espresso and a halftime pep talk from a very angry Sam Allardyce. They pushed forward with intent, trying to claw their way back into the match. Arthur, standing calmly on the touchline like a young professor who already knew the answers to the test, made a subtle hand signal. Immediately, Leeds United shifted into a more compact shape. No more gung-ho attacking. The team dropped back, settled into a tight formation, and waited like a well-organized pack of wolves. Bolton could have the ball. Fine. But the moment they got anywhere near Leeds' box—boom—the pressure cranked up to 100. Alonso and Modric hovered just outside the penalty area like two chess masters. The moment Leeds recovered the ball, they'd glance up and launch precise long passes, hoping to catch Bolton off-balance. For over ten minutes, this pattern played out. Bolton kept coming. Leeds kept absorbing. The crowd watched, holding their breath, as Piqué muscled one Bolton attack after another into oblivion. Eventually, another overzealous Bolton charge met its end—this time with Piqué coolly hoofing the ball into touch. Peep! The referee blew for halftime. Bolton walked off frustrated. Leeds walked off composed, two goals ahead and in full control.