Fighting Back (2 in 1)

The second half kicked off like two dogs chasing the same sausage—full of energy, growls, and unnecessary sliding tackles.

Leeds United, despite being four goals down, charged into midfield like they hadn't read the scoreboard. Manchester United met them head-on, and for the first few minutes, it was just chaos in the center of the pitch. Feet flying, shirts tugged, and more grunts than a gym on leg day.

Cristiano Ronaldo, fresh off Ferguson's praise, looked like a man on a mission—or more accurately, a man auditioning for his own highlight reel. He wasn't interested in teammates, passing, or even logic. He wanted the show. Twice in quick succession, Manchester United's attacks came down the right. Instead of whipping in a cross or laying it off to someone in space, Ronaldo tucked the ball under his foot, looked at Lahm, and said (in spirit), "You're in my way, mate."

He tried cutting inside both times. Lahm chased him like a determined corgi, but Ronaldo powered through. Then came Kompany, looming like a tax inspector at a cash-only kebab shop. Still, Ronaldo didn't flinch. He blasted one shot into Row Z and the next into a defender's ankle.

Arthur, watching from the sideline, narrowed his eyes. Something was off. Normally, if someone hogged the ball like that, you'd expect teammates to start flailing their arms in frustration, maybe even throw in a dramatic glare or two. But United's players? Nothing. Not even a side-eye. Rooney just jogged back up the pitch like Ronaldo hadn't just ignored him for the third time in a row.

Weird, Arthur thought.

And Ferguson? Usually, he'd be roaring by now. If someone pulled this selfish nonsense during a tight game, the air would be blue within seconds. But this time, the old Scot just… stood there. Calm as a sleeping cat. Maybe even smiling a little.

Arthur's brow furrowed. He'd studied Ferguson enough to know that wasn't normal. Was this part of some bigger mind game? Or was the lead making them careless?

So he waited. Observed.

And after a few more minutes, the signs were unmistakable. It wasn't just Ronaldo going solo. Manchester United had started jogging instead of sprinting. Their pressing intensity had dropped to somewhere between Sunday league hangover mode and waiting for a train. Rooney stopped tracking back. Giggs took an extra touch too many. Even Scholes was a step slower—though, to be fair, that might've just been Scholes being Scholes.

Only Park Ji-sung looked like he hadn't got the memo. The man ran like he was being chased by bees. Up, down, side to side—no change there. Classic Park.

Arthur turned to Simeone and whispered something in his ear. Diego nodded with the solemn expression of a man who had just been told to release the wolves.

Moments later, the ball went out of play, and the fourth official trotted over with the LED board.

BEEP. BEEP.

Lineker's voice crackled in, dramatic as ever.

"Oh! Arthur is making the first move here. Two substitutions—let's see… Modric coming on for Mascherano, and Ribery replacing Camoranesi. That's bold! That's very bold. It seems Arthur hasn't given up yet—he's ready to go down swinging!"

The camera caught Ribery sprinting onto the pitch like he'd just been promised a steak dinner, and Modric already barking instructions before he even crossed the white line.

Arthur didn't flinch. He just stood there, arms folded, watching United with the expression of a man who had just smelled something suspicious and was trying to figure out who was responsible.

He wasn't giving up.

Nope.

He was lighting the fuse.

***

Arthur stood quietly on the sideline, arms crossed, eyes fixed like lasers on the pitch. The second half had just begun, and his two subs—Modric and Ribery—were finally on the pitch, like aces pulled from a very moody, slightly hungover deck of cards. Meanwhile, Neuer, standing at his goal line, was about to hoof the ball upfield as usual… until he noticed Modric waving calmly near the edge of the box like a man inviting someone to brunch.

Neuer paused, blinked, then just shrugged and rolled the ball out to Modric.

The Croatian maestro took the ball deep in Leeds territory and began dribbling forward with the relaxed swagger of someone walking a dog that didn't bark. No one pressed him. Not one Manchester United player thought it was necessary. Not yet. Not Modric. He was too far back to be a threat, right?

It wasn't until Modric reached the halfway line that Saha finally decided to jog over with all the urgency of someone returning library books. Just as he approached, Modric passed the ball off to Alonso on the left.

Alonso didn't even bother controlling it. Park Ji-sung was breathing down his neck like a tax auditor, so he calmly sent it right back to Modric. The ball zipped around like it was on a string between the two midfielders. Saha kept running in circles while Modric and Alonso played a glorified game of piggy in the middle with him.

Occasionally, Modric tossed the ball back to Toure, who had dropped deep into the center circle. Ronaldo and Rooney didn't bother to help. Maybe they were still daydreaming about their halftime oranges. The only one who seemed remotely interested in defending was Park Ji-sung, because—well, Park Ji-sung didn't have a switch. He ran like his boots were on fire.

Ferdinand, sensing the buildup was getting slightly spicy, stepped forward to tighten the line. That left Vidic alone to mark Falcao, who was floating near the penalty box with the patience of a fisherman.

Then it happened.

Modric got the ball back from Toure, and Saha, exhausted and confused, eased off the gas. "He's gonna pass to Alonso again," he thought, probably already mentally reaching for the water bottle.

Wrong.

With the outside of his boot, Modric pinged a laser-guided, low-flying missile through the grass straight to Falcao. The ball sliced through the space like a steak knife through warm butter.

Vidic immediately stepped in to close Falcao down. He got tight. Uncomfortably tight. Like crowded-subway tight. There was no way Falcao could turn here—Vidic was practically giving him a back massage.

But Falcao had no interest in turning.

With the subtlest of flicks, he gently popped the ball up with the tip of his boot. The ball floated—elegantly, arrogantly—up and over both players' heads.

Vidic froze. It was the football equivalent of being nutmegged and insulted in the same breath. As the ball floated behind him, he leaned into Falcao with all his weight, hoping to body-block the Colombian before he could chase it.

But Falcao never moved.

From the corner of his eye, Vidic saw a flash of white come screaming down the left channel.

It was Ribery.

The Frenchman tore past like someone who'd just remembered his oven was on. He met the descending ball in stride, took one calm touch, and then poked it coolly past Van der Sar into the bottom corner. The keeper didn't even move. He looked like a man resigned to fate, or like someone who'd just seen their sandwich stolen by a seagull.

Lineker nearly blew out his microphone.

"Modric suddenly changed his tactics and passed the ball to Falcao—Vidic was all over him, there was no way to turn—wait, wait, WHAT DID I JUST SEE?! An imaginative lob assist! Falcao has lobbed it over—and Ribery! Calm as you like! Van der Sar is beaten! Leeds United score one back!"

The crowd roared, but Ribery didn't even stop to celebrate. He sprinted into the net, scooped up the ball like it owed him money, and bolted back to the center circle with the expression of a man on a deadline.

On the television, Eddie Gray was losing it. "That's a brilliant tactical switch from Arthur! Modric sparks the move, Ribery finishes it—both fresh off the bench! Leeds United blow the horn for a counterattack! They're not done yet!"

Arthur didn't celebrate either.

He just pointed at the players, then pointed at the halfway line, his face full of that strange mixture of anger and belief—like a man who just realized he left the stove on but still thinks he can make it back in time.

10 minutes gone in the second half. One goal back. More than Thirty minutes to go. Game on.

***

Arthur stood motionless by the touchline, one hand buried deep in his trouser pocket, the other clenched so tightly you'd think he was about to punch a ghost. As the ball nestled into Manchester United's net and Ribery sprinted back to the halfway line, Arthur allowed himself the tiniest fist clench. No celebration, no fist pump, just one quiet little squeeze. He glanced sideways, half-expecting Sir Alex Ferguson to explode into a cloud of rage.

But no.

Ferguson stood there like a monk meditating on a mountaintop. Completely still. No shouting, no arm-waving, not even a twitch. He just stared at the pitch with that unreadable Scottish death-glare, chewing gum like it owed him money.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. Something didn't add up.

"Has the old man not noticed his players are getting casual?" Arthur thought. "Come on, that goal wasn't that fluky…"

Sure, Saha was a striker. You can't exactly blame him for not defending like a pit bull. And yeah, Vidic did step up the second Modric played that laser pass. But Falcao's flick over the top was pure South American wizardry. It wasn't in the textbook. It was straight out of a beach game in Medellín. And Ribery? He just did what Ribery does—sprinted in, slotted it home, and sprinted back like he had a bus to catch.

As Arthur pieced it all together, the match kicked off again. Manchester United didn't look too rattled. They were still moving the ball around confidently, probing the flanks, keeping things tight in midfield. No panic. No rush. Just smooth, smug football.

But what they didn't realize—what Ferguson didn't realize—was that something had shifted. Leeds had a sniff of blood now.

And then came the 59th minute.

Leeds were working the ball up the left side. Milner, all legs and grit, received the pass just past the halfway line. Giggs jogged over, trying to catch up, but bless him, the poor guy was 33 and running like a man looking for his car keys.

Milner kept going. No pressure. No tackle. No one even pretending to close him down.

He dribbled casually for about 20 meters like he was walking his dog in the park.

Then—zip!

He sent a gorgeous curling cross into the box. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't dramatic. It was the kind of ball that whispered, "Go on then, finish me."

And Toure did exactly that.

Leaping like a basketball forward, the Leeds captain rose above everyone on the edge of the six-yard box and powered a header straight toward the bottom corner.

Van der Sar stretched. Really stretched. Like a man reaching for the last slice of cake at a wedding. But no dice.

BANG. Back of the net.

"COOOOOOOOOL!" Lineker's voice cracked like a teenager's. "Oh my God! Yaya Toure! He leapt and met it cleanly! A thunderous header from the penalty area line! Van der Sar tried, but you can't stop that! It's 2–4 now! Friends, I may have to take back what I said again tonight—Manchester United, for heaven's sake, stop posing! Wake up and defend!"

Eddie Gray was going full karaoke mode in the studio. "Oh-oh-oh-oh-ohhh! That's our captain! Milner with the perfect cross, and Toure with the bullet header! 2–4! The fire's lit now!"

Back on the touchline, Ferguson finally cracked.

THUD.

A poor plastic water bottle went flying again. Straight toward the fourth official, who flinched like a man under siege.

But this time, it wasn't Arthur doing the bottle-kicking.

It was Ferguson.

The old man's face turned the color of an overcooked tomato. His jaw clenched so hard it could probably crack concrete. He looked ready to turn into a cartoon with steam coming out of his ears.

And frankly, he had every reason to be mad.

The goal wasn't just a blip—it was a catastrophe. Milner had casually wandered into enemy territory for twenty meters with no one pressing him. The only guy even pretending to chase was poor Giggs, puffing behind him like he was late for Bingo night.

Then the cross came in—and somehow, no one picked up Toure. The guy's six-foot-something and built like a fridge, but Ferdinand and Vidic were both two meters away from him, just watching.

Toure basically had an entire picnic area to himself.

Ferguson looked like he was going to chew through his own suit jacket.

Sixty minutes into the match, and it was his veteran midfielder chasing shadows while his young defenders acted like ballboys.

Arthur, meanwhile, stood stone-faced. But inside, he was practically levitating.

On the pitch, Toure didn't even bother celebrating. He ran straight into the goal, snatched the ball from Van der Sar, and marched it back to the halfway line like a man with a mission.

Leeds United were buzzing. Two goals in a short stretch. The whole team looked different now—focused, energized, like someone had flipped a switch. Arthur's halftime speech echoed in their heads.

"Don't give up. We still have a chance."

Thirty minutes to go.

And now, everyone believed it.

Before the ball could even be placed back on the center spot, Sir Alex Ferguson had seen enough. He turned, gave one sharp wave of the arm, and immediately summoned a substitution.

Off came Louis Saha, looking confused, sweaty, and slightly offended. On came Darren Fletcher, who looked like a man walking into a bar fight wearing a library cardigan. A striker off, a defensive midfielder on—it wasn't subtle. Ferguson was basically screaming, "Lock it down, lads!"

Arthur squinted from the sidelines, watching the change.

"Yep," he muttered under his breath. "The old man's trying to park the bus."

But credit where it's due—Ferguson knew exactly what he was doing. Leeds United had clawed their way back into the match and were buzzing like a caffeine-fueled hornet's nest. Fletcher's arrival stiffened up Manchester United's midfield. Suddenly, Park Ji-sung wasn't being left to fend for himself anymore, and that extra body helped sweep up the chaos Leeds had been causing since halftime.

Still, Arthur's men weren't backing off.

Right after kick-off, Leeds charged again like they'd been shot out of a cannon. The whole team pushed up, pressing every pass, closing every angle. It was like trying to play football inside a dryer. Manchester United were spinning, rattling, kicking wildly—and most of the time, they couldn't get out of their own half.

But that final punch—that goal—they just couldn't land it.

Fletcher's presence plugged enough holes to keep the ship afloat, and for the next ten minutes, it was all pressure but no pay-off for Leeds. They had the ball, they had the territory, but the goals refused to come. Crosses zipped in, blocked. Shots fired, deflected. Rebounds? Snatched. It was maddening.

And Manchester United? They were furious.

Not scared—furious.

Here they were, the reigning giants, up by two goals… and being shoved around like interns. Sure, they still led 4–2, but this wasn't how it was supposed to go. Leeds were supposed to roll over. Instead, they were throwing punches like a team that hadn't checked the scoreline.

That frustration began to boil over.

Ronaldo was huffing and puffing, glaring at everyone like they'd stolen his hair gel. Rooney, never one to bottle things up, started throwing himself into tackles like a man trying to chop down a tree with his knees.

Then came the inevitable. With the subtle grace of a flying brick, Rooney clattered into the back of Modric. Whistle. Yellow card.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

Ferguson? He nearly burst a blood vessel.

The camera zoomed in just in time to catch the legendary manager giving Rooney an earful that could have peeled paint. He gestured wildly, pointed at the referee, pointed at the bench, pointed at his own temple—use your brain, he was clearly saying. Rooney just nodded like a schoolboy being told off for setting fire to the curtains.

The game dragged on. Time slipped away.

Fifteen minutes of regular time left.

Still 2–4.

Leeds were running, tackling, chasing, crossing—but nothing. All noise, no results. The miracle comeback dream started to fade. You could feel it in the crowd. The tension sagged a little. The fans had roared themselves hoarse, but even the most hopeful among them were starting to settle down.

Lineker's commentary reflected the mood. Calm, rational, slightly disappointed.

"The game seems to be stabilizing now," he said. "Leeds United have shown real spirit in this second half—completely different side from what we saw in the first forty-five. But... they may have just left themselves too much to do. Manchester United, after conceding twice, have done well to regain composure and—wait, what?! OH MY GOD! I TAKE IT BACK! FALCAO! IT'S HIM AGAIN!!"

Boom.

Like thunder cracking through a clear sky.

Goal.

Falcao, out of nowhere, out of chaos, out of frustration, had just lashed in a third goal for Leeds. A sharp move in the box, a quick turn, and a shot that could've ripped through steel. The ball flew past Van der Sar before anyone could say "defend properly."

3–4.

Cue absolute bedlam.

The Millennium Stadium, already noisy, exploded like someone had detonated a football-shaped firework. White flags, scarves, arms—everything went flying. Fans screamed like they'd just seen Elvis moonwalk across the pitch.

Lineker practically lost his voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing a classic!" he shouted. "When you think the game is done, when you think the story is written—Falcao rips the script and throws it out the window! 3–4! Leeds United are not dead yet!"

Arthur didn't cheer. He didn't shout.

He just turned slowly toward the Leeds bench, arms folded, eyes blazing with calm intensity.

There were still minutes left.

And now, anything could happen.

***

It all started—ironically—with Sir Alex Ferguson trying to calm things down.

Just moments before, Ferguson had pulled Wayne Rooney aside and barked a full-blown Scottish lecture into his ear. The topic? "Don't lose your head." Rooney, fresh off a yellow card and still red in the face (partly rage, partly effort), nodded like an obedient bulldog being told to stop chewing the couch.

"Be careful!" Ferguson shouted one last time from the touchline, voice sharp as a whistle.

That phrase, "be careful," lodged itself deep in Rooney's brain like a stuck pop song. It kept playing on a loop as he jogged back into position. He looked around nervously, as if afraid the referee was hiding in a bush waiting to hand out a second yellow.

So when Maicon picked up the ball on Leeds United's right flank and began advancing, it was Rooney who jogged up to meet him. Normally, Rooney would've gone in like a cannonball fired from a pirate ship. He'd have lunged, slid, tackled, kicked—maybe all at once. But not today. Not with Ferguson's angry face still burned into his mind.

As Maicon approached, Rooney hesitated.

His leg went halfway out—then paused mid-air like a buffering video—and retracted. Instead, he opted for the gentleman's approach: a body block.

Big mistake.

Maicon, being Brazilian and born with samba in his bones, barely blinked. He shifted the ball to the side, did a half twist like he was dodging someone in a nightclub, and swished past Rooney with an elegance that made the Englishman look like he was trying to hug a ghost.

Rooney stood there for a split second—betrayed by his own caution.

Maicon, meanwhile, saw green pastures in front of him and charged forward like a man on a mission. No one stood in his way. He breezed through the space like it was rush-hour traffic for everyone except him. The Leeds fans surged with energy.

Park Ji-sung tried to close the angle as Maicon approached the penalty area. He was too late. Maicon looked up, spotted his target, and tapped a low, clean pass into the box.

There he was—Falcao. Already lurking, already ready.

The Colombian's eyes lit up. He didn't even need to control it. One sweep of the right foot, and the ball flew low across the ground and zipped into the bottom corner like it had been magnetically pulled.

GOAL.

The stadium erupted like a geyser.

Leeds United had done it again. The scoreboard now read 3–4. One more. Just one more, and they'd claw all the way back from the brink of disaster.

On the touchline, Arthur spun on his heel, turned to the roaring Leeds supporters behind him, and raised both arms like a preacher demanding more noise from his flock.

The fans didn't need to be asked twice. They exploded with cheers. Some leapt into the air. Some hugged strangers. Some simply screamed as loud as they could and waved whatever they had—scarves, flags, programs, even someone's jacket.

Arthur didn't even celebrate wildly. His gesture was calm, composed—but powerful. It was his way of saying, We're not done yet. Keep believing.

On the pitch, the Leeds players shared brief fist bumps and hugs, but nobody overdid it. There were still more than ten minutes on the clock. Time enough for legends to be made—or hearts to be broken.

Ferguson, watching from the opposite sideline, wasn't shouting anymore.

He just stood still.

Hands in pockets. Jaw tight. Silent.

He knew what was coming.

The last act had begun.