The roar of boos at Camp Nou was already deafening, but Rivaldo, strolling out last in the Leeds United line like he owned the place, decided to add a little spice.
Just as he reached the sideline, the veteran Brazilian suddenly threw his arms up high, palms open toward the sky, as if he were soaking in adoration rather than venom. His famously stern, hawk-like features softened into a smile — not a shy, "oops, you caught me" smile, but the kind of smirk you see on someone who knows exactly how much trouble they're causing.
The stadium camera, like a gossip columnist on legs, instantly zoomed in. The massive big screen above the pitch lit up with Rivaldo's face in glorious HD, showing every wrinkle, every glint of mischief in his eyes.
The crowd reacted instantly. If the boos had been a storm before, now they became a full-blown hurricane. Hands shot into the air, middle fingers joined the chorus, and insults in Catalan, Spanish, and even a bit of English rained down from every angle.
It was the purest form of provocation — and Rivaldo knew it.
And then… the director of the stadium feed made a choice that could have come straight from a comedy sketch. The image switched from Rivaldo to Leeds United's head coach, Arthur.
Arthur was caught mid-motion, and apparently, he'd decided to join in on the fun. Matching his player's movements perfectly, he too had his arms up high, as if saluting the hostile crowd. His grin wasn't just confident — it was downright cocky, the kind of "your insults are fuel" look that would make any self-respecting home supporter want to throw their drink.
From the outside, it looked almost choreographed — as if Arthur and Rivaldo had been practicing this double-act in the mirror before the match. And if you'd just switched on your TV at home, you might honestly think the two were basking in warm applause rather than a verbal onslaught.
But here inside Camp Nou, no one was confused. The home supporters knew exactly what was going on. The combination of Rivaldo's smirk and Arthur's smug wave was like tossing petrol onto a bonfire. The boos were now laced with creative, multilingual abuse.
"Stupid English bloke! You're dead meat tonight!" shouted one man in the front row, veins in his neck bulging.
A woman in the next section leaned over the railing, cupping her hands like a megaphone: "Where does this washed-up Brazilian get the nerve? Didn't we throw you out years ago? Shouldn't you be doing TV adverts by now?"
Another voice joined in, laughing cruelly: "Looks like Leeds has already given up! Imagine starting him in the Camp Nou! Thanks for the free three points!"
A group of teenagers chimed in with gleeful venom: "Go back to your little Premier League! This is Catalonia — this is real football!"
And somewhere in the back, a man with a thick accent bellowed: "I'm gonna enjoy watching you cry after ninety minutes!"
Not all the heckling was entirely football-related, though. A group of young women in the stands began a completely different discussion.
"Honestly, though… the Leeds manager's kind of hot."
"Yeah, did you see his shirt? I swear it's about to burst open…"
"Mmm. Forget the match — I'm here for that view."
The mix of venom and flirting was dizzying.
Up in the commentary studio, Lineker and Jon were watching the scene unfold on their monitors, jaws halfway to the floor.
"Pfft… Jon, did Arthur take a wrong turn somewhere?" Lineker said, suppressing a laugh. "This is Camp Nou, right? Not Elland Road?"
On the screen, Arthur was still happily waving to a stand full of people who wanted him shipped back to England in a cardboard box.
Jon chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, he knows exactly where he is. That's not a polite wave — that's a straight-up poke in the ribs. He's provoking them, Gary. No question about it. Between him and Mourinho, I'm not sure who's more shameless."
Lineker grinned. "And that's exactly why I kind of love the guy. Playing under Arthur? Must be a blast. You're not just aiming for trophies, you're given license to… let's say… 'maximize your emotional expression.'"
Jon tilted his head. "Meaning?"
Lineker gave him the look of a man about to drop gossip. "Jon, mate… you've got to read The Sun more. Seriously. You'd understand half the drama in football better."
"I think I'll pass," Jon replied dryly.
Lineker carried on anyway. "Saw a piece in there once — and yeah, maybe it's not the most reliable source — saying Rivaldo's exit from Barcelona wasn't just down to Van Gaal. Apparently, a fair few fans here couldn't stand him either."
Jon blinked. "Wait, why? The guy was a star! Before 2002, Rivaldo was basically carrying this club on his back. Surely that kind of talent wins people over?"
"Not always," Lineker said with a knowing shrug.
Jon leaned back, still processing. He'd never been one for gossip — for him, the only thing that mattered was what happened between the white lines on the pitch. Rivaldo's Barcelona years had been pure brilliance in his book, the kind of performances that made you buy a ticket just to watch him juggle the ball once. The idea that the fans wouldn't like him was… baffling.
And yet, watching the reaction in the stands right now, Jon was beginning to think there might have been something to those rumors after all.
*****
"Ah… the man just doesn't know how to market himself," Lineker sighed, shaking his head as if Rivaldo were an unripened piece of fruit that never got its chance to shine in the shop window. "Mind you, he's mellowed with age. Back in the day, you could count the number of public smiles he gave on one hand… and that's only if you included his goal celebrations."
Jon, who had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, suddenly sat up as if struck by divine revelation. "Wait a second! Gary — I've just cracked it!" His eyes lit up like a conspiracy theorist who'd found a secret code in his breakfast cereal. "Think about it… Arthur's the kind of manager who cares about his players' feelings, right?"
Lineker nodded slowly, suspicious of where this was going.
"So…" Jon leaned forward, eyes wide. "What if that's why Rivaldo's starting tonight?"
Lineker's jaw dropped. "Bloody hell… you might be onto something! But — hang on — this is the Champions League round of 16! That's not some pre-season friendly in front of 200 people and a hotdog stand. Does he seriously not care!?"
Jon gave a crooked smile, part amusement, part disbelief. "That's exactly my problem with Arthur. You try to pin him down, you can't. One minute he's ruthless — happily sells a player the second a decent offer lands, no sentiment at all. The next minute, you get this… letting a veteran who's barely played all season start in the biggest game of the year just to make the guy happy. I can't decide if it's brilliant man-management or pure lunacy. The guy's impossible to read."
Down on the pitch, it wasn't just the pundits wondering what Arthur was up to.
Rijkaard, standing on the Barcelona sideline in his immaculate dark suit, was watching Arthur with the wary curiosity of a man who's seen his neighbour buy a suspiciously large number of shovels. Arthur was on the touchline, unbothered by the tidal wave of boos pouring from the stands, occasionally waving to the crowd as though greeting old friends. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying himself more with each insult hurled in his direction.
Is this man insane? Rijkaard thought, narrowing his eyes. Or is he just… dangerously confident?
The boos didn't bother Arthur. In fact, his body language screamed, Go on, give me more. If Rijkaard hadn't known better, he'd think the Leeds manager was feeding off the hostility.
But that wasn't what truly gnawed at Rijkaard's mind. No, his real worry was the team sheet.
About ten minutes earlier, he'd been handed Leeds United's starting lineup — and nearly dropped his clipboard. Rivaldo's name was there. Starting. In Camp Nou. Against Barcelona.
Rijkaard frowned just thinking about it. He'd done his homework. He'd watched Leeds' recent matches. Rivaldo hadn't been anywhere near the starting eleven. The most recent mental image Rijkaard could summon of the Brazilian was him jogging on in the dying minutes of a match, receiving a safe pass in midfield, and wasting precious seconds by shielding the ball with all the enthusiasm of a man protecting his lunch.
And yet… here he was, not only in the squad but in the starting lineup.
Rijkaard's brow furrowed deeper. What game is Arthur playing?
The surprises didn't stop there. Leeds' midfield also raised eyebrows. Alongside their two rock-solid defensive midfielders, Arthur had opted to start De Bruyne and Sneijder — both undeniably talented, but not the pairing Rijkaard expected.
Where's Ribery? Where's Bale? Rijkaard scanned the warm-up earlier and had seen both men in perfect condition — no signs of injury, no taped ankles, no last-minute fitness scares. They'd looked ready to tear down the wings, as usual.
And yet they were on the bench.
It wasn't just odd. It was downright suspicious. This was the Champions League — the kind of match where managers normally put their best cards on the table from the first whistle. And Arthur had decided to reshuffle his entire midfield into a combination that, as far as Rijkaard knew, had never been tried in a competitive match.
Is he trying to throw me off?
The idea was both plausible and unsettling. Arthur had a reputation for mind games, and the thought that this bizarre lineup might be part of some grand tactical trap was enough to make Rijkaard's pulse quicken.
He glanced again at Arthur, who was now laughing with Rivaldo about something, both men looking like they'd just shared the world's most inappropriate joke at a funeral. It didn't look like the behaviour of a man burdened by the pressure of an away leg at Camp Nou.
Rijkaard's unease deepened. He couldn't tell if Arthur's confidence was genuine or just a smokescreen, but either way, the lack of clarity was dangerous.
The whistle was minutes away. The stadium was a boiling pot of noise, flags waving, chants echoing off the high stands. Rijkaard's team was ready. His tactics were drilled. His players knew their roles. But in the back of his mind, an unwelcome thought had taken root:
What exactly is he planning?
And for the first time that evening, Rijkaard felt the faint but undeniable prick of doubt.