The tunnel beneath Old Trafford was buzzing with the low hum of anticipation. Boots tapped against concrete, shirts were adjusted, and the scent of liniment hung thick in the air. Yet, for all the noise outside in the stands, in here, there was a strange tension. Even Kasper Schmeichel, who usually couldn't resist cracking a grin or tossing a comment toward his old Leeds teammates, stood stiff in line. He kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, shoulders squared—professional to the bone. Facing your former brothers-in-arms wasn't easy, and he wasn't about to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him rattled.
The Manchester United players stood like soldiers on parade, faces stern, eyes locked on the entrance ahead. Ferguson's fire-and-brimstone speech still echoed in their heads, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down the tunnel.
Leeds, by contrast, looked as though they'd just strolled out of a pub quiz night with a free bar tab. The promise of doubled bonuses had lit them up in ways no tactical briefing could. Zlatan leaned lazily against the wall, humming to himself, while Bale and Ribery exchanged quiet jokes, snickering every now and then. Even Kaka, usually serene and serious, looked as though he had a secret smile tucked in the corner of his lips. They weren't careless—just light, loose, and brimming with that dangerous kind of confidence that says: we've got nothing to lose, but plenty to gain.
Upstairs, Sky Sports was back from its marathon of commercials. The screen snapped to Old Trafford's floodlit stage, where 70,000 fans roared in unison, waving scarves and banners as though the ground itself might lift off the earth.
Gary Lineker's smooth voice cut in, practiced and warm:
"Ladies and gentlemen, good evening and welcome to Sky Sports! Tonight, we bring you live coverage of the Premier League's Round Nine headline clash—Manchester United versus Leeds United, live from Old Trafford! I'm Gary Lineker, and alongside me, as always, is Jon Champion."
"Hello everyone," Jon chimed in, calm but carrying a subtle excitement.
No sooner had the introductions finished than Lineker was already peering down at the glowing screen in front of him, rattling off the official team sheets like a man announcing the lineup of a heavyweight fight.
"First, the home side—Manchester United. Sir Alex Ferguson has gone with a 4-3-3 tonight. In goal, and making his first appearance against his former club, Kasper Schmeichel, who joined United this summer from Leeds. Across the backline, from left to right: Patrice Evra, Nemanja Vidic, Wes Brown—stepping in for Ferdinand tonight—and John O'Shea. In midfield, Michael Carrick sits deepest, with Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs ahead of him, the latter now tucked more centrally as the years catch up. Up front, it's a fearsome trio: Dimitar Berbatov through the middle, with Cristiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney flanking him left and right."
Jon nodded slightly, as though even reading that aloud sent a chill. But Lineker pressed on.
"Now the visitors—Leeds United. Arthur has gone with a 4-2-3-1 this evening. Manuel Neuer keeps his spot in goal. At the back, Philipp Lahm on the left, Dani Alves on the right, with Fabio Cannavaro partnering captain Vincent Kompany in the center. Two holding midfielders: Luka Modric and Xabi Alonso, both more than capable of dictating the tempo. Ahead of them, in the playmaker's role, Kaka. On the wings, Franck Ribery to the right, Gareth Bale to the left. And leading the line, the in-form Zlatan Ibrahimovic."
The crowd noise surged in the background as Lineker drew a breath. Then he turned to his partner with that practiced broadcaster's pivot.
"Jon, I had a strong feeling Ferguson would go this way, especially with Schmeichel facing his old club. But Arthur's decision here surprises me. No 4-3-3, no Christmas-tree setup. He's gone 4-2-3-1 at Old Trafford. What do you make of it?"
Jon leaned back, hand at his chin, speaking with deliberate calm. "Well, Gary, I think on one hand Arthur wants greater control of the midfield. With Alonso and Modric shielding, he gets both bite and brains, and it also frees Kaka to play higher without worrying too much about tracking back. On the other hand, this is Old Trafford. He knows United are in form, and he's not foolish—he'll want a strong defensive spine first and then hit on the counter when the chance arises."
Lineker nodded but wasn't finished poking holes. "All right, fair enough, but if this is a counterattacking approach, why not start Adriano? He's got the pace and raw power to hurt teams on the break. Zlatan isn't exactly known for sprinting forty yards in behind."
Jon let out a small chuckle, though his eyes flicked sideways. "I wondered the same thing, honestly. But if there's one thing we've learned about Arthur, it's that he doesn't always pick the obvious choice. He sees things others don't, and he has a knack for making the unconventional work. So I'll withhold judgment. After all, he's the man who knows his Leeds players best."
Lineker smirked faintly, as though filing that answer under diplomatic evasion, but the camera feed cut back to the tunnel, where the two teams now braced themselves. Captains shook hands, boots shuffled forward, and the curtain of noise beyond the tunnel swelled like a storm waiting to break.
Old Trafford was ready. The players were ready. And Arthur's gamble would soon be tested.
*****
Arthur wasn't sitting in his office before the match worrying about whether Zlatan Ibrahimović or Adriano would be better up front. He wasn't pacing around chewing his nails or consulting an ancient footballing oracle. No, he simply pulled up the system that had become his trusty guide, clicked into the "forward condition" tab, and gave the list a once-over like a man browsing a takeaway menu.
Adriano: Normal.
Ibrahimović: Normal.
That was it. Neither of them had suddenly discovered the ability to fly or suddenly developed a limp from tripping over their own shoelaces. Both were available, both were fit, both were ready.
Arthur tapped his chin, thinking. Adriano had the bulldozer quality — raw power, running through defenders like a truck without brakes. Ibrahimović, on the other hand, had that arrogant, elegant stubbornness about him, like he believed the universe bent itself to supply him with overhead kicks.
After a short pause, Arthur made his call: Zlatan first. If Manchester United's defense looked like it was holding together, then Adriano would get the second-half call, fresh legs and all, smashing through tired defenders like an axe through kindling.
Decision made, job done.
While Arthur was calmly plotting substitutions like someone rearranging chess pieces, the stadium was alive with ceremony. Players lined up shoulder to shoulder, the handshake line snaked across the pitch, the two captains met at the centre circle for the coin toss, and the cameras made sure not to miss a single flicker of drama.
Every major star had their face shoved on screen, each jawline and every hair strand practically glowing in the spotlights. And of course, the cameras also swung to the dugouts.
There was Arthur, broad grin, shaking hands warmly with Sir Alex Ferguson. He even threw in a friendly hug, the kind of gesture that screamed "Look, mate, we're enemies for ninety minutes, not in life." Afterward, Arthur plopped himself back on the bench next to Simeone, cracking jokes and chuckling like they were sitting at a bar rather than a Premier League sideline.
Ferguson, though? Very different picture. No smile. No jokes. Arms crossed firmly over his chest, his jaw tight, face set like stone.
If Arthur looked like a man who had just won the lottery, Ferguson looked like a man who had just been told the taxman was on the way.
The commentators saw it too. Lineker leaned forward and couldn't help himself.
"Jon, just look at this! Leeds's Arthur Morgan looks like the happiest bloke in England, while Ferguson… well, I don't think I've ever seen him look this tense. Honestly, if you didn't know any better, you'd think Leeds United were top of the league and this game was happening at Elland Road, not Old Trafford!"
Jon chuckled immediately, unable to resist the joke. "Hahahaha, that's spot on, Gary. There's so much pressure riding on this. Don't forget — Manchester United are looking for revenge. They still haven't lived down the embarrassment from last time. People are calling Ferguson the 'Treble King of Runner-ups' these days, and Arthur is one of the main culprits for sticking that crown on his head!"
Lineker blinked in surprise, caught off guard. "Wait… Arthur's partly responsible for that title?!"
"Yes! He was the first who jokingly said it, but it caught on with the fans!" Jon said with relish, clearly enjoying reminding everyone. "You think Ferguson's forgetting that? Not a chance."
The broadcast lingered on Ferguson's stern expression for a moment longer before cutting back to the centre circle. The coin toss was over. The players were set. The whistle was in the referee's hand.
The roar of Old Trafford was deafening.
Manchester United in their red home shirts would kick things off. And when they did, the tone of the match was set instantly. Ferguson's little pre-kickoff speech — whatever dark magic he'd whispered into his players' ears in the dressing room — clearly worked.
The whistle shrilled.
Bang. United didn't bother with slow probing, didn't mess around with safe passes. Straight away they flipped the switch into attack mode, hammering forward like a storm breaking loose. Berbatov received the ball, elegant as ever, and slipped a smart cross towards the edge of the penalty area.
There was Cristiano Ronaldo — perfectly placed, body coiled, right foot whipping through the ball in an explosive shot. The crowd gasped, but the ball shaved just wide of the post. Danger already.
If Ferguson wanted a reaction, he had it.
But Leeds United weren't the sort to roll over because someone shouted at them. Arthur's side was young, fearless, and maybe just a little too cheeky to know when to back down. The moment Manuel Neuer collected the ball for a goal kick, Luka Modrić started barking orders, waving arms like a conductor at an orchestra. Within seconds, the ball was zipping through white shirts, flowing towards United's box.
Kaká picked it up, head up, vision sharp. One slick pass slid straight into Ibrahimović's path. Zlatan, the human lighthouse, planted himself like a pillar, absorbing Ferdinand's pressure on his back. With one clever touch, he nudged the ball sideways.
Franck Ribéry came flying in from the right, all quick feet and mischief. He squeezed himself through the narrowest gap between Evra and Vidic, slipped into the penalty area, and with one swift movement swept the ball across the face of goal.
Old Trafford held its breath.
Ibrahimović had read it perfectly, lunging in to meet the delivery. But Ferdinand clung to him like glue, leaning, shoving, disrupting. Zlatan's strike skewed slightly. The ball clipped the outside of the post and spun out for a goal kick.
A massive groan echoed from the stands, followed by a collective "oooooh!" of admiration.
"Ribéry! Brilliant play!" one commentator yelled.
"Ibrahimović nearly put that in!" another added.
"Ah, what a shame! Ferdinand's pressure was crucial there, Zlatan couldn't get the clean hit he wanted!"
"Unbelievable — we're not even three minutes in and both teams have already carved open huge chances!"
In the studio, Lineker and Jon looked at each other with wide eyes, grinning. This wasn't going to be a cagey chess match. This was going to be ninety minutes of full-throttle chaos.
On the pitch, the pace refused to die down. Schmeichel placed the ball quickly and thumped a goal kick forward. United surged again, and Leeds instantly retreated in unison, dropping back like a white tide to block them. It was a clash of philosophies unfolding right before everyone's eyes.
Lineker spoke again, half in awe, half in delight. "You know, Jon, we were only half right a few minutes ago."
Jon nodded knowingly. "Exactly. Ferguson's definitely under pressure, that's why United flew out of the blocks. But Arthur? He hasn't come here to play cautious. He hasn't thought about 'defend first, attack later' at all. No, this is a straight duel. A bayonet fight from the very first whistle."
And on the touchline, Arthur was already rubbing his hands, loving every second.