"Unfortunately, Alonso's threatening shot was firmly suppressed by his former teammate." Lineker's voice carried just the right amount of regret, as if he himself wished the net had bulged. "You can see, Schmeichel is still extremely familiar with Alonso's shooting habits. The moment Alonso lifted his thigh to strike, Schmeichel had already begun leaning left and taking those little steps to anticipate it."
Jon agreed immediately, almost cutting him off. "Exactly! And after watching Manchester United's last few matches, I've got to say, Ferguson's 18 million euros are looking like money very well spent!"
While the two commentators were still shaking their heads and sighing over Alonso's long-range cannon being smothered, the game on the pitch allowed no pause.
The very next moment, Leeds United came storming back.
Schmeichel sent his goal kick long, aiming for Berbatov up front. But Berbatov, perhaps too casual, didn't even contest it properly.
Instead, Xabi Alonso, who had already dropped back into the midfield zone, rose to meet the ball. Alonso leapt, chest squared, and knocked the ball neatly with his head to Kaka, who had run back diagonally to offer the option.
The Manchester United midfield line was razor-sharp in concentration.
Carrick, especially, had been tracking Kaka since Alonso first got his touch. Anticipating that the Brazilian would be the target, he squeezed up early, moving tight to Kaka's shoulder even while the ball was still hanging in the air.
In this situation, everyone expected one outcome: Carrick would body Kaka off, or at the very least prevent him from doing anything useful. It looked like Leeds' momentum was about to be cut short.
But Kaka had other ideas.
He didn't even bother to cushion the ball. No chest control, no touch to settle it. Instead, he waited, eyes locked on the ball as it dropped. At the exact instant the ball kissed the grass but had no time to bounce back up, Kaka stabbed out his right foot — not the front, not the instep, but the back of his boot. A cheeky little knock, redirecting the ball into open space on the left!
It was pure street football flair, the kind of move that only someone born with a Brazilian soul would think of.
Everyone froze.
Carrick was caught leaning the wrong way. Vidic glanced in confusion. Even the commentators gasped. The only man alive to Kaka's imagination was Gareth Bale, who had already been sprinting like a bullet down the left channel.
Because he'd started early, Bale suddenly had the jump. Evra turned, scrambling desperately to recover, but the Welshman had half a step and wasn't about to waste it. By the time Evra lunged back, Bale had already cut inside along the edge of the penalty area.
Now came the moment of theatre.
Bale wound up his left leg as though ready to unleash a thunderbolt. Vidic, never one to hesitate, came charging out of the box, throwing his body in front, arms folded across to protect the vital areas. He was braced for impact.
But it was a trick.
Bale barely touched the ball, withdrawing power at the last instant. With the deftest flick, he dragged it across with the inside of his left boot, sending Vidic lunging helplessly the wrong way.
In the same fluid motion, Bale rolled his ankle and with the outer instep flicked the ball back across into his stride, shaking Vidic clean out of the play.
And then — the hammer came down.
He swung his left leg through the ball with a crack that echoed across Old Trafford.
Ibrahimović, who had been hovering inside the box, ducked dramatically, dropping to the turf to avoid becoming an accidental human shield. The ball whistled over his head and arrowed toward the top left corner of Schmeichel's goal.
"Gareth Bale!!" Lineker shouted, voice cracking with excitement.
The Old Trafford stands roared in panic and fury.
But Schmeichel was in god mode.
The Dane's reaction was instant. He sprang sideways and upward, arms outstretched, and with a clenched fist, he thumped the screaming volley clear over the bar and out for a corner.
The stadium erupted in noise. Some gasped, some cursed, some cheered.
"Perfect save!!" Lineker shouted again, almost losing his composure. "Schmeichel rescues Manchester United once more! And Bale's strike — what a strike that was!"
Jon jumped in, breathless. "This match barely has a pause! Neither side is playing cautiously at all. Right from the start, they've been trading blows. Leeds United, even here at Old Trafford, are not backing down an inch. And just look at the last few minutes — two huge chances for Leeds, both forcing Schmeichel into heroic saves. Without him, the scoreboard might already be showing 0–2!"
He continued without even taking a breath, his voice growing more animated. "But you know what? This shouldn't surprise anyone. Two years ago, Leeds United had just come up to the Premier League, and even then, they managed to take a draw here at Old Trafford. Since then, they've only grown stronger. Last season they faced Manchester United twice — one win, one draw, not a single defeat. So seeing them seize the initiative today is no shock at all!"
The cameras panned across to Ferguson on the sideline, his jaw clenched, barking instructions, while Arthur stood a few steps away in the opposite technical area, calm as a stone, arms folded, almost daring United to keep up with his young wolves.
Old Trafford was crackling.
And it was only the opening spell.
*****
Indeed.
In the last few minutes, Manchester United hadn't gained any real foothold at all. Their attacks looked blunt, their transitions uncertain. Cristiano Ronaldo, normally the spark of chaos that ripped teams apart, found himself shackled, Leeds' defenders taking turns to clamp down on him. With Ronaldo neutralized, neither Rooney nor Berbatov stepped up to share the burden, and that imbalance gnawed at the nerves of everyone in red.
On the sideline, Ferguson stood with arms folded, brows knitted together, his famous gum chewing faster than ever. The Old Trafford stands mirrored his agitation, restless murmurs and groans spreading like waves through the sea of supporters.
But even Ferguson, master of decades, could only grit his teeth.
In his heart, he knew the only plan was patience: wait out this Leeds storm, pray that their ferocity would fade with time, and then — only then — try to carve open a counterattack.
····
But Leeds United were not built to play by Ferguson's script.
Arthur had long drilled into his young squad the merciless creed: when the opponent is wounded, don't let them breathe — finish the job.
So when the corner kick was whipped in, chaos erupted in the penalty area. Players jostled, shirts tugged, heads clashed. No one managed a clean header. Schmeichel, rising above them all, punched with both fists, the ball flying out beyond the melee and landing neatly at the feet of Alonso at the edge of the box.
The Spaniard didn't panic.
Instead of lumping it back in, he scanned the situation in an instant. United's defenders were sprinting forward, pressing high in the hope of either winning the ball off his feet or springing an offside trap if he dared to lob it back toward goal. The whole defense line surged out like a red tide.
Alonso smirked.
Fine, then. If the sea wants to rush forward, he'd simply flow the other way. With a sharp swing of his boot, he nudged the ball diagonally left, releasing it into the stride of Luka Modric.
Modric had smartly retreated after the corner to position himself safely away from the scrum. As a result, he stood in acres of space — no defender within arm's reach.
The moment the pass rolled to him, Modric's eyes lit up.
He accelerated instantly, cutting down the left channel.
United's backline groaned in unison, realizing the trap had backfired. They had no choice but to turn on their heels and retreat yet again, dragging their heavy legs back toward their own penalty area.
It was a nightmare scenario for defenders. A sudden shift in rhythm — from rushing out to being forced back in — always cracks open little gaps, little delays. Modric knew this was where football's knife slipped between the ribs.
He didn't drive the ball all the way to the byline. Instead, as soon as he saw the defense staggering backward, he swung his right foot and curled in a cross.
But this wasn't a traditional loft into the six-yard box. No, Modric aimed with surgical precision — behind the penalty spot, an area often overlooked.
As the ball curled in, Manchester United's defenders suddenly realized, with horror, that one man in white hadn't followed their backward-and-forward dance.
Kaka.
While everyone else surged and retreated, the Brazilian had remained perfectly still, ghosting in the pocket of space, waiting.
Now the ball dropped toward him like fate itself.
By the time Ferdinand and Carrick spotted the danger, it was far too late.
The "Son of God" was already winding up. His right leg swung through like a scythe, connecting flush with the ball.
Volley!
The sound was like a gunshot, leather smacking leather with venomous force.
So close. So sudden. So powerful.
The ball tore through the cluster of bodies, slicing between defenders who could only flinch as it whistled past them.
Before Lineker in the commentary box could even draw a breath to shout Kaka's name, the shot was already screaming toward the heart of Manchester United's goal.