Leeds United's momentum didn't just flicker—it blazed on like a wildfire across Old Trafford. The pressure was relentless, their tempo suffocating, and the Manchester United players were beginning to feel like passengers trapped in a runaway train.
By the 17th minute, the visitors struck again. Luka Modrić, the midfield maestro with hair that seemed to bounce in rhythm with the ball, picked up possession inside the center circle. Scholes came charging toward him, the ginger warrior snarling, sliding his feet in with the sort of determination that had broken more legs than one could count. But Modrić, delicate as a matador sidestepping a bull, simply rolled the ball to one side with the lightest flick of his foot. Scholes was left grasping at thin air, spinning awkwardly as the Croatian glided past him like water slipping between fingers.
With the Old Trafford grass as his canvas, Modrić painted his next brushstroke—a perfect straight pass cutting the defense open. The ball skimmed through the turf, like an arrow splitting the field in two, aimed directly at Ribéry.
Franck Ribéry, the scar-faced Frenchman with the acceleration of a cheetah, was already on the move, his body leaning forward in that unmistakable, awkward yet terrifying sprint. But just as he prepared to latch onto Modrić's ball, Patrice Evra, his compatriot and national teammate, came charging across. Evra wasn't interested in elegance. He hurled himself into a desperate sliding tackle, his studs digging into the turf, leg fully extended.
The stadium gasped. France versus France. Teammate versus teammate. Red shirt versus white shirt.
But when the dust settled, there was only one winner. And his name was Ribéry.
Evra's slide missed completely, his boot swiping nothing but grass, as Ribéry danced clear, hopping over the challenge like a man skipping puddles on a rainy street. With the ball glued to his foot, he surged forward, the crowd roaring in unison.
"Mon dieu…" muttered a French commentator on television. "Ribéry is flying."
And indeed, he was. The winger tore down the flank like a storm, Ferdinand stepping across to cover. But Ferdinand, no fool, knew Ribéry's tricks. He angled his body, cutting off the inside run, refusing to give Ribéry that trademark cut to the middle. "Not today, mate," his eyes seemed to say.
But Ribéry wasn't flustered. If the inside door was locked, he'd try the window. Charging into the penalty area, he shifted the ball slightly, angled his body, and let fly with a stinging shot low toward the near post. It was clever—fast, sneaky, disguised to catch Schmeichel off guard. The ball zipped across the grass like a guided missile.
But Schmeichel—who seemed to have traded his gloves for magnets this evening—was ready. The Dane had already leaned toward the near corner, his massive frame collapsing low at lightning speed. Thud! His palm smothered the ball, pinning it to the ground before Ribéry could even think about a rebound.
"Ribéry… shoots!" Gary Lineker bellowed in the Sky Sports studio, his voice cracking from the adrenaline. "Ahhh—Leeds United miss another golden chance! Ribéry denied by his old teammate! Would you believe it!?"
Jon, beside him, was shaking his head, half laughing in disbelief. "Schmeichel is unstoppable today! Absolutely unstoppable! And look, I'm a Leeds United man through and through, but I've got to say this—Manchester United fans must be thanking the heavens. After Van der Sar, they've gone and found Schmeichel. Honestly, in terms of goalkeepers, this club's fans have nothing to fear!"
Eight minutes later, Leeds were at it again. They weren't backing down—they couldn't.
Xabi Alonso, cool as a man in a tuxedo sipping wine, picked up the ball deep in his own half. With a casual glance upward, he launched one of his trademark long passes. The ball soared across the pitch in a glorious arc, as though it had wings, heading straight toward the left flank.
There was Gareth Bale—young, fearless, and sprinting like a man chasing after a runaway bus. John O'Shea, United's utility man, was left panting behind, his legs churning but his speed betraying him. Bale brushed him aside with the ease of a bulldozer shoving away rubble. By the time he reached the ball near the baseline, O'Shea was just a memory fading in the distance.
Without a moment's pause, Bale whipped in a vicious cross with his left foot, slicing the ball into the box.
And there, towering like a Norse giant, Zlatan Ibrahimović muscled his way into position. Vidic clung to him, tugging, pulling, practically hanging off him like a stubborn child refusing to let go. Yet Ibrahimović, in true Zlatan fashion, didn't go down. Instead, with all the arrogance in the world, he tapped the ball back gently with the outside of his boot.
The pass rolled perfectly to Kaka, who was arriving at full speed just outside the box. Kaka didn't hesitate—his right foot swung through the ball with elegance, sending it rocketing toward the top right corner of the goal. It was a strike kissed by destiny, curving through the air, destined for glory.
"Another long shot from Kaka!" Lineker screamed, half out of his seat already. His hands clutched the desk as though bracing for an explosion. But then—
"Oh my word!! Schmeichel again! AGAIN!!"
The Dane, as if born with wings, had leapt across his goalmouth, stretching every tendon, every inch of muscle, to get his glove to the ball. And somehow, impossibly, he tipped it over the bar.
The roar of the crowd shook Old Trafford. Leeds fans buried their heads in their hands. Manchester United fans sang his name at the top of their lungs: "SCHMEICHEL! SCHMEICHEL! SCHMEICHEL!"
After nearly 25 minutes of siege, of wave after wave of Leeds attacks, Manchester United's fortress still stood unbroken. Schmeichel was the wall. Schmeichel was the shield. Schmeichel was the man dragging them through hell with his bare hands.
For the players in red, the effect was transformative. Minutes earlier, they had looked like men drowning, clinging to scraps of hope as Leeds battered them senseless. But now, with their keeper performing miracles, belief began to creep back into their veins. Their shoulders straightened. Their passes grew sharper. Their confidence, once shattered, was pieced back together by the Dane's defiance.
Gradually, the fear lifted. The panic faded. Manchester United began to breathe again. They started to push forward, to string together passes, to believe that perhaps—just perhaps—they could turn this tide.
Leeds United's dominance was still there, undeniable. But for the first time that evening, Old Trafford felt a shift. A small one, yes, but enough. The storm had not broken Manchester United yet.
And Schmeichel was the reason why.
*****
The clock ticked toward the 30th minute, and the match at Old Trafford simmered with tension. The ball rolled into the middle circle where Paul Scholes, the ginger general of Manchester United's midfield, planted himself like an old oak tree. Luka Modric was buzzing around him like an annoying fly, tugging, pressing, breathing down his neck. Scholes, however, wasn't the type to panic. He leaned his back into Modric's pressure, shielding the ball with that deceptively small frame of his, before casually rolling the ball out to the left.
Giggs, the evergreen Welshman, came short to collect it. The Leeds players instantly tightened around him, every white shirt tilting toward the left flank, like moths to a flame. Giggs, however, wasn't in the mood for dribbling contests. With a glance, he spotted Rooney waiting on the opposite side.
Then, with the effortless grace of a man who had been swinging his left foot since dinosaurs roamed Wales, Giggs unleashed a long, diagonal pass. The ball cut through the air like an arrow, whistling across the pitch and landing perfectly at Wayne Rooney's feet on the right wing.
Rooney didn't hesitate. He controlled the ball, shoved it forward with his boot, and charged toward the byline like a bull smelling blood. Philipp Lahm, Leeds United's ever-reliable captain, sprinted across to close him down. Lahm bent his knees, ready to block a cross or stick out a foot. But just when the German defender thought he had measured Rooney's intentions, the striker suddenly whipped the ball toward the middle.
The Old Trafford crowd roared. Leeds's defenders froze for half a second—caught between backpedaling and rebalancing their bodies. The pass had come earlier than expected, and all their weight was shifted in retreat. For defenders, that half-second was the difference between glory and disaster.
Fabio Cannavaro, the veteran Italian, tried to salvage the situation. He flung himself upward for a clearance, twisting his body unnaturally after desperately shifting his momentum. But the awkward leap only got him a fraction of the height he wanted. His head skimmed the air uselessly as the ball sailed just above him.
And then—boom.
From the opposite side, Cristiano Ronaldo stormed in like a predator. Sprinting in from the left, he timed his leap perfectly, rising above everyone near the penalty spot. His body hung in the air for a glorious second, every muscle flexed, his neck snapping forward with the ferocity of a lion striking down prey.
CRACK. The ball smacked his forehead and rocketed toward the Leeds goal.
"Cristianooooo—!"
The commentator's roar blended with the thunder of Old Trafford. Every home fan leapt to their feet as the ball changed trajectory and hurtled toward the net.
But then came the miracle.
Manuel Neuer, already shifting backward after anticipating a deeper shot, had no right to save this. His weight was completely wrong, his body tilting the wrong way. But in the kind of insane athleticism that made him the stuff of legends, Neuer somehow coiled his body like a spring, planted his right boot hard into the turf, and exploded upward—almost straight off the ground.
Time slowed. His left arm stretched out like a cat's paw, his fingertips brushing the edge of reality itself. And then—
THUMP!
Neuer's hand smacked the ball wide, sending it spinning out of play beyond the baseline.
The stadium gasped.
"Cristiano Ronaldo's header! Oh my God!" Gary Lineker's voice cracked in disbelief. "Leeds United also has its own goalkeeper! Neuer just showed us a world-class save! His body weight was completely gone, but he twisted himself back with insane reflexes and somehow clawed that rocket of a header wide!"
Lineker could hardly believe it. The save was ridiculous, borderline illegal by human standards. If Manchester United had scored then—against the run of play, while Leeds had been dominating—it would have gutted not just the players but the commentator too.
Instead, it was Neuer who stole the spotlight.
"Neuer! Manuel Neuer!" another commentator burst in, his voice brimming with excitement. "Jon, you were wrong earlier! It's not Manchester United's goalkeeper choice that reassures fans—it's Leeds United's! After Schmeichel left, people wondered if Leeds would suffer. But no! Neuer is proving he's the perfect heir!"
On the pitch, Ronaldo couldn't believe it. He landed from his header, froze for a moment, and then ruffled his hair in frustration, shaking his head. That was his bread-and-butter finish, his trademark, and somehow Neuer had ruined it.
From the ensuing corner, Giggs floated the ball to the far post. This time Berbatov rose above everyone else. The tall Bulgarian connected with his forehead, but his header lacked conviction. The ball drifted tamely wide of the post, not even troubling Neuer, who coolly tracked it out of bounds with his eyes.
Still, the consecutive threats were enough to lift the mood inside Old Trafford. For nearly half an hour, Manchester United had been smothered by Leeds's relentless pressing, pinned deep in their own half. Now, with two chances in quick succession, the home fans sensed momentum shifting. Applause rippled across the stands, louder, stronger, as if to tell the players: we're back in this fight.
On the Leeds bench, Rivaldo leaned forward nervously, arms folded. He turned to Arthur with a hint of unease in his voice.
"Boss, should we steady ourselves? Manchester United seem to have found their rhythm," he muttered. "We've attacked so hard up front, created so many good chances, but we haven't scored… To be honest, I'm a little worried. Wasting chances like this—sometimes football has a way of punishing you."
Arthur, however, was unmoved. He rolled his eyes so dramatically it was a wonder they didn't fall out of his head.
"Brother, what era do you think this is?" Arthur scoffed. "I'm not some old man reading tea leaves—I don't believe in that superstitious nonsense."
"But…" Rivaldo began cautiously.
"No buts." Arthur cut him off with a dismissive wave. He turned his gaze toward the pitch, eyes locked on Neuer, who was now preparing for the goal kick with complete composure. A grin spread across Arthur's face, full of confidence.
"Trust these guys. They're not rookies anymore. They know exactly how to manage the rhythm of a match. This isn't a team that panics—they know when to accelerate, when to slow things down, and how to drag Manchester United back into the mud."
Arthur leaned back, arms crossed, looking for all the world like a man enjoying an evening stroll instead of a nerve-shredding Champions League knockout at Old Trafford.
And with Neuer in goal pulling off saves that defied logic, his confidence didn't seem misplaced at all.