But Rivaldo wasn't entirely wrong.
Manchester United had just survived two scares, and instead of breaking, they bounced back. Those quickfire attacks were like jolts of electricity to the home crowd—reviving belief, confidence, and that familiar Old Trafford swagger. You could almost feel the mood shifting in the stadium: red shirts straightened, voices grew louder, and suddenly the game tilted ever so slightly back toward the hosts.
For Leeds United, the rhythm changed. They no longer pressed as relentlessly as before. The match began to look like a heavyweight boxing bout—two fighters taking turns to swing, block, and counter. Attack for attack, defense for defense, neither side backing off an inch.
The stands trembled with the energy of it. Even the commentators could barely keep up.
"Both sides are showing their teeth now!" someone on the broadcast shouted over the roar. "This isn't just football—it's trench warfare with a ball!"
And then came the thirty-sixth minute.
A Manchester United corner was curled dangerously toward the six-yard box. Neuer rose like a tower, his hands swallowing the ball in midair before crashing back to the turf. The German didn't waste a second—he popped straight up, eyes scanning ahead. In that instant, Modric was already moving.
Neuer's throw found him near the edge of the box. Modric cushioned the ball, turned sharply away from an onrushing Scholes, and lifted his head. His eyes flicked right—space, glorious space. Without hesitation, he launched a long diagonal pass that split the field wide open.
The counterattack was on.
Ribery sprinted into the open channel, his bald head gleaming under the floodlights like a guided missile. Ferdinand, realizing the danger, spun around and chased. The Frenchman was seconds away from breaking free when the veteran defender reached out and tugged his shirt—then, in desperation, yanked him down from behind.
The whistle shrieked instantly. The Leeds bench shot up, arms waving furiously.
"That's a tactical foul if I've ever seen one," Rivaldo grumbled, shaking his head.
Ferdinand didn't argue; he knew what he'd done. The referee reached for his pocket and produced a yellow card as the Old Trafford crowd groaned.
"Ferdinand gets a yellow!" Lineker shouted from the commentary booth, voice brimming with excitement. "That's good news for Leeds United! Manchester United's center-back is booked before halftime, and that's a crack they can try to pry open. Arthur's men might look to target that side from now on."
Arthur didn't celebrate the card—at least not openly. He simply smirked from the touchline, hands in pockets, looking every bit the calm tactician. But inside, he noted the detail like a chess player marking a weak square on the board.
Ribery rubbed his shoulder, muttering curses in French, while Modric set up for the free kick. The fans held their breath. But the set piece fizzled out harmlessly—Modric's delivery was cleared by Vidic, and the chance was gone.
Manchester United immediately switched from defense to attack.
Scholes gathered the ball near midfield, his boots kissing the grass as he sidestepped Modric's attempt to close him down. The crowd hummed with anticipation. Scholes, as calm as a monk arranging candles, slid the ball toward Rooney, who had dropped deep to collect it.
But Leeds's defense was alert—Cannavaro, reading the situation like the veteran general he was, had already stepped up.
He charged toward Rooney, judging the pass perfectly. The Italian's eyes narrowed; timing was everything here. As Rooney received the ball and turned, Cannavaro lunged—body low, legs extended, his slide a flash of movement on the turf.
Normally, this would've been a textbook interception. Cannavaro had made that exact move a thousand times in his career. But Rooney wasn't just any opponent.
The English bulldog sensed the challenge and, with that raw, explosive acceleration of youth, poked the ball forward a split second earlier.
Cannavaro's studs swiped nothing but grass. The ball—and Rooney—were gone.
Rooney's burst of pace carried him past the fallen Italian, and before anyone could recover, he was driving toward the box. Kompany, stationed just behind, saw the danger and stepped up immediately.
For a heartbeat, everyone thought Rooney would keep dribbling. But the striker had other ideas.
He glanced up once, spotted a blur of red darting into the open gap Cannavaro had left behind, and tapped the ball diagonally with the inside of his right boot.
The pass was perfect—weighted, timed, deadly.
And that blur? It was Cristiano Ronaldo.
At some point during the chaos, the Portuguese star had ghosted infield from the left, unnoticed by Leeds's backline. Now, as Rooney's ball rolled into the pocket of space, Ronaldo exploded forward to meet it.
The stadium erupted in one voice.
"Cristiano—!"
The announcer's cry boomed through Old Trafford as if summoning a god of war. Tens of thousands of fans shot to their feet, red scarves waving wildly.
In that moment, the pitch opened like a wound in Leeds's defense. Cannavaro was still scrambling up from the turf, Kompany was out of position, and Ronaldo—Ronaldo was charging in one-on-one with Neuer.
The Portuguese star didn't hesitate. He took a touch to steady himself, eyes flicking briefly toward the keeper. Neuer had already left his line, reading the danger instantly, narrowing the angle with those long strides.
It was predator versus predator now.
Ronaldo adjusted his body, his right leg cocking back. Then, with a whip-like motion, he struck the ball. The shot tore through the air like a bullet—fast, fierce, and half-height, screaming toward the far corner.
For most keepers, that would've been the end of the story.
But Neuer wasn't most keepers.
He reacted purely on instinct, throwing himself sideways into a dive. He didn't even have time to fully stretch—he just flung out his arm, trying to make himself as big as possible, trusting fate.
Arthur, standing on the sideline, held his breath. The Leeds fans watching from the away corner collectively froze. Even Lineker sounded like he'd stopped breathing mid-commentary.
Then came the sound.
THUD.
The ball slammed into Neuer's forearm—pure luck, pure madness—and ricocheted wide of the post, rolling out for a corner.
For a heartbeat, Old Trafford went silent. Then it exploded again, this time in groans and disbelief.
"Ah—!! Ronaldo!! Ronaldo!" Lineker yelled, voice cracking between shock and relief. "Leeds United escape! Ronaldo missed the one-on-one! Neuer blocks him again! Incredible—absolutely incredible!"
Ronaldo stood frozen, staring at the goal in disbelief. For a moment, his expression said it all: How?!
He turned, hands on his head, and stared at Neuer—who was already getting up, calm as ever, brushing the grass off his gloves like he'd just saved a warm-up shot.
Arthur couldn't help grinning on the sideline. Rivaldo, beside him, just exhaled hard, hand pressed to his chest.
"That man's not a goalkeeper," Rivaldo muttered under his breath. "He's a damn octopus."
Arthur chuckled. "You're just realizing that now?"
As Ronaldo trudged back toward the center circle, still shaking his head, the Old Trafford crowd roared his name, urging him on. But for now, the scoreboard remained unmoved. Leeds United had survived again—and their giant in gloves had just stolen the show once more.
*****
As the ball sailed harmlessly beyond the baseline, a collective groan rippled through Old Trafford like a great wave of disappointment. Thousands of Manchester United fans behind the Leeds United goal clutched their heads in unison, mouths hanging open as if they couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
For a moment, the whole stand looked like one giant photograph of regret—hands on hair, eyes wide, and a thousand silent "Oh come on!" expressions frozen mid-sigh. Some even slumped back into their seats, palms pressed against their faces, as though Ronaldo missing a chance like that was a cosmic betrayal.
"Ah, look at that," Ron chuckled in the commentary booth, his tone playful but dripping with mischief. "It seems Ronaldo didn't bring his shooting boots today!"
Lineker immediately burst into laughter, his relief practically audible through the mic. He'd been holding his breath during that one-on-one, and now that Leeds had survived, his grin returned with full force. "Hahaha! I tell you, Ferguson's going to have a word with his golden boy during halftime!" he teased gleefully. "Cristiano's been brilliant this season, scoring goals like clockwork—but missing this kind of chance? Oh, Sir Alex will be fuming! He'll probably throw a teacup before the whistle blows!"
The cameras cut to Ferguson on the touchline, and sure enough, the old Scotsman's jaw was locked tight, his expression caught between disbelief and suppressed fury. He didn't shout, but everyone knew—oh, everyone knew—that Ronaldo would be getting the kind of "fatherly" talk only Ferguson could deliver.
Meanwhile, Arthur stood on the opposite touchline with his arms crossed, smirking ever so slightly. His team had just dodged a bullet, and he knew it. "Neuer, you absolute lunatic," he muttered under his breath, watching the German keeper calmly jog back into position as if saving one-on-ones from Ronaldo was just part of his morning routine. Rivaldo beside him blew out a long sigh. "We're living dangerously, boss," he murmured. "That's two close calls already."
Arthur shot him a sideways glance and replied casually, "Relax. If it was easy, they'd call it Manchester City."
Rivaldo blinked, then snorted, half laughing, half horrified. "You're insane."
The game pressed on, full of pulse and momentum. Six minutes later, Manchester United came again—this time with purpose.
It started innocently enough. Leeds United were on the attack, passing crisply near midfield, looking to build another wave of pressure. Kaka had just received the ball and was gliding forward, all elegance and balance, when suddenly—snap!—Carrick struck.
The English midfielder, who had been shadowing Kaka quietly like a hunting cat, lunged at the perfect moment. His timing was impeccable. With one sweep of his leg, he nicked the ball clean off Kaka's feet before the Brazilian even realized he'd been robbed.
Carrick didn't waste a heartbeat. Head up, scanning the field, he saw that both Scholes and Giggs were a little too deep to start a quick combination. But up front—there, near the halfway line—was Ronaldo, lingering just behind Leeds United's last defender like a shark smelling blood.
Carrick's decision was instant. He lifted his head and launched a long, looping pass over the midfield and into enemy territory.
The ball spun through the air, glinting under the floodlights.
Ronaldo was already moving.
Beside him, Kompany was retreating rapidly, eyes locked on the flight of the ball. The Belgian defender had been brilliant all season, commanding the back line with poise beyond his years—but this was one of those cruel moments where instincts collide with physics.
Ronaldo's body language screamed attack. His strides were forward, aggressive, powerful. Kompany, on the other hand, was moving backward, craning his neck to track the descending ball while also trying to gauge Ronaldo's run.
That split-second difference in body orientation was everything.
Kompany made his choice—he decided to jump early, to meet the ball before it reached Ronaldo. A safe clearance into touch, that was the plan.
But as he launched himself upward, mistiming by a fraction, the ball dipped just over his head.
"Oh no…" Rivaldo muttered on the Leeds bench.
"Oh yes!" shouted the Old Trafford crowd.
The ball dropped perfectly in front of Ronaldo, who barely broke stride.
"Here it comes again! Another one-on-one!" Lineker's voice cracked with disbelief. "What on earth is happening to Leeds United's defense today?!"
It was chaos once more. Every time Lineker started to calm down, one of the teams would conspire to make him shout himself hoarse again.
Ronaldo surged forward, chest pumping, his every step a blur of speed and precision. The ball bounced once, twice—awkwardly, unpredictably. It wasn't sitting up nicely for a clean strike. The crowd held its breath; everyone knew that controlling a ball like this was one of the hardest things in football.
But this was Cristiano Ronaldo—control was his language.
As the ball bounced up, he raised his left foot, flicking the ball gently upward in one fluid motion. It soared over Kompany's outstretched leg as the Belgian tried desperately to slide in from behind.
Kompany's boots carved up the grass, but the ball was gone—and Ronaldo was through.
Now it was all happening in seconds. Ronaldo readied himself, right leg cocked, balance perfect. His eyes locked on the dropping ball, muscles tightening like steel springs. The entire stadium rose to its feet.
But out of nowhere, a flash of white and blue cut across his line.
It was Cannavaro.
The veteran Italian had seen the danger unfolding and sprinted across the box like a man half his age. He didn't think—he simply reacted.
Without hesitation, he threw himself upward, head first, directly into the path of the descending ball.
"Cannavaro! Cannavaro intercepts!" Ron bellowed into his mic.
For a split second, everyone thought Ronaldo's boot might meet Cannavaro's face—but the Italian didn't flinch. He leapt bravely, closing his eyes just before impact, and thudded his forehead against the ball, sending it spinning out over the baseline for another corner.
The danger was gone.
Ronaldo landed awkwardly, arms spread, glaring toward the heavens as if demanding an explanation from the football gods. He looked furious—frustrated by inches, denied twice by the same defense that seemed determined to torment him tonight.
Meanwhile, Cannavaro dusted himself off, completely unfazed, as if diving head-first in front of Ronaldo's boot was just another day at the office. Kompany jogged over and patted him on the back, shouting something that was lost in the thunderous applause from the Leeds supporters who had made the trip to Old Trafford.
Lineker was still recovering from his outburst, chuckling breathlessly into the microphone. "Oh my goodness! Cannavaro with the heroics! He might be the oldest man on that pitch, but my word, he's still got reflexes like a twenty-year-old! Throwing his head where most people wouldn't dare put their foot!"
Ron laughed too, shaking his head. "Unbelievable defending! I swear, the Leeds backline might just give Arthur a heart attack by halftime!"
Down on the sidelines, Arthur grinned wryly, arms folded, completely unbothered. "They like to make things dramatic," he said to no one in particular. Rivaldo beside him was still catching his breath.
"Boss," he said, still half laughing, half panicked, "if they keep defending like this, I'm going to need blood pressure pills."
Arthur smirked. "Relax. That's just their warm-up."
The ball was already being placed for another corner, but the message was clear: Leeds United had survived—again. Old Trafford had come alive with tension, disbelief, and the scent of a game that was only just beginning to boil.