After Adriano jogged into the center circle and took his spot, the referee blew his whistle again, and the match at Old Trafford resumed amid the echo of cheers and chants. Leeds United were trailing, but the calm expression on Arthur's face on the sidelines stood in stark contrast to the feverish excitement radiating from the Manchester United supporters.
Ibrahimović received the kickoff and rolled the ball to Adriano. The Brazilian took two quick touches, looked up, and instead of playing it forward toward Kaká—who was already sprinting over the halfway line like a cheetah smelling opportunity—Adriano turned and passed it backward to Modrić.
It wasn't hesitation or fear. It was discipline.
Before Adriano had even stepped onto the pitch, Arthur had already pulled him aside and laid things out clearly. Manchester United had just scored, their morale was sky-high, their adrenaline pumping through the roof. If Leeds tried to hit back immediately, there was a real chance United would pick off their hasty attack and punish them again with a lightning-fast counter.
Arthur's order had been short, simple, and iron-clad: do not give them that chance.
So when Adriano trotted onto the field, the first thing he did was run straight to Modrić to deliver Arthur's message verbatim.
Arthur's instruction for Modrić could be summed up in a single word: stability.
Arthur knew his team inside out. His players might look calm now, faces composed and shoulders squared, but deep down, the sting of conceding was there—sharp and heavy. They all knew what was at stake. The double bonus Arthur had promised before the match dangled just out of reach now, and that thought burned quietly in every player's chest.
And in that mental fog—if they went charging forward recklessly, chasing the equalizer too soon—just one mistake would be enough for Manchester United to pounce and finish the game.
As the manager, Arthur couldn't and wouldn't allow that to happen.
And so, for the first time since the opening whistle, the entire flow of the match changed—sharply and visibly.
It was Leeds United who blinked first.
Up until this moment, both sides had been fighting like two bulls in a narrow pen—charging, clashing, refusing to back down. But now, suddenly, Leeds United's tempo slowed. The furious pressing stopped. The ball began to circulate calmly in their own half.
Manchester United, meanwhile, continued pressing high—at least for a few minutes—chasing and snarling.
But to the fans packed into Old Trafford, the sudden change looked like fear.
Booing began to ripple around the stands. The Manchester United faithful jeered loudly, their voices dripping with mockery. To them, Leeds had finally folded.
"Scared, are you?" someone shouted from the Stretford End. "Play it back to your keeper again, cowards!"
In the BBC studio, Gary Lineker frowned slightly as he leaned closer to the monitor. "What's going on? Shouldn't Leeds United be pressing forward now? They're a goal down—why slow the game at this point?"
Next to him, Jon Champion immediately caught on. His eyes were glued to the screen, analytical and sharp. "That's where Arthur's clever," he said, tapping his pen on the desk. "Didn't you see what happened just before? When Adriano came on, he went straight to Modrić and whispered something. I'll bet anything that was a direct instruction from Arthur."
He smiled, nodding toward the monitor. "It's easy to go charging forward and look brave, but United's morale is flying right now. If they find one weak link while Leeds is attacking, it's over. Arthur knows that—he's cooling the tempo deliberately."
And sure enough, his decision worked like a charm.
For the next few minutes, Manchester United's players were forced to chase shadows. Leeds United, patient and poised, passed the ball in triangles across their own half—Alves to Terry, Terry to Modrić, Modrić to Pepe, Pepe back to the keeper. The United players pressed and pressed, but found nothing.
It was like trying to catch smoke.
The longer it went on, the more frustrated they became. The adrenaline that had spiked after scoring began to burn out, replaced by confusion and irritation.
Arthur, standing on the touchline with his arms folded, allowed himself a small, knowing grin. "Good," he muttered under his breath. "Let them run. Let them waste their lungs."
But it didn't take long for Ferguson—ever the hawk—to notice something was wrong.
He had been sitting back, arms crossed, trying to enjoy a rare moment of calm. But when he saw Cristiano Ronaldo sprint half the width of the pitch, chasing an Alves pass that was never meant to be caught, the old Scotsman exploded out of his seat like a spring-loaded jack-in-the-box.
"Stop pressing! Let them have it!" Ferguson bellowed from the touchline, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip crack. "Don't chase before it crosses halfway! We're the ones in front!"
The message hit home instantly.
Ronaldo slowed his run, panting. Rooney looked at Tevez and shrugged as if to say, Yeah, he's right. Carrick raised a hand, motioning for everyone to hold their line.
Of course—they were the ones leading!
Why were they acting like the ones who needed a goal? Why were they chasing so frantically? Did they think Leeds could somehow blast the ball straight into the net from sixty yards out? What was this—Beckham's testimonial match?
With that realization, the entire tempo shifted again.
United's front line retreated slightly, their shape resetting into a compact mid-block. They'd conserve their energy now, protect their lead, and wait for Leeds to make the next move.
And on Arthur's side, Modrić lifted his head, glanced toward the bench, and met his manager's eyes. Arthur gave him a small nod—just a flick of the chin, but it said everything.
Perfect. Exactly as planned.
The pace of the match, once frantic and dizzying, now slowed into a tense, tactical standoff. The roar of the crowd softened into a restless hum. For the first time in nearly an hour, both teams exhaled—if only slightly.
Leeds United weren't scared. They were resetting the chessboard.
And Arthur, watching from the sidelines, knew he'd just bought his team the most precious resource of all in a match like this: time.
The rhythm of the game slowed… and Old Trafford waited, wondering what this calm before the storm would bring next.
*****
Although the tempo had slowed to a calm, chess-like rhythm, that didn't mean Leeds United had abandoned their attacking ambitions. Not at all. Beneath that patient, measured surface, they were still plotting—waiting for the exact crack to appear in Manchester United's wall.
Every pass, every touch, was part of the plan. From defense to midfield, from midfield to the edge of the box, the ball was moved carefully, almost surgically, through layers of progression. But once it reached the final third, another obstacle stood in their way—Peter Schmeichel, the fiery-tempered, towering wall between the posts.
Breaking through the hands of their old comrade was proving to be a nightmare.
It became a riddle Leeds couldn't solve, no matter how they twisted it. Adriano's hold-up play, Kaká's movement, Ribéry's speed—they all found themselves, sooner or later, staring into the massive frame of Schmeichel, who seemed to cover the entire goal by himself.
Ten minutes slipped by like this. The ball went from one end to the other, but the scoreboard at Old Trafford remained frozen at 1–0. The Manchester United supporters grew louder, more confident, every minute that passed without a Leeds goal.
And then—when the clock ticked into the 67th minute—something finally changed.
Leeds United began their attack from deep in their own half. Dani Alves picked up the ball on the right wing, his boots tapping the turf with that trademark rhythm of his. As Ronaldo came flying in to press, Alves didn't panic; instead, he nudged the ball forward past the halfway line, looked up, and clipped a pass diagonally into midfield toward Modrić.
The Croatian maestro received it smoothly, head already lifting to scan the field. He spotted Adriano positioned just outside the Manchester United penalty area and threaded the ball toward him without hesitation.
This was where Adriano's presence made all the difference.
With Nemanja Vidić breathing down his neck and Ferdinand hovering nearby, Adriano used his chest to cushion the ball expertly. The pass thudded into him, bounced once, and settled. But breaking past Ferdinand's tight marking was easier said than done; the defender's arms were up, his body weight pressing close. So Adriano did the sensible thing—he held the ball for half a second, then flicked it backward to Kaká, who was gliding in from behind like a panther on the hunt.
Kaká was barely on the ball when he saw Michael Carrick charging toward him from the top of the penalty area.
Carrick lunged.
Kaká, ever the artist, feinted. He dipped his shoulder left, pretending to drive that way. Carrick bought it completely, shifting his weight in that direction. And in that split second of imbalance, Kaká drew his right foot back, pivoted smoothly, and used the outside of his boot to push the ball the opposite way—right past Carrick.
It was a move so clean, it could've been painted on canvas.
Now, Kaká had space. The edge of the box opened before him.
He could have shot then and there—the distance was perfect for him. He looked up, locking eyes with Schmeichel, who was standing slightly to his right, anticipating the Brazilian's famous curling shot. Kaká's gaze flicked toward the bottom-left corner of the net, and his body followed, winding up for what looked like the classic Kaká strike.
Immediately, panic rippled through Manchester United's defense. Vidić and Ferdinand both dove forward, extending their legs desperately to block the inevitable shot. Behind them, Schmeichel reacted too, taking two small steps in the direction of Kaká's gaze, ready to explode into a full-stretch save.
But then came the twist.
Kaká's right leg came down—not with a shot, but with a delicate brush. Instead of a rocket toward the corner, the ball lifted gently off the turf, skimming through the air, curving over Vidić's head like a whisper and dropping into the box.
For a heartbeat, everyone froze—except one man.
Franck Ribéry.
From the right flank, he burst forward like a bolt of lightning, sprinting into the open space behind the defense. The crowd gasped. Schmeichel's eyes went wide.
The veteran keeper instantly abandoned his line and charged forward, his massive frame bearing down on Ribéry like a freight train. It was a collision course.
But Ribéry—dear, mischievous Ribéry—had learned a few tricks from Kaká.
He swung his right leg up as if to hammer the ball into the roof of the net—but at the last instant, his foot slowed, caressing the ball instead of smashing it. With a feathery touch, he rolled it sideways across the six-yard box.
Schmeichel lunged, but he was too far gone to stop himself. The ball slipped past him, gliding across the empty mouth of the goal.
And waiting there, perfectly timed, was Adriano.
Completely unmarked.
He stepped in, shoulders wide, eyes calm, and with a single, devastating strike of his right boot, he met the ball cleanly.
THUD.
The sound of leather meeting leather rang through the stadium.
Schmeichel twisted midair, helpless.
A split second later, the ball crashed into the back of the net.
GOAL! 1–1!
Old Trafford fell silent for half a heartbeat, stunned—before the away end erupted in wild, chaotic joy. White shirts flooded toward the corner flag, Adriano roaring as he slid across the grass on his knees, teammates piling on top of him in a blur of limbs and laughter.
After masterfully luring Schmeichel off his line with one perfect sequence of deception—Kaká's feint, Ribéry's trick, Adriano's finish—Leeds United had done it.
They had leveled the score.
Arthur stood on the sidelines, arms spread, grinning broadly beneath the floodlights.
Leeds United were back in the fight.