The second half had just begun, and the game immediately resumed its fierce rhythm, like two fighters trading blows in a round-based duel. Leeds United, having just equalized earlier, were still riding the wave of momentum, but Manchester United, stung by that concession, were determined to assert themselves immediately. Neither side was content to sit back. It was attack and counterattack in rapid succession, each move testing the other's resolve, each touch on the ball carrying the weight of expectation.
The ball came into the midfield through Giggs, who distributed it neatly to Berbatov, drawn slightly to the right, his presence a pivot for Manchester United's next offensive maneuver. With Rooney having just left the pitch, Ronaldo's role as Berbatov's striking partner leaned right, moving in tandem as they probed the Leeds defense. Berbatov, sensing Bale closing in with a burst of speed, subtly shifted his angle, shielding the ball from the defender while scanning for openings. His eyes locked on the left side of the Leeds penalty area, where a dangerous seam was forming. With a quick flick, he threaded the ball toward that corridor, aiming for a space that could tilt the game back in Manchester United's favor.
But defense never sleeps, and Kompany immediately recognized the peril. If Ronaldo received the ball cleanly, his explosive speed and lightning-quick turns would overwhelm him. Acting on instinct, Kompany made a decisive move, shoveling his leg outward in a desperate bid to intercept. But the timing was off. The shovel met nothing but air.
Ronaldo, with the grace and precision that had become his signature, stabbed the ball forward at the exact moment he planted his foot. In one fluid motion, he leapt over Kompany's outstretched leg, leaving the defender grasping at shadows.
"Cristiano—!!" Lineker's voice bellowed across the studio in Old Trafford, long and emphatic, brimming with awe.
"One-on-one! Cristiano's third one-on-one today!" Jon added, equally animated, his excitement cutting through the broadcast feed.
Ronaldo charged into the penalty area, the ball glued to his feet. Neuer, reading the danger instantly, abandoned his goal line entirely, throwing himself forward in an attempt to narrow the angle. The German keeper's movement was aggressive, a calculated gamble to force Ronaldo into a hurried decision.
Yet Ronaldo, calm in the storm, didn't strike immediately. He pushed the ball toward the bottom line, sliding past the fallen Neuer, gathering it again with precise control. Spinning deftly, he turned sideways, and in one fluid motion, he lashed the ball across the Leeds goalmouth, a trajectory so perfect that it seemed destined to land in the net.
The giant screen above Old Trafford replayed the scene in slow-motion glory: Ronaldo's lithe frame, the ball skimming along the turf, Neuer sprawled on the ground, and the tense, collective anticipation of the crowd. From the stands behind the goal erupted a thunderous roar. The home fans' voices combined into one: a mixture of anxiety, excitement, and longing. In their eyes, Manchester United was tantalizingly close to retaking the lead.
Meanwhile, Berbatov, following his own diagonal run into the Leeds penalty area, moved with purpose, ready to capitalize. The trajectory of Ronaldo's ball seemed to demand only a few light touches to redirect it into the net. The path was laid, the goal within grasp. The fans could almost taste the score.
But fate had other plans.
The ball, gliding as if on rails, was intercepted at the perfect moment by the oldest, most composed veteran on the Leeds United field—Cannavaro. Like a striking predator, he charged from the side with the kind of timing honed over decades of elite play. Berbatov stretched his left foot instinctively, anticipating the touch that would turn opportunity into triumph—but Cannavaro was faster, sharper. Before Berbatov could even make contact, Cannavaro slid in, clean and precise, shoveling the ball decisively out of danger and sending it clear over the baseline.
Berbatov, thrown off by the sudden interruption, connected instead with Cannavaro himself. His momentum carried him off balance, and he tumbled into the Leeds penalty area, frustration and disbelief flashing across his face.
"Cannavaro!!!" Lineker exclaimed, covering his face in awe and exasperation, unable to hide the shock in his voice. "Cannavaro, the Italian veteran, has saved Leeds United! He is the rock-solid backbone of this defense! And incredibly—he didn't commit a foul! I saw it with my own eyes—Cannavaro didn't touch Berbatov at all. Berbatov literally kicked himself into Cannavaro and fell! Unbelievable!"
Berbatov, recovering quickly to his feet, sprinted toward the referee, gesturing wildly, attempting to persuade the official that Cannavaro had committed an infraction. Other Manchester United players surged forward, adding their voices and gestures, hoping to sway the decision. They all knew, though, that deep down, Berbatov himself understood the truth: Cannavaro's challenge was flawless, clean, and impeccably timed.
Still, football is a game of perception, and one can never underestimate the referee's potential for human error. Berbatov dared to hope. If he could convince the official that a foul had occurred, perhaps a red dot of penalty could erase the shame of missing such a golden chance.
But the referee remained unmoved. His gaze was sharp, unflinching, and precise. He had seen the entire play. Cannavaro had not touched Berbatov; the Italian had executed the tackle with surgical accuracy. After a long pause, the referee finally intervened, issuing a small, symbolic punishment for simulation—a yellow card for Berbatov for diving.
The farce concluded, the crowd erupted into a mix of laughter, relief, and awe at the spectacle. Leeds United's defense had held firm under immense pressure, and Cannavaro had once again demonstrated why experience and instinct are sometimes more crucial than sheer physicality.
The players regrouped, adjusting their positions. Manchester United's moment of potential glory had been denied not by a lapse in skill, but by the precision and composure of a single defensive titan. Meanwhile, the commentators returned to their analysis, still visibly exhilarated. Lineker shook his head, unable to hide his admiration: "What a scene! Cannavaro's intervention—clean, flawless, and decisive! That's the kind of defending that separates great teams from the rest!"
Even in defeat of that single chance, Leeds United had shown resilience and brilliance. Cannavaro's veteran calmness gave the team a psychological boost. Manchester United players, on the other hand, had to swallow their frustration and reset immediately. The rhythm of the game continued, tension thick in the air, every movement on the field carrying immense consequence.
In that single sequence, everything was showcased: youthful energy, veteran experience, split-second decision-making, and the raw drama of football. The game, even in its early stages of the second half, had already carved another unforgettable chapter in Old Trafford's history.
****
"Zlatan was replaced by Torres. It seems Li does not want to accept a draw. He still wants all three points here at Old Trafford!" Lineker's voice crackled over the studio, excitement threaded through every word. Jon nodded vigorously, leaning forward toward his microphone. "Absolutely, Gary! This is classic Li Shiguang—never satisfied with a tie. Even away from home, even against Manchester United, he wants to go for the win!"
By now, the game clock had crept steadily toward the 84th minute. Both teams had begun making subtle adjustments, shifting players and formations in a delicate dance of strategy and endurance. Li Shiguang had just deployed his final substitution, signaling that he intended to go all-in. Every player on the pitch could feel the tension radiating from the sidelines, a silent but unmistakable command: win this game or go home empty-handed.
The match had already been a tense back-and-forth, a display of tactical brilliance and individual skill. Opportunities for goals had arisen on both sides, but neither Neuer nor Schmeichel had allowed a break in their form. Each keeper had been a fortress, denying shot after shot, diving, stretching, and stretching again, keeping their teams alive in this thrilling struggle.
Li Shiguang, meanwhile, had remained glued to the sidelines, eyes scanning every movement of Manchester United's defense. Every pass, every run, every shift in formation was noted, analyzed, and filed away in the ever-active mind of Leeds' head coach. Ferguson's substitutions had caught his attention as well. The Scot's last change hadn't involved shoring up the defense. That, to Li, was a signal. The defensive line of Manchester United was slightly stretched, slightly tired—just enough to exploit if he acted wisely.
So he had made his move. Ibrahimovic, a physical presence, a threat in the air, was withdrawn, and in his place came Fernando Torres—a fresh burst of speed, a sharp knife to be thrust between Manchester United's exhausted central defenders. It was a gamble, but one that suited Li's philosophy: take the initiative, dictate the game, and pressure the opposition relentlessly.
As soon as Torres entered the pitch, the dynamic shifted noticeably. The combination of Torres and Adriano, both physically superior to Vidic and Ferdinand, immediately began to trouble the central defenders. Kaka and Sneijder, substitutes themselves, understood the signal without a word. Pass forward, quick release, through balls or lofted over-the-top strikes—the essence of a direct, high-pressure attack. Every step, every sprint forced Ferdinand and Vidic to remain cautious, unwilling to leave space behind for fear of being exploited by the lightning-fast forwards of Leeds United.
If Ferguson had been aiming for a draw, he could have tightened his defense, pulled back his central pair, and let Leeds push against a compressed line. The defenders would not have been so exhausted, and the sprinting demands on Vidic and Ferdinand would have been lessened. But Ferguson, it was clear, had no intention of surrendering to a tie. The substitutions he had made, coupled with his aggressive posture from the bench, made it apparent: he wanted all three points just as much as Li. No compromise, no safety net—only victory or nothing.
By the 87th minute, the tension on the pitch was palpable. Manchester United had regained possession in midfield, trying to assert some control and possibly craft a counterattack of their own. Torres and Adriano, while new to the pitch, had already drifted back slightly to help in defensive coverage, aware that quick transitions were as dangerous as any direct attack. Vidic and Ferdinand, although pressed to move forward with the rest of the defense, kept a calculated distance—six meters, just enough to monitor the Leeds forwards while avoiding leaving gaps that could be exploited in a split second.
Hargreaves, fresh on for Giggs just minutes earlier, held the ball at midfield. Yet something in his demeanor suggested hesitation. Perhaps it was a lack of rhythm, the awareness of the high stakes, or simply the mental weight of stepping into the middle of this electric atmosphere. Scholes and Berbatov, both moving off the ball to create passing options, gestured insistently for Hargreaves to release the ball. But he froze for a moment, his foot raised but not committing to the pass, a fraction of a second that stretched into an eternity in this high-speed contest.
That brief lapse was all the opening Lahm needed. The agile German reacted instantly, nudging the ball out with precision and sending it straight to Sneijder, who had positioned himself perfectly to receive the unexpected opportunity.
Sneijder, already tuned into the positions and movements of his teammates, barely glanced up. With one measured touch, he redirected the ball cleanly, bypassing Ferdinand and Vidic, and sent it rolling into Manchester United's half. The suddenness of the move caught the Red Devils off guard.
Torres, who had been jogging leisurely just moments before, suddenly accelerated, darting across the center line with blistering speed. In two or three determined strides, he broke past the defensive attention, slipping between the exhausted Vidic and Ferdinand. Adriano mirrored the motion, giving depth and options to Leeds' counterattack.
And just like that, the counterattack had begun. Leeds United were moving as a unit, coordinated and purposeful. Every player on the field understood the tempo Li Shiguang demanded: precision, timing, and ruthless exploitation of any hesitation.
The crowd sensed it immediately. From Old Trafford's stands, the tension ratcheted up another notch. Manchester United fans rose in unison, some bracing for impact, others shouting encouragement to their defenders. The energy on the pitch surged, a living, breathing entity of anticipation and possibility.
Every touch of the ball, every sprint, every measured movement carried the weight of potential glory or disaster. Hargreaves' moment of hesitation, Lahm's quick thinking, Sneijder's precise control, and Torres' lightning-fast break—all of it coalesced into a single, flowing sequence. The Leeds counterattack was alive, unstoppable in its velocity, a perfect storm of strategy, physicality, and instinct.
From the sidelines, Li Shiguang's eyes gleamed with anticipation. This was exactly what he had envisioned when making the substitution. The forward momentum, the use of speed and skill to stretch and unsettle Manchester United's defense, and the psychological impact on Ferguson's team—all pieces aligned in a masterstroke of coaching intuition.
The game clock ticked mercilessly forward, the 87th minute now fully underway, and the counterattack rolled on, promising that the last few minutes of this high-stakes clash could yet erupt into unforgettable drama.