As play resumed after the goal, Leeds United pushed forward with renewed urgency, their movements sharper, their passing crisper. Arthur stood on the touchline, hands jammed in his coat pockets, barking instructions with the energy of someone who'd just had three espressos too many.
"Press higher! Don't let them breathe!" he shouted, his voice slicing through the chilly Elland Road air.
And it seemed to be working. Arsenal's backline, which had looked so assured moments ago, began to wobble under the pressure. Milner, in particular, was a man possessed, charging down loose balls, whipping crosses in at every opportunity. Then, in the 18th minute, it happened.
Milner picked up the ball just outside the Arsenal box. He took a quick glance, saw Lehmann slightly off his line, and unleashed a curling strike with his right foot that seemed destined for the top corner. Time seemed to freeze as the ball arched beautifully, bending away from Lehmann's outstretched hands. The Leeds fans collectively sucked in their breath.
Clang!
The ball smashed against the post with a thunderous crash, rebounding back into the penalty area before Lehmann scrambled to collect it like it was his wallet and someone had just tried to nick it.
"Ohhhhhh, so close!" Martin Tyler's voice boomed through the speakers. "What a hit from Milner! If that had gone in, the roof would've come off this place!"
Alan Smith chuckled. "It's just not Leeds' day so far, is it? That one was an inch away from being a worldie."
The Elland Road faithful groaned in unison, the sort of groan that ripples through the stands like a wave of collective heartbreak. Some fans even held their heads, disbelief etched on their faces as if they'd just witnessed someone miss an open goal from two yards out. Arthur slapped his forehead dramatically, turning to his assistant. "I swear, I'm cursed. I must've offended the football gods in a past life," he muttered.
"Maybe it was that time you benched three strikers for a laugh?" his assistant quipped.
Arthur shot him a glare. "Not the time, mate."
Meanwhile, Arsenal, perhaps emboldened by their narrow escape, decided to double down on their aggressive approach. Wenger, arms folded in that signature pose of his, gave the nod, and the Gunners pushed their backline higher up the pitch, squeezing Leeds United for space. Henry and Van Persie began hounding every Leeds touch, forcing hurried passes and rushed clearances. It was high-risk, high-reward stuff, but Wenger clearly believed the best defense was more offense.
Arthur wasn't blind to it. He waved Milner over the moment the ball was out of play. "James, listen," he said, pulling him close. "Forget the short stuff through the middle. You see how high they're playing? Cole and Eboue are practically living in our half. Exploit that. Get it behind them, stretch them out. And for God's sake, tell the lads to stop pinging it back every five seconds. This isn't a game of fetch."
Milner nodded with a grin, jogging back to the pitch and barking out the instructions. Arthur folded his arms, eyes narrowed like a poker player studying his opponent's bluff. "If Wenger wants to play chicken, we're gonna make him regret it," he mumbled to himself.
Gradually, the tide began to turn. Arsenal's relentless pressing—impressive as it was—had a glaring flaw. Ljungberg and Pires, now pushing 30, started to show the signs of fatigue. Their sprints were less sharp, their touches more labored. Wenger's gamble on veteran wingers was beginning to look like an overestimation of their stamina. Arthur watched it all with the satisfaction of someone who knew he'd just spotted a crack in the dam.
And sure enough, Leeds United began to exploit the wings with precision. Milner, sharp as ever, waited for the exact moment Eboue surged forward. The instant the Ivorian left his position, Milner took off like a greyhound, darting into the vacated space. Modric saw the run and pinged a perfect pass, splitting Arsenal's midfield wide open.
Milner surged down the right, cut inside, and unleashed a low drive that skidded off the turf like it had been shot out of a cannon. Lehmann flung himself across the goal and, with an outstretched palm, managed to tip it onto the post. The ball ricocheted back into play, causing a mad scramble in the box before Lehmann finally smothered it with the desperation of a man saving his own life.
Arthur threw his hands up in disbelief. "Are we shooting at an invisible force field out there?!" he shouted to nobody in particular. Even the linesman chuckled.
But in Arthur's mind, the path forward was now crystal clear. Arsenal's high press and adventurous full-backs had left them vulnerable, and Arthur intended to exploit it mercilessly. Wenger's gamble had worked—for now—but Arthur knew the cracks were starting to show.
Wenger sat back in his seat, arms crossed, brow furrowed in concentration. He had noticed the growing cracks in Arsenal's approach, the telltale signs of fatigue creeping in, especially on the flanks. Ljungberg was puffing like he'd just run a marathon, and Pires looked like he was carrying a fridge on his back every time he tried to sprint. Wenger knew something had to change.
Without a moment's hesitation, he shot up from his seat, waving his arms like he was trying to land a plane. "Slow it down! Slow it down!" he bellowed from the touchline, his voice cutting through the noise of Elland Road. The Arsenal players glanced over, acknowledging the instruction. But before Wenger could summon Fabregas over for a quick word, Lehmann, in his typical no-nonsense manner, had already hoofed the ball back into play.
Wenger slapped his forehead. "Of course, Jens. Of course you would," he muttered to himself, pacing back to his technical area with the urgency of a man who'd just remembered he left the oven on.
Meanwhile, Arsenal had pushed back into Leeds United's half with all the confidence of a side that believed in its own hype. The ball zipped across the pitch, one-touch passes flowing smoothly until it found its way to the feet of Fabregas. The young Spaniard barely had time to turn before he saw a familiar sight barreling toward him: Mascherano.
If Fabregas had nightmares, they probably looked like Mascherano sprinting full tilt, eyes locked onto the ball with the intensity of a bloodhound on a scent. To his credit, Fabregas had managed one successful dribble past Mascherano earlier in the game, but that was it. Every other time, the Argentine had been glued to him like he was auditioning for a buddy cop film. Those slick through balls Fabregas usually delivered? They'd been locked up tighter than a bank vault. Most of his passes today had either gone backward or reluctantly drifted out to the wings.
And this time was no different. The second Mascherano closed him down, Fabregas decided he valued his ankles too much to test his luck and quickly offloaded the ball to Ljungberg, who picked it up and began a diagonal run toward the center. In the distance, Van Persie raised his hand, signaling for the ball, waving like he was hailing a taxi.
Ljungberg, sharp-eyed as ever, saw the run but decided to take matters into his own hands, pushing forward and drawing Lahm out of position. The little German scrambled to track him, with Mascherano sliding over as backup. It looked like Leeds had it covered.
But just then, out of nowhere, a flash of red streaked past Ljungberg's shoulder—Ashley Cole. Like he'd been launched out of a cannon, he tore down the left flank, and Ljungberg, in perfect sync, flicked the ball out to him with a beautifully timed pass.
"Ashley Cole! He's absolutely flying down the wing! Ljungberg's pass, perfectly weighted—didn't even need to break his stride!" Martin Tyler's voice rose with excitement.
Alan Smith chimed in. "That's what Arsenal do best—lightning-fast down the flanks. Leeds are going to have to be sharper than that if they want to contain this."
Cole's first touch was immaculate, his stride unbroken as he surged toward the edge of the penalty area. He was in full flight, eyes locked on goal, when suddenly, like a wrecking ball in sky-blue, Kompany arrived. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just a perfectly timed slide tackle that took the ball cleanly and sent Cole sprawling onto the grass.
"Wow! What a tackle from Kompany!" Tyler shouted. "That's absolutely top-class defending—no foul, all ball! Leeds breathe a sigh of relief there."
The Elland Road faithful erupted in applause, cheering the big Belgian like he'd just scored a goal himself. Arthur, watching from the sidelines, clapped enthusiastically, nodding approvingly. "That's my boy!" he shouted, grinning ear to ear.
Wenger, meanwhile, threw his hands up in disbelief, glancing to the fourth official with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, Are we playing rugby now? But there was nothing to argue. Kompany's challenge was as clean as they come, and the ball rolled harmlessly out for an Arsenal throw-in.
Arthur watched Wenger's reaction with a smirk, folding his arms with all the satisfaction of a man who'd just seen his neighbour's new car get splattered by a passing bus. "Keep at it, lads!" he hollered from the touchline. "They're cracking, I can see it!"
Wenger, still pacing, looked back over his shoulder towards Arthur, who gave him a mock wave. Wenger shook his head, muttering something under his breath before returning his gaze to the pitch.
On the pitch, Kompany, who had just executed that crucial tackle, popped back up like he'd been spring-loaded. Not even bothering to brush the grass off his knees, he jogged to the sideline, waving at the ball boy with all the urgency of a man waiting for his pint at last call. "Come on, mate, let's have it!" he shouted, motioning with his hands.
The ball boy, wide-eyed and clearly not wanting to get Kompany's wrath, tossed it over with both hands.
Kompany grabbed the ball and stepped back, eyeing the field like a quarterback reading the defense. Without hesitation, he took a few steps back, wound up, and hurled the ball down the line with the kind of force you'd expect from someone launching a javelin.
The ball arced beautifully over the halfway line, landing perfectly in stride for Ribery, who was already tearing down the wing.
Wenger's expression changed instantly. His eyes widened, and he instinctively leaned forward. "Oh no," he muttered under his breath, hands flying up in disbelief. He could already see what was coming.
On the other side, Arthur was practically hopping on the touchline like he was trying to keep warm. "RUN! COUNTERATTACK!" he bellowed, hands flapping wildly as if that would somehow make his players run faster. His voice boomed across the pitch, and even Wenger turned for a split second, eyebrows raised, probably wondering if Arthur had lost his mind.
But Arthur wasn't just screaming for the fun of it. His players understood the assignment. As soon as Ribery took control, Milner, Deisler, and Modric shot across the halfway line like they'd been fired from a cannon. Falcao, who had been lurking around Arsenal's defense like a cat waiting for the door to open, sprang to life, darting into the box.
It was five Leeds shirts against four red ones, and the Arsenal defenders looked about as comfortable as a bunch of bankers caught in a mosh pit.
Ribery flew down the wing, boots barely grazing the turf, his touch flawless as the ball stuck to his feet. Senderos, who clearly fancied himself as some sort of defensive juggernaut, decided to step up, arms outstretched like he was attempting to herd Ribery to the sideline.
It was a noble idea, but Ribery had other plans. With a flick of his boot and a burst of pace, he ghosted past Senderos like he wasn't even there. If Senderos had blinked, he might have thought Ribery had teleported.
Ribery hit the byline and cut the ball back with a gorgeous inverted triangle pass that skimmed across the grass like it was on rails. Right in the middle of the box, unmarked and practically waving a flag, stood Falcao. And right behind him, even more unmarked—if that was even possible—was Milner.
Time seemed to pause for a split second. The Arsenal defenders all looked at each other, as if silently agreeing that one of them probably should have done something about this. But before anyone could even contemplate moving, Milner stepped up and met the ball with the cleanest strike he'd probably ever made in his life.
THWACK!
The ball rocketed toward the goal, a blur of white and black, before slamming into the back of the net like it was trying to take the whole frame with it. Lehmann didn't even move. He just turned his head slowly, watching the ball nestle into the bottom corner, probably wondering if it was too late to take up golf instead.
"The ball's in! Leeds United equalizes! What a strike from James Milner!" Eddie Gray's voice exploded through the commentary box. "The captain! The hero! And listen to this crowd! Elland Road is absolutely bouncing!"
The entire stadium erupted in a wave of noise that could probably be heard all the way in London. Arthur was already halfway down the touchline, punching the air and shouting something entirely incomprehensible.
His coat flapped behind him as he sprinted back to his technical area, pumping his fists and looking like a kid who'd just found out Christmas was coming twice this year.
While Arthur and the Leeds players celebrated like they'd won the lottery, Wenger was frantically waving Fabregas over to the touchline. His hands were moving faster than his words, instructing the young Spaniard to slow things down, to stop pressing so high, to breathe.
Fabregas nodded furiously, probably agreeing to just about anything at that point if it meant Wenger would stop waving his arms around like he was flagging down a taxi.
But when the game resumed, Leeds United didn't seem to care much for Arsenal's newfound caution. Instead, they cranked up the pressure even more, pouring forward with relentless enthusiasm. Arsenal's defense started to look like it was being held together with duct tape and good intentions. Lehmann was everywhere, diving, shouting, and flapping at crosses like he was trying to swat bees out of the air.
As the clock ticked closer to halftime, Leeds smelled blood. And just before the whistle, Deisler, lurking outside the penalty area, unleashed a vicious low shot. Lehmann reacted quickly, sprawling to his left to parry it away, but his save was less of a clearance and more of a polite deflection. The ball rolled kindly to Falcao, who had been lurking around like a fox in a chicken coop.
THUMP!
Before Kolo Toure even knew what was happening, Falcao poked the ball past Lehmann and into the net. 2-1.
Leeds United had turned it around right before the break.
Eddie Gray's voice was practically cracking with excitement. "Leeds United lead! Falcao with the tap-in! What a turnaround! Arsenal look stunned!"
The camera panned to Wenger, who was standing on the touchline, hands on his head, mouth slightly agape. Meanwhile, Arthur was grinning from ear to ear, hands stuffed into his pockets as he strolled back to his bench, nodding in approval.
As the half-time whistle blew, the scoreline remained 2-1. Arsenal, who had taken the lead with confidence, trudged off the pitch staring at the grass, while Leeds United jogged off with their heads held high, the crowd roaring in appreciation.
Wenger looked like someone had just stolen his lunch. Arthur? He looked like he'd just been told it was happy hour at the pub.