Martin Tyler's voice crackled through the speakers with that familiar touch of excitement. "This has been nothing short of a fantastic offensive battle! Arsenal, after clawing back to equalize, have been flying forward with real intent. We've seen them string together those intricate little passing moves in the middle, probing and pressing at Leeds United's back line like they're trying to crack a safe. It's been relentless!"
Beside him, Andy Gray chimed in with his usual bluntness. "You can feel the momentum swingin', Martin. Arsenal's confidence is right back up. Leeds need to wake up and shake off that equalizer—can't just let Arsenal dictate the tempo."
Martin nodded. "But credit where it's due, Andy. After a bit of wobbling, Leeds United's steadied the ship. They've dug their heels in and started hitting back. And it's not just desperation either; it's controlled, it's sharp, and it's putting real pressure on Arsenal's back line. I noticed something interesting—have you seen how rarely Arsenal's full-backs, Cole and Eboue, have crossed the halfway line in this half? It's almost like they've been stapled back there."
Andy laughed. "Aye, it's a rare sight! Usually, those two are bombing down the wings like their boots are on fire. But Leeds are keepin' 'em honest. Arthur's got his boys pressing up high, and Arsenal's full-backs don't fancy getting caught out. It's clever stuff."
Down on the touchline, Arthur was a man in perpetual motion. He was pointing, gesturing, yelling, and occasionally flailing his arms around like he was conducting a chaotic orchestra. With Arsenal putting their chips in the middle of the park, Arthur made his own adjustments. He called over Ribery and Milner, jabbing his finger towards the center circle.
"Franck! James! Tuck inside when they push up the middle. I don't want Van Persie or Henry getting the ball with any room to breathe, alright? Smother them. If you can smell their shampoo, you're close enough," he barked, voice cutting through the noise of Elland Road. Milner nodded with a grin. "Smell their shampoo? What if it's one of those cheap ones?"
Arthur didn't miss a beat. "Even better. Put them off their game. Now get in there!"
Ribery and Milner jogged back onto the pitch, chuckling as they took their new defensive positions. And it worked. Arsenal found themselves suffocated in the middle, passing sideways more often than forward, frustrated by the lack of space. Henry tried to spin away from Ribery at one point, only to be muscled off the ball with surprising force. Van Persie, usually so elegant, found himself doubled up on every touch.
On the offensive end, Arthur's instructions were just as sharp. He knew Arsenal had only Gilberto Silva sitting back to shield their back line, and he saw it as a glaring weakness. "Deisler!" he shouted from the sidelines, waving him over during a break in play. "When you get the ball, don't just look to pass. Take him on. One-vs-one. Make him work. If you get past him, they're wide open! Pull a center-back out, and Ribery or Falcao will be free. Got it?"
Deisler nodded, eyes sharp with understanding. It didn't take long for him to put it into practice. Collecting the ball just past the halfway line, he drove forward with purpose, shimmying past Gilberto Silva like he wasn't even there. Arsenal's center-backs scrambled to cover, leaving gaps in behind. Deisler's eyes lit up, and he slipped a beautiful through ball to Falcao, who turned and fired. Lehmann had to get down quickly to make the save, his fingertips brushing it just past the post.
Moments later, it was Ribery's turn. He picked up a neat pass from Modric, turned sharply, and burst into the space that had opened up like a trapdoor in Arsenal's defense. He let fly from just outside the box, and Lehmann once again was forced into acrobatics, tipping the shot wide.
"Leeds United are really knocking on the door now, Martin," Andy Gray shouted, voice rising over the crowd noise. "Arthur's got 'em set up to pounce on every single gap Arsenal's leaving. If this keeps up, you just feel like another goal is coming."
Martin nodded, voice brimming with anticipation. "And you sense that Leeds United aren't just defending anymore. They're probing, testing the waters, and Arsenal are being forced to answer. This is turning into a real chess match, Andy. But I think Arthur's got the next move planned."
Arthur, hands shoved in his coat pockets, allowed himself the faintest of grins. The adjustments were working. Now, it was only a matter of time.
The game clock ticked past the 70th minute, and Arthur, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, observed the pitch with the calmness of someone watching paint dry. Arsenal were buzzing, but not exactly stinging. Wenger, oddly patient, hadn't made another substitution. Meanwhile, Arthur looked over at his own bench, then back to the pitch, then back to the bench. He scratched his chin, a wry smile creeping onto his face.
"Why fix what isn't broken?" he murmured to himself, glancing up at the scoreboard. 2-2, still plenty of time. His philosophy was simple: my players are better than yours. Younger, fitter, and—most importantly—not French. If Wenger wasn't going to pull the trigger on a change, why should he? Arthur decided to stick with his eleven.
Then came the 76th minute. And with it, Thierry Henry. Not just Henry, but that Henry. The version Arsenal fans would still sing about in twenty years—the unstoppable, gliding, nonchalant assassin who could ruin your day with a flick of his boot.
It started innocently enough, as most tragedies do. Deisler got bodied off the ball by Fabregas in midfield. A neat little one-two with Gilberto Silva later, and the ball was at Henry's feet on the right flank. Maicon squared up with him, setting his feet like he was preparing to wrestle a tiger. This wasn't just any winger; this was Thierry Henry. And Henry, seeing Maicon's defensive stance, did what he always did—he smiled, just enough for Maicon to notice.
"Don't you dare," Maicon muttered under his breath, eyes locked on the ball like it might sprout wings and fly off.
Henry began to advance, each step smooth and deliberate, like he was waltzing on fresh grass. Maicon retreated carefully, matching him stride for stride, his eyes wide and unblinking. Arsenal's number 14 played with the ball at his feet like it was a pet cat, nudging it forward and back, left and right, waiting for Maicon to blink.
Maicon held his ground—at least for a bit. Henry's dribble suddenly stretched just a tad too far. A sliver of daylight. Maicon's instincts kicked in. "Now or never," he muttered, lunging forward like a big cat leaping on its prey. His boot swung out for the ball, but Henry, almost as if he'd been waiting for exactly that, poked the ball past him with the outside of his right boot and was gone. Just gone.
"Ohhh, he's left him for dead!" Martin Tyler's voice crackled over the speakers. "Henry's breezed past Maicon like he wasn't even there!"
Andy Gray cackled with disbelief. "That's brutal, Martin. Absolutely brutal. Maicon just bought a ticket to the Henry Express. No refunds."
Maicon, now resembling a man chasing his runaway shopping trolley down a hill, turned and sprinted, but Henry had already created half a yard of space. In footballing terms, that was a country mile. Henry galloped into the box, eyes fixed on the far corner, but Maicon wasn't about to let it go. Not without trying something... unconventional.
Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps it was desperation. Perhaps it was pure South American spirit. Whatever it was, Maicon's hand shot out, grasping at the back of Henry's jersey like he was trying to hang laundry on a windy day. The fabric stretched, and Henry, ever the professional, did what any world-class forward would do: he went down like gravity had just doubled its pull.
The whistle blew immediately. Sharp. Unforgiving. The referee stormed over, his hand already rummaging in his pocket. The red card came out faster than you could say samba football. Arthur's hands flew up to his head. "Oh, come on! Are you serious? He barely touched him!" he shouted, though even he didn't fully believe it.
"Penalty for Arsenal! And Maicon's off! He's been sent for an early bath, and you can't argue with that," Martin Tyler announced, voice filled with both shock and amusement.
Andy Gray couldn't help but chuckle. "It was a desperate move, Martin. A proper rugby tackle, that. Maybe Maicon's thinkin' of switching sports!"
Arthur threw his hands up in disbelief, turning to his assistant with a look that screamed, Did you see that?. His assistant just grimaced back. The fans at Elland Road erupted in disbelief, a flurry of boos and jeers cascading down towards the pitch. Maicon trudged off, head down, avoiding eye contact with everyone, especially Arthur, who looked like he was contemplating switching to golf management.
Henry, of course, stood calmly at the penalty spot, hands on his hips, waiting for the chaos to die down. Arthur, shaking his head, leaned back on the bench and muttered, "Well, this just got interesting…"
The referee finally restored order, and all eyes were on Henry as he prepared to take the penalty. The entire stadium held its breath. Arthur, hands on his hips, simply stared, already preparing his next move. The game had just flipped on its head.
Arthur's reaction to the red card was immediate and not exactly suitable for a family broadcast. "Fuck! You've got to be kidding me!" he shouted, arms thrown up in disbelief. His voice probably reached the nosebleed seats, and maybe even a few nearby living rooms. The linesman gave him a stern look, but Arthur was too busy pacing like a caffeinated squirrel to care.
Maicon, meanwhile, trudged off the pitch, head hanging low, offering Arthur a half-hearted shrug that said, Well, I tried. Arthur just rubbed his temples. "Tried? You practically gift-wrapped that penalty! If you're gonna foul him, at least make it look like you slipped on a banana peel or something!"
The referee, still holding the red card as if it were some kind of trophy, strolled back to the spot, his expression unchanging. Thierry Henry was already standing there, placing the ball down with the calmness of a man setting up his morning coffee. He even took a step back, adjusted his socks, and rolled his shoulders, like he was preparing for a casual jog rather than a crucial penalty.
The commentators burst into life. "Oh my God! It's a disaster for Leeds United!" one of them yelled, practically vibrating with excitement. His partner was no less animated. "Maicon, completely caught out. There was no need to do that, but... here we are."
Arthur glared at the penalty spot, arms crossed. "Right, Kasper, this is your moment," he muttered to himself, eyes locked on his goalkeeper. Schmeichel crouched low, bouncing on his toes with the kind of energy you'd expect from someone double-parked on caffeine. He slapped his gloves together and pointed at Henry like he was trying to hex him. Henry just smirked.
The whistle blew, and Henry strolled up—not ran, not jogged, but strolled—and calmly side-footed the ball into the bottom corner. Schmeichel leapt the other way, arms flailing, like he was trying to catch a stray balloon. The net rippled, and the Arsenal fans erupted. 3–2.
Arthur stared blankly at the scoreboard, his jaw clenched. "Of course, it's Henry," he sighed. "It's always bloody Henry."
Across the pitch, Arsenal's players mobbed Henry, who looked like he'd just taken a pleasant afternoon stroll through the Leeds defense. Wenger applauded with the kind of smugness only a Frenchman could muster, nodding approvingly at his team's resilience.
The commentators didn't hold back. "What class from Henry! A perfect penalty! Arsenal takes the lead, 3–2, and now Leeds has to react... and quickly."
"Yes," the co-commentator replied, barely catching his breath. "Now we'll see what Arthur has up his sleeve. He's in trouble!"
Arthur scratched his head, eyes darting between the field and his bench. "Right," he muttered, slapping his palms together. "We're not losing like this. Not to them." He spun around and barked at his assistant. "Get the fourth official. We need changes. I don't care who's ready. If they've got two legs and a pulse, get them on the pitch."
The assistant blinked, clearly unprepared for Arthur's impromptu rallying cry. "Who exactly are we subbing on?"
Arthur didn't miss a beat. "Does it matter? Just get fresh legs out there! They don't even have to know how to play football, just run around and get in the way!"
The assistant nodded hesitantly and scampered off. Arthur turned back to the field, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Ribery! Milner! Quit standing around like you're waiting for a bus! We're one down! Move it!"
Ribery gave him a thumbs-up, although he looked more confused than inspired. Milner, in typical Milner fashion, just jogged a little harder.
And then came the board—the fourth official lifted it with all the ceremony of a Broadway curtain call. The LED lights flickered, indicating changes were coming for Leeds United. Arthur took one last deep breath, straightened his jacket, and stared out onto the pitch.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see how you deal with this, Arsène."
The commentators buzzed with excitement. "Substitution for Leeds United! Arthur is making his moves... things are about to get interesting."
And just like that, the real battle was about to begin.