*** Bonus for 200 stones.***
By the time the clock hit the 73rd minute, Mourinho had finally had enough.
The man who had spent the last twenty minutes pacing like a caged wolf suddenly stopped cold, narrowed his eyes at the midfield stalemate, and made his decision.
Things weren't improving. Chelsea's ground passing had been completely suffocated. Every attempted through-ball was swallowed up by a wall of Leeds United bodies. Every dribble got chewed up by Mascherano's legs or Cannavaro's tackles. It wasn't beautiful. It was brutal.
So, Mourinho rolled the dice.
Off came Shevchenko—who, to be fair, had looked far less threatening since the break—and on came Michael Ballack.
It was a shift in style, and everyone in the stadium felt it immediately. Chelsea weren't going to mess around with neat passes or clever build-up anymore. No more tip-toeing through midfield. No more pretending this was about finesse.
Mourinho had decided it was time for war.
Lineker spotted the change immediately from the commentary booth. "Well, here we go. Ballack is coming in for Shevchenko, and I think we're about to see a whole lot more action just outside the Leeds United box."
"You're right," Jon replied with a grim nod. "Ballack and Lampard—if you give them an inch, they'll shoot. Arthur's back line better be ready for some cannon fire."
And just like that, Chelsea's game plan transformed.
High balls. Long balls. Diagonal balls. Everything was getting launched into the Leeds penalty area like siege fire.
Drogba, of course, was the tip of the spear. With his monstrous frame and bulldozer style, he started muscling Silva around like a training dummy.
Most of the time, he won the aerial battle outright. If he could shoot, he did. If not, he cleverly chested or nodded the ball down to Ballack or Lampard, both prowling near the top of the box like hungry panthers.
And they didn't ask twice.
As soon as they received the pass, whether the angle was good or not, they took the shot. First-time hits. Half-volleys. Snap shots. If there was a way to put their foot through the ball, they tried it.
Even Essien joined the party.
The Ghanaian midfielder took a wild swing from thirty yards out that flew over the bar and nearly took out a pigeon on the stadium roof.
Down on the field, Schmeichel was having an increasingly stressful time. The Leeds keeper was darting from side to side like a man on fire, barking instructions, punching clearances, and—when the ball came flying at his face—doing his best to keep it out without losing teeth.
"Drogba wins the header again," Jon said, voice rising with the tension. "But look at Cannavaro and Silva! They're both right there. He won't have time to turn!"
Lineker jumped in: "Lampard's making the run, calling for it! But Mascherano's glued to him. Even if Drogba lays it back, there's not much space to work with."
Then it happened.
"Beautiful!" Jon exclaimed. "That's a smart decision from Lampard. He didn't force the shot after receiving Drogba's layoff. Instead, he shifted it across to Makelele, who'd just arrived on the scene!"
Lineker, squinting at the replay, added, "But… oh dear. Makelele's touch was too soft. Didn't catch it cleanly. That wasn't the sweet spot on the ball."
Schmeichel, already crouched low, pounced. He scooped the slow roller into his arms like a man hugging a warm blanket in winter, then flopped over onto his side with a sigh of relief.
The camera quickly cut away from the exhausted goalkeeper, now lying in the grass like a man who'd seen too much, and shifted over to the touchline.
"Oh? We've got substitutions coming from Leeds United!" Lineker announced as the fourth official held up the board.
"Arthur is bringing on Xavi Garcia for Torres and replacing Alonso with De Bruyne," Jon confirmed, eyes darting between the pitch and his monitor. "Looks like Leeds are preparing to defend until the final whistle."
"Indeed," Lineker nodded. "Arthur's reshuffling the midfield again. From what I can see, De Bruyne has pushed forward as the most advanced midfielder in a line of four, and Yaya Touré has dropped a bit deeper. That means Leeds now has Mascherano, Touré, and Garcia forming a triple defensive wall right in front of the back three."
Jon leaned back in his chair, visibly impressed. "That's textbook tactical response. Arthur clearly saw what Mourinho's cooking—Ballack and Lampard lurking like sharks outside the box. Bringing on Garcia adds some real steel to that position."
"Plus," Jon continued with a grin, "young De Bruyne's been in good form lately. And let's be honest, the kid's got a lovely touch. Arthur's been grooming him for this kind of moment. In fact, under Rivaldo's guidance in recent months, De Bruyne's grown a ton. You can see it in his passes—cleaner, sharper, smarter."
Lineker added, "And Arthur must have had something specific in mind to sub him in this late in the match..."
****
The two commentators weren't just talking nonsense — for once, they were spot on.
As soon as Arthur made the tactical changes, it was like throwing a wrench into Mourinho's attack machine. The three defensive midfielders of Leeds United — all fresh and brimming with aggression — immediately locked onto their targets like heat-seeking missiles.
Garcia took one look at Lampard and practically handcuffed himself to the guy. Mascherano tracked Ballack like a shadow, sticking so close you'd think he was his reflection. And Yaya Touré? He clamped himself onto Essien with all the grace of a bouncer dragging a drunk off the dance floor.
As for Makelele, Arthur didn't even bother assigning anyone to him. The guy had flubbed his last shot, and Arthur figured, Let him try again if he wants. We've got Ibrahimović and De Bruyne lurking near the halfway line — he wouldn't dare push too far forward unless he's suicidal.
And that calculation worked beautifully.
Even if Drogba still managed to get his head on the ball now and then, Leeds United's midfielders made sure the space around the box was tighter than a jar of pickles. Lampard couldn't shoot. Ballack couldn't breathe. And suddenly, Schmeichel was no longer under siege every two minutes.
With Chelsea's long-range bombardment mostly neutralized, the match ticked on — the scoreboard still frozen — until it reached the 81st minute.
Chelsea was still pushing, still hunting for that one moment of brilliance. They just weren't getting many chances to breathe, let alone shoot.
Essien picked up a pass from John Terry in midfield. He stopped, glanced around, then grimaced.
The middle was packed. Leeds had turned it into a concrete bunker. Touré, Garcia, and Mascherano stood like sentinels, arms out, closing every lane with sheer presence.
Essien had no choice. He turned and swept the ball wide to the left, where Robben had just dropped deeper to receive.
But Leeds had done their homework. As soon as Robben touched the ball, Ribéry came hurtling in like a missile, not even giving the Dutchman space to stretch his legs.
Still, Robben wasn't trying to run this time.
He saw Ribéry coming and took two quick touches — one to steady the ball, the second to lift it — and suddenly whipped a dangerous cross toward the back post, slicing through the air with venom.
In the box, Drogba was lurking as always, and Silva was right there with him. Silva saw the ball first, jumped, and launched himself into the air like he was going to hammer it clear.
But then... nothing.
He missed.
Or more precisely, he didn't even make contact.
It was like his head just swished through the air. The ball floated right past him.
"Silva headed it! A fatal mistake!" Lineker's voice spiked like an alarm. "This is a good opportunity for Chelsea!"
And it was. Drogba was right behind Silva, perfectly positioned, already winding up as the ball dropped toward him.
"Oh f—" Schmeichel barely got the curse out before exploding off his line.
The keeper rushed forward with arms up, chest out, legs wide — trying to make himself as big as a house while closing the angle fast. His hair whipped back. His eyes locked onto Drogba's boot.
But Drogba had already seen him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the Danish goalkeeper flying in like a madman, and he made the call.
He let the ball float across his body, twisted his hips, and struck it before it touched grass.
"Bang!"
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
The volley was clean. Vicious. Brutal. It cut through the air like a blade and shot straight past Schmeichel's lunging body, heading directly for the top right corner.
"DROGBA! VOLLEY—!!" Jon's scream stretched like an alarm siren, his voice trailing off as the ball whizzed toward glory.
There was nothing in front of the goal. Schmeichel had come out. Silva had missed. No one else was in position.
It was an open goal.
And the Leeds United fans, who had spent the last hour chanting and clapping and bouncing with joy, suddenly fell quiet.
Thousands of people behind the goal watched in frozen horror as the ball hurtled toward the net. If that ball went in, all the running, all the blocking, all the brilliant tactics — they'd mean nothing. The title race could be blown wide open.
Leeds had defended like their lives depended on it. They had out-thought Mourinho, out-fought Chelsea, and now they were staring down the barrel of cruel irony.
But just then, from the corner of Arthur's eye, a figure flashed past.
It only took half a second, but the moment burned into everyone's memory.
Cannavaro.
The old warrior, the silent guardian of Leeds United, had seen Silva's miss the second it happened. He hadn't hesitated. He'd already turned and sprinted full-speed toward his own goal — not to cover Drogba, not to block, but to protect the line.
And there he was now, flying into view like a phantom.
Everyone in Elland Road gasped as Cannavaro launched himself into the air, twisting his body, extending his right leg like a striker going for a bicycle kick — but in reverse.
He didn't try to block with his chest. He didn't head it. He hooked it. Like an overhead volley clearance — a move most defenders wouldn't even try.
His boot connected.
He scissor-kicked the ball clear right off the line, denying Drogba and saving Leeds United from disaster.
"WTF!?" Lineker screamed, grabbing his own head with both hands, eyes bulging at the replay in front of him.
And inside Elland Road, Eddie Gray had already exploded into the mic, his voice like a firework.
"FABIO!!! FABIO CANNAVARO!!! GREAT OVERHEAD KICK!!!"
"HE IS DEFINITELY THE SAVIOR OF LEEDS UNITED TODAY!!!"