Jon raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at Lineker. "Oh? Why do you say that? Portsmouth's been in pretty solid form this season. They're sitting high up the table too, aren't they?"
Lineker gave a chuckle, that knowing sort of laugh that sounded halfway between smug and mischievous, like he'd been waiting for Jon to ask. "Oh, mate, I've done my homework," he said, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. "You know I'm a big Arthur fan—massive. Ever since Leeds announced four new signings, I went digging. And I mean real deep dive."
Jon narrowed his eyes, intrigued. "You stalking Arthur again?"
Lineker waved dismissively. "It's called research. Anyway, Alves and Sneijder—household names. We all know what they bring to the table. Alves has been tearing up the right flank for years, and Sneijder? The guy could pick a pass through a forest with a blindfold on."
"Fair enough," Jon conceded, nodding along.
"But," Lineker continued, his voice dropping into that dramatic commentator tone, "let's talk about the other two. Hummels and Reus. Now those two are the sneaky ones."
Jon leaned in. "Go on."
"Hummels came straight from Bayern's youth setup," Lineker explained. "Not many first-team appearances, but from what I gathered, he was the rock in their U19 defense. And Reus? Sixteen years old, already a starter in the German second division. SIX-teen. The lad's numbers are ridiculous. Goals, assists, dribbles—he's like a German Jack Grealish minus the hairband. To be honest, sometimes I want to open up Arthur's skull and see where the hell he finds these lads."
Jon snorted. "That's one way to get arrested."
As they joked, Arthur was focused elsewhere. His decision to rotate the squad was simple—he had one eye firmly on the clash with Chelsea next week. The Premier League was the priority. The FA Cup? A lovely distraction, but not something he was going to burn out his starting eleven for.
Still, he wasn't going to completely throw it. That's why Kasper Schmeichel was still in goal. Arthur trusted him more than he trusted the coffee machine at Thorp Arch, and that machine had saved his life on more than one sleepy Monday.
From the moment the match kicked off at Fratton Park, it became clear that Arthur's "B team" could give most clubs in the league a proper fright. The Leeds lads were sharp, eager, and full of running. The new boys, in particular, were like kids at a theme park—wide-eyed and ready to show off.
About ten minutes in, you could feel the shift. Portsmouth had started confidently, trying to push the tempo, but Leeds slowly started asserting control. Passes became crisper. Movements were more coordinated. Then, in the 19th minute, something clicked.
Hummels, standing just outside the box with the poise of a man waiting for a bus, suddenly surged forward like he'd just remembered he left the oven on. A Portsmouth attacker was dawdling with the ball, probably thinking about dinner, and WHAM—Hummels stuck in a clean challenge and came away with the ball like it was the most natural thing in the world.
No fuss, no frills, just classic German efficiency.
Hummels didn't dwell. He immediately spotted Mascherano a few yards ahead and pinged the ball over. Mascherano, bless him, took one look at the open field and thought, This is not my problem. He galloped forward, then politely handed over playmaking duties to the man who actually wanted the ball: Sneijder.
Now, Sneijder was like a professor handing out tactical masterclasses with every touch. Despite being away from Leeds for half a year, he still had Arthur's quick counterattack mantra burned into his brain like it was tattooed on the inside of his eyelids.
He took the pass, glanced up once, and with a cheeky little spin of the outside of his boot, whipped a curling half-height ball out wide. The kind of pass that made pundits whistle and Sunday league players cry with envy.
The ball arced over the Portsmouth left-back, who had heroically leapt to intercept it like a salmon chasing glory. Unfortunately, he missed. Spectacularly. The ball dropped perfectly into the path of Camoranesi, who was already tearing down the wing like a man who knew happy hour ended in five minutes.
Camoranesi didn't need to slow down. The pass had such precision, it practically attached itself to his foot. He motored toward the box, head up, defenders backpedaling in panic.
Portsmouth's backline scrambled. Sol Campbell, who'd been quietly minding his business in central defense, sprang into action and lunged forward to close the gap. But Camoranesi was two steps ahead. Literally.
With a flick of his right boot, he slipped the ball between Campbell and his partner, threading the needle like a magician pulling scarves out of a hat. The ball skidded through to the far post.
And guess who was there?
Fernando Torres.
The Spanish striker had been lurking like a cat waiting to pounce on a sleeping pigeon. He saw the ball roll in, and every fan in the stadium expected him to shoot. So did the goalkeeper. So did the defenders. Hell, even Arthur was halfway out of his seat, expecting a thunderous finish.
But Torres, being Torres, decided to be a generous soul.
Instead of smashing it in, he calmly tapped the ball sideways with his left foot.
Enter Reus.
The teenage German looked momentarily stunned. It was like someone had passed him the aux cord at a party without warning. He didn't think—just reacted. With a light touch, more instinct than technique, he stuck out his foot and redirected the ball into the gaping net.
GOAL.
Fratton Park fell into a stunned silence, while the traveling Leeds fans erupted. Somewhere on the sidelines, Arthur let out a low whistle and grinned.
"Not bad," he muttered to himself. "The kid's got a nose for goal... and decent manners too."
As Reus wheeled away in celebration, half overjoyed, half surprised, Torres jogged up behind him and gave him a hearty slap on the back. The kind that said, Welcome to the team, kid.
Lineker, up in the commentary booth, clapped slowly and dramatically into his mic. "Well then! What a lovely bit of play from Leeds United. That's not just football—that's football with manners."
Jon chuckled. "You know what they say, Gary. Sharing is caring."
****
"Beautiful! Leeds United's textbook counterattack!" Lineker practically leapt out of his commentary chair, clapping his hands like an overexcited seal at feeding time. "Three of the four new signings were involved in that goal—Hummels with the interception, Sneijder with that stunning pass, and Reus with the finish! All strung together so seamlessly. Arthur must be part-football manager, part-magician!"
As Reus wheeled away in celebration, arms outstretched and a big, almost disbelieving grin on his face, he was quickly mobbed by teammates. Torres was the first to reach him, jumping on his back like an overgrown golden retriever. Mascherano followed close behind, giving him a rough but affectionate head rub like he was a younger brother who'd just passed his driving test. Even Sneijder jogged over with that smug little grin of his, clearly proud of his outrageous outside-foot pass that split Portsmouth like a watermelon.
"Credit where it's due," Lineker continued, grinning. "Arthur's pulled this off with only a few days to integrate the new players. That kind of chemistry doesn't happen by accident. You can see Mourinho wasn't exaggerating when he praised him—Arthur's got these kids clicking faster than a group chat gossip chain."
But Leeds United weren't finished. In fact, they were just getting warmed up.
Only five minutes later, it was time for the next jaw-dropping moment—this time starring the Brazilian bullet train himself: Dani Alves.
It started innocuously enough. Portsmouth had earned a corner after a hopeful long-range shot was tipped over the bar by Schmeichel. As the players jostled in the box and the fans behind the goal roared in anticipation, the corner was whipped in sharply—but Schmeichel, confident and commanding, leapt above the chaos and punched it clear with both fists. The ball soared out of the box, spinning slightly, and dropped neatly at the feet of Rivaldo.
Now, Rivaldo might not have the legs he once did, but that left foot? Still pure magic. The Brazilian didn't even look up. He barely glanced sideways, his peripheral vision catching a blur of red and white sprinting down the touchline. Without missing a beat, he swept the ball forward with a gorgeous curling strike, sending it arcing over the halfway line like a missile launched by radar.
Enter Dani Alves.
He had already started sprinting the moment the corner was taken—classic Arthur instruction: be ready for the break, always. And Rivaldo's pass? It was less a pass and more a love letter written in football ink. The ball bounced once just past the halfway line, and Alves, sprinting like a man late to a flight, caught up with it at full tilt.
By the time the Portsmouth defense had turned their heads, Alves had already surged past the midfield. The only person still thinking about catching him was goalkeeper David James—no, sorry, Aston—who took one look at the rapidly closing Brazilian and decided to go full sweeper-keeper mode.
Aston charged out of the box like an overeager golden retriever chasing a frisbee. But Alves? He didn't blink. With a perfectly timed side-foot push, he nudged the ball slightly to his left and ghosted right past the keeper like a Formula 1 car overtaking a tractor. Then, with the composure of a man sipping coconut water on a beach, he rolled the ball into the open net.
"GOOOOOOOOOOL!" Lineker roared, pounding the commentary desk with glee. "What a blistering run from Alves! That's what I call pure pace and precision!"
Jon let out a dry laugh, still trying to catch his breath. "I mean, what do you even say to that? The guy has only been here for a week and he's already making the Premier League look like a Sunday league jog."
Lineker chuckled, then added, "I tell you, Jon, I really admire Arthur's transfer radar. It's almost unfair. He pulls these players out of thin air like a magician at a kid's party. I wouldn't be surprised if he scouts talent from YouTube highlight videos at 3 AM in his pajamas."
Jon threw his hands in the air in exasperated amusement. "Honestly, it's starting to feel like Arthur is some kind of footballing cheat code. The way these new signings have gelled already—it's absurd. Hummels, Reus, Alves, Sneijder—none of them have been here more than a few days, but it's like they've been playing together for years."
He leaned back in his chair and added thoughtfully, "You know what? I've never seen Arthur buy a dud. Every time he signs someone, they just click. It's like he knows exactly how they'll fit in before they even arrive."
Lineker nodded. "That's what separates good managers from great ones. Talent spotting is one thing, but making that talent thrive in your system immediately? That's special."
Back on the screen, Arthur could be seen on the sidelines, grinning like a proud uncle at a school play. Alves had just run over to the touchline and high-fived him with a loud smack that echoed into the dugout. Arthur pulled him into a quick embrace, laughing, and muttered something into his ear—probably "Do that again next week, will you?"
As the camera zoomed in on the Leeds bench, the mood was jubilant. Even the usually reserved Mascherano cracked a grin. Camoranesi, who had set up the first goal, gave Alves a slow clap while Sneijder offered a sarcastic bow. Reus, still giddy from his debut goal, was almost bouncing in place. The energy was infectious.
Back in the commentary booth, Jon suddenly paused. A strange expression crossed his face.
"You know," he said slowly, "I'm starting to think Leeds United might not just be aiming for survival this season."
Lineker raised an eyebrow. "Go on…"
"I mean it," Jon continued, voice low and a little hesitant. "The way Arthur's shaping this team… the balance, the tactics, the raw talent… what if this isn't just a flash in the pan?"
Lineker leaned forward, eyes twinkling with interest. "You're saying they could go the distance?"
"I'm saying," Jon said, tapping the stat sheet in front of him, "that with Arthur at the helm, and these signings hitting the ground running—maybe, just maybe—Leeds United are on the brink of something incredible."
As the crowd roared in the background and Arthur turned back toward the bench with that familiar confident swagger, Jon's words hung in the air like a question wrapped in possibility.
Could Arthur really be building a miracle in Yorkshire?
But for now, Leeds United were two goals to the good, and with their new stars shining like floodlights in the night, it felt like just the beginning.