Sure enough, just as Jon had predicted with that almost smug grin of his before kickoff, AC Milan came flying out of the blocks the moment the referee's whistle cut through the night air. The roar of the San Siro seemed to double in volume, a red-and-black tidal wave of noise pushing the Italian giants forward. Leeds United's players had barely found their rhythm when the first wave of danger came crashing down on them.
Barely a minute in, Marek Jankulovski picked his head up from the back and swung his left boot with that trademark whip of his. The ball soared through the air in a long diagonal, slicing through the midfield clutter, homing in on the tall, lean figure of Kaka who had darted into space like a gazelle sensing a break in the savannah.
The stadium held its breath. Kaka leapt into the air, chest open, arms balanced like a ballerina preparing to pluck the ball out of the heavens. But for once, the Brazilian maestro mistimed it. The ball skimmed over his head instead of nestling onto his chest. Right behind him, Sun Jihai—tasked with keeping a watchful eye—looked as startled as if someone had just shouted "Boo!" in his ear. He hadn't expected Kaka to misjudge it, and his body reacted on instinct. He stuck out his right foot to intercept, but his timing was all wrong. The ball slipped past him with cruel indifference, brushing the turf as if mocking his effort.
And then—like a predator pouncing from the shadows—Filippo Inzaghi appeared.
"Where the hell did he come from?!" Lineker practically yelped in the commentary box, his voice cracking with both shock and amusement.
Jon's voice followed immediately, a mixture of disbelief and begrudging respect. "This man is terrifying. I swear he wasn't on the screen a second ago, and now—look! He's in the box with the ball at his feet! Leeds are in trouble!"
On the pitch, Inzaghi slipped into the gap between Sun Jihai and Thiago Silva with the kind of ghostly timing that had given him his reputation as "Super Pippo." One moment he was invisible, the next he was there—collecting the loose ball just at the edge of the penalty area and bursting straight into Leeds' box.
Arthur, standing on the sidelines, nearly spat out the chewing gum he'd been gnawing. "Oh for God's sake! The game's barely started!" he muttered, his voice drowned out by the crowd. He'd spent the team talk hammering home one clear point: Don't let Inzaghi sniff out anything cheap. And yet here they were—less than 60 seconds in—gift wrapping him an opportunity.
Inzaghi, for his part, wasted no time. He carried the ball forward, head low, legs pumping awkwardly fast like a man running downhill without brakes. Silva had scrambled back, narrowing the angle, but he couldn't close down quickly enough. Inzaghi pulled back his left foot and let fly.
But here's the thing about Pippo. Fans and pundits alike had long joked that his first touch was world-class, his second was passable, and his third was catastrophic. True to form, his first control had been immaculate—ghosting into the box without a hiccup. His second, the shot, however, was… less poetic.
The ball rolled forward tamely, trickling across the grass like a half-hearted pass back to the keeper. Schmeichel, standing between the posts, didn't even bother with theatrics. He bent slightly at the waist, squinted at the ball, and then casually let it bobble wide for a goal kick. No dive, no panic—just a Danish smirk as if to say, Really, mate? That's your big entrance?
The Leeds fans who had travelled all the way to Italy clutched their heads in unison, hearts still hammering from the scare. And while the scoreboard still read 0-0, Arthur on the touchline was fuming. His jaw clenched, his fists balled, and he immediately cupped his hands around his mouth to bellow toward the pitch.
"Jihai! Head in the game!" he roared, tapping furiously at the side of his temple as though trying to drill the message through sheer force. "Focus! I told you and Thiago before kickoff—they're coming straight at your zone! No switch-offs, not for a second!"
Sun Jihai, cheeks burning red with embarrassment, raised a hand to signal he'd heard. He jogged over to Silva quickly, muttering the manager's message in rapid-fire frustration. The two defenders exchanged a sharp nod, the unspoken pact clear: no more freebies.
Arthur wasn't wrong. With Dani Alves sidelined through injury and Cannavaro suspended thanks to his previous red card, the defensive line had lost its usual authority. Ancelotti, ever the calculating tactician, had spotted the vulnerability instantly. His instructions to Milan were obvious: funnel everything down Leeds United's right-hand side. Exploit the cracks, and let Kaka orchestrate from that half-space where he thrived best.
Kaka, indeed, was buzzing about with menace, gliding across the turf as though the ball were magnetised to his boots. Every time Milan surged forward, he drifted toward that right channel, forcing Silva and Sun into double duty.
But Arthur hadn't come unprepared either. Leeds had their own plan, and the blueprint was beginning to show. Instead of panicking, his side leaned into the very tactic Jon had speculated about before the match: compressing the midfield like a vice.
Whenever Milan tried to build through Andrea Pirlo, two shadows—Yaya Touré and Wesley Sneijder—closed in almost immediately. Their job was simple: cut off Pirlo's passing lanes, choke his rhythm, and deny Kaka the kind of service that turned him into a one-man wrecking crew.
On the flanks, Bale and Ribéry were already causing headaches for Milan's full-backs. Every time Leeds recovered possession, the ball was shuttled wide, and the two speed demons went haring down the wings with the enthusiasm of greyhounds chasing a mechanical rabbit. Jankulovski and Oddo, Milan's full-backs, quickly found themselves isolated and gasping for backup. That forced Gattuso and Ambrosini—normally Pirlo's protective shield—to drift wide in support.
The ripple effect was exactly what Arthur had hoped for. With Gattuso and Ambrosini pulled toward the wings, Pirlo was left increasingly exposed in the centre. Even if Leeds lost possession, the Italian deep-lying playmaker had no time to breathe before Sneijder or Touré were snapping at his heels like angry terriers.
It was a tense tactical chess match, only four minutes old, but already both sides had revealed their hands. Milan's plan was clear: hammer the Leeds right side, funnel through Kaka, and pray Inzaghi remembered how to shoot. Leeds' response was equally sharp: strangle Pirlo, compress the middle, and unleash Bale and Ribéry on the counter.
The clock ticked over into the 4th minute. The storm had only just begun.
****
Bale carried the ball up the left flank like a young stag let loose in a meadow, hair bouncing, boots gliding, but this wasn't the kind of fast break that usually had defenders quaking in their boots. No, AC Milan had already trotted neatly back into their assigned positions, like a line of red-and-black toy soldiers waiting for him.
Right in front of him was none other than Gennaro Gattuso, the man who looked like he'd eaten nails for breakfast and washed them down with espresso. Bale slowed a fraction, realizing there wasn't much of a gap to exploit. It was as if Gattuso's glare alone was a defensive wall.
Bale tilted his head, scanning the pitch. "Nope… no space there. Not getting past him without losing an ankle," he muttered under his breath. He feinted, pushed the ball sideways, and started running horizontally across the grass, shifting from the wing toward the center.
Of course, Gattuso wasn't going to just let him jog around freely. The moment Bale rolled the ball out in front of himself, the Italian lunged forward like a bull spotting a matador's red cape. His studs tore into the turf, eyes locked on the ball.
"Here he comes—oh bloody hell!" Bale gasped, seeing the human bulldog closing in. With no other option, he jabbed the ball ahead with his boot, sending it into the path of Sneijder waiting near the top of the box.
Now, Sneijder had been hanging around in that sweet little pocket of space just two or three meters outside Milan's penalty area. Strangely, nobody in red and black had bothered to pick him up yet. For a brief, shining second, he looked like a kid left alone in a candy store.
The Dutchman received the ball with the ease of a man tying his shoelaces. He glanced up and saw Milan's penalty area packed with defenders standing shoulder to shoulder, red-and-black shirts blocking every obvious passing lane. He pursed his lips. "Well, that's crowded. No through ball here. Guess it's me then."
Just as Pirlo began drifting toward him, Sneijder made up his mind. He nudged the ball slightly to his right, opened up his body, and whipped a long-range shot before Pirlo could close him down.
The ball flew with venom, cutting through the air and curling toward the far corner. For one heartbeat, the stadium held its breath.
But fate wasn't on Leeds' side just yet. Instead of nestling in the net, the ball skimmed the post with a wicked hiss and zipped past the frame. Milan keeper Dida still had to throw himself sideways with both arms stretched out, but the shot sailed just wide.
"Ahhh!" groaned half the Leeds bench. The fans clutched their heads. Close, but no cigar.
····
Up in the commentary box, Gary Lineker couldn't hide a grin. "Well, it looks like both teams have already found their own ways to trouble each other. Jon, I must admit, your pre-match analysis seems to be spot on."
His partner, Jon Champion, leaned back smugly, practically glowing with satisfaction at the rare praise. "Of course! I've been saying it for ages, Gary—watch more tape, study more tactics, don't just sit there waiting for the chips and sandwiches before commentary. But you never listen."
Lineker turned his head slowly, giving him a look sharp enough to cut steel. "You cheeky sod! I'll have you know I spent years playing at the highest level. Years! And here you are telling me to do homework like some schoolboy."
Jon just chuckled and raised his hands. "Relax, relax. Just kidding, mate. But seriously—there's something interesting going on here, and I'm not sure if Arthur's noticed it yet."
That caught Lineker's attention. He blinked, leaning forward. "Oh? And what's this great revelation of yours, then?"
After all, less than five minutes had passed in this fiery contest, and Jon was already acting like he'd discovered a tactical bombshell.
Jon jabbed his finger toward the monitor, pointing at Ribery hustling back on defense. "See that? Look at how Arthur's set this up. Bale and Ribery are being worked like draft horses. Up and down, sprinting to attack and then instantly backtracking to defend. They're young, yes. They've got lungs of steel and legs of lightning. But ninety minutes of this? No way. You can't flog thoroughbreds that hard and expect them to keep galloping till the final whistle."
Lineker raised his eyebrows, nodding slowly as he followed Ribery's movements on the screen. The Frenchman was already puffing slightly as he jogged back, tugging at his shirt. "Fair point," he admitted.
Jon pressed on, clearly enjoying his moment. "Now imagine what happens when they're knackered. They stop pressing, they stop harassing those full-backs. Then suddenly—Ambrosini and Gattuso have space again to step into midfield, shield Pirlo, and give him all the time in the world. You know what Pirlo can do with time on the ball."
Lineker leaned back with a dismissive shrug. "So what? You take them off. Change wingers. That's why you've got a bench, Jon."
The smugness on Jon's face vanished. He turned back to the screen, lips tightening. "It's not that simple, Gary."
Lineker frowned. "Why not? A winger's a winger."
Jon's voice dropped, his tone suddenly serious. "Because Leeds don't have anyone else quite like Bale or Ribery. Their replacements don't have the same speed, the same bite. If AC Milan keep stretching the game like this, Arthur might not just be forced to rotate his wingers—he might have to adjust his entire defensive setup on that right-hand side."
Right on cue, the camera cut to Kaka receiving the ball and driving forward, sliding effortlessly toward Leeds' right flank like a knife through butter.
Lineker whistled low. "Well… when you put it like that, I see your point. If Arthur doesn't tighten that side up, this could get ugly fast."
And just like that, the weight of Jon's words hung heavy over the stadium roar.