But dreaming about Kaka was still just dreaming about Kaka. Fantasies were nice, but they didn't win football matches. The Champions League quarterfinal wasn't going to pause so Arthur could admire the Brazilian's cheekbones or envy Milan's midfield. Leeds United were behind, and the scoreboard wasn't going to change itself. For Arthur, the only priority now was clawing the game back.
He stood at the touchline, rubbing his temples, eyes darting between his players and the giant digital clock ticking mercilessly down. His brain was already running faster than a hamster on caffeine. He lowered his head, thought for a moment, then snapped upright with an idea.
"Philip!" Arthur bellowed, waving his arm like a man flagging down a taxi on a deserted street.
Philipp Lahm, trotting back toward position, froze and jogged to the sideline. His cheeks were red, sweat dripping down his forehead, but his eyes shone. This was his first Champions League campaign, and the pressure was suffocating, but he wasn't going to wilt. Not tonight.
Arthur leaned close, speaking quickly but clearly:
"Philip, listen. If they keep hammering away down our right, don't just sit back. Push higher up when the chance comes. Work with Gareth on that side, overlap him, force their fullback into a panic. We need to stretch them and break this thing open from the left."
Lahm nodded so fast he looked like a bobblehead. "Got it, boss!" His German accent clipped every syllable, sharp with determination. He turned to run, but Arthur's hand shot out like a claw.
"Wait! One more thing." Arthur's eyes were fierce now, voice lowered to make it personal. "Tell the lads to snap out of it. It's one goal, not the apocalypse. We've got time, we've got quality, and we've got me. So lift your heads, and let them see we're not beaten."
"Yes, boss!" Lahm straightened, chest puffed out. He turned back toward the pitch with renewed fire. This was why he respected Arthur—his words weren't flowery speeches, but they hit you like a slap and made you want to run through a brick wall.
Back on the pitch, Lahm went straight to Vincent Kompany. The Belgian captain was already scanning the field like a commander on horseback. Lahm relayed Arthur's words quickly, and Kompany wasted no time.
He clapped his massive hands together with a crack, shouted "Huddle!" and pulled his teammates into a tight circle. Schmeichel jogged halfway out of his box to join, Ribéry leaned in, Mascherano scowled in determination, and Gareth Bale bounced on his toes like an eager colt.
"Listen up!" Kompany barked, his deep voice carrying even over the roar of Elland Road. "Boss says it's nothing! Just one goal! We fight back, we don't sulk. Heads up, eyes forward. We smash them, we tear them apart, we do this together!"
His words punched the gloom right out of the players. Faces hardened, jaws clenched, and in seconds, the slumped shoulders and blank stares were gone. Eleven hungry wolves glared across the pitch at Dida's goal, their eyes practically glowing. Poor Dida probably felt a shiver, even if he didn't know why.
····
"Oh ho! That's more like it!" Gary Lineker, up in the commentary booth, leaned back with a satisfied grin. "I was worried when I saw Leeds players staring at the ground like someone had stolen their pocket money. But look at them now—they're snarling again."
Jon Champion adjusted his headset and smiled too. "This is the difference a proper captain makes. Kompany just pulled them together and barked fire into their ears. It reminds me of Terry at Chelsea, doesn't it? Same grit, same voice that says, 'If you're going to die, then die on your feet.'"
Lineker chuckled. "Good point. By the way, Jon, did you notice? Arthur called Lahm over earlier, whispered to him for a good while. You're the expert analyst—what do you reckon he told him? Tactical tweaks? Secret master plan? A recipe for schnitzel?"
Jon rolled his eyes so hard you could almost hear it. "Gary, honestly. What am I, Arthur's diary? How should I know what he said?"
"But!" Lineker pressed on like a nosy child. "If it was tactical, what would it be? Come on, indulge me."
Jon sighed but smirked. "Fine. If it was tactical—and I'm not saying it was—I doubt it's anything drastic. Arthur isn't the type to rip up the playbook mid-match unless he absolutely has to. He already knew Milan's strengths and weaknesses before kickoff. More likely, he told Lahm to push something harder, emphasize an angle we already suspected. Leeds are behind, so Arthur wants to jab a little more where he thinks Milan are soft. Probably the left flank."
Lineker nodded sagely, as though he'd just solved a great mystery. "Ahhh, makes sense. Still, if it were me, I'd ask him to recommend a good pub for after the game."
Jon gave him a deadpan stare. "You would."
····
Back on the grass, the referee's whistle pierced the noise. Milan's celebrations were over; it was back to business. Leeds kicked off, but everyone's eyes were still on Milan's shape.
Arthur's suspicion proved dead-on. Despite leading, Milan weren't retreating into a shell. No, Carlo Ancelotti's men were pushing just as aggressively, swarming Leeds' right side with the arrogance of a team that believed they could kill the tie off early.
Arthur narrowed his eyes and adjusted his jacket on the sideline. "So that's how it is, eh? Fine." He jabbed a finger toward the left. His players didn't need more words—they'd already got the message.
Leeds pivoted their attacks, almost theatrically ignoring the right half. Ribéry, instead of bombing forward on his wing, dropped deeper to help defend. Every time Leeds won the ball, their eyes went left. Gareth Bale galloped into space, Lahm sprinted past him with overlapping runs, and suddenly Milan's defensive line found themselves being stretched like chewing gum.
The game settled into a rhythm, a strange tug-of-war between left and right. Leeds jabbed and prodded down the flank, Milan countered by funneling attacks the opposite way. Back and forth it went, one side to the other, like a tennis rally played with thirty-thousand Yorkshiremen screaming in the background.
Minutes ticked by. Neither side carved out a golden chance. The ball zipped, tackles flew, shirts were tugged, but for the moment, it was deadlocked.
Arthur stood on the sideline, hands on hips, watching every movement like a hawk. His brain kept cataloguing patterns, waiting for that one weakness to appear. After a few exchanges, though, he realized this duel could drag for a while.
He sighed, muttering under his breath: "Looks like it'll be stuck for a bit."
With that, he turned away from the touchline and ambled toward the bench. His throat felt dry, and for once, a sip of water sounded more useful than yelling. He reached down for the bottle.
****
Fate has a wicked sense of humor. Just as Arthur was about to settle into the flow of the game, disaster decided to crash the party.
It happened in the 30th minute. Leeds United were already on edge after falling behind early, and now AC Milan were back on the attack, pressing forward with their trademark Italian arrogance, like a bunch of men in designer suits walking down a Milan runway — except these suits could pass, dribble, and slice open defenses.
The ball was worked down the wing, landing at the feet of Marek Jankulovski, Milan's Czech full-back. Leeds had two men shuffling across to close him: Mascherano, the bulldog in midfield who had already sprinted himself into exhaustion trying to plug every gap, and Sneijder, charging back from the center like a ginger-haired fireball.
Up ahead, Clarence Seedorf had already drifted wide to the touchline, stretching the Leeds defense. He was standing there with his hand in the air, demanding the ball like a man calling a taxi in the rain. Behind him lurked Sun Jihai, marking space uneasily, as if caught between tracking Seedorf and helping inside.
Now, logically, the simple, "scientific" option was obvious: Jankulovski should just roll the ball neatly out to Seedorf, keep it safe, maintain possession, and make the Leeds defenders shuffle around like chess pieces. That's what most players would do. That's what Arthur, standing on the sideline, fully expected him to do.
But football has this nasty little way of punishing expectations.
Jankulovski glanced at Seedorf, locking eyes with him, even shaping his body as if he was about to slip it wide. Everything screamed, "Here you go Clarence, catch this gift." Even the Leeds defenders bought it. Mascherano tensed, ready to close the space. Sneijder adjusted his run toward Seedorf. Arthur squinted from the touchline, muttering under his breath, "Don't you dare…"
And then the Czech full-back did something no one expected. He disguised it. Instead of releasing the obvious pass, he slid the ball horizontally into the center.
Straight to Gennaro Gattuso.
The problem? Nobody in a white Leeds shirt was near him.
Arthur's heart stopped for half a second. The only man remotely close was Sneijder, who, with his ginger mop flying, instantly swiveled and charged at Gattuso like a Viking charging downhill.
But Gattuso wasn't stupid. He knew his own weaknesses. The man had the finesse of a brick wall in ballet shoes. Stopping the ball, trying to dribble, trying to look elegant — not his style. He understood himself better than most players ever could. So instead of taking a touch, he went first-time. He let the ball roll across him and poked it forward to the real danger ahead: Kaka.
And yet, even this wasn't perfect. Gattuso's pass was… well, let's call it "functional." The ball bobbled along like a drunk rolling down the street, a little slow, a little awkward, forcing Kaka to jog back a couple of steps to meet it.
This seemed like a blessing for Leeds. Kompany and David Silva, stationed behind Kaka, both tracked him tightly. They weren't going to give the Brazilian an inch of space to turn. Kompany, always the responsible one, even glanced over his shoulder mid-sprint to check Pippo Inzaghi's position. He spotted him two steps offside, lagging behind the line.
Relief washed over Kompany. He thought he had the situation in control. "Good," he told himself. "As long as Kaka turns, Pippo's useless. He'll be offside."
Except Kaka had other ideas.
Because Kaka didn't turn. Kaka didn't even take the ball.
Instead, with the smooth arrogance of a man who plays football like he's writing poetry, he let the pass run across his body. And then, in one fluid, impossible motion, he dipped his heel and flicked the ball backwards — a blind, instinctive pass that seemed to come from a man with eyes in the back of his head.
Arthur's jaw nearly hit the grass.
And as if by magic, Pippo Inzaghi appeared right on cue. That was the killer detail. Just a second ago he'd been standing offside, invisible to the play, like a shadow waiting for its moment. But somehow, with that predator's instinct he was famous for, he had bent his run perfectly, stepping into line just as Kaka's heel brushed the ball. Suddenly, he wasn't offside anymore. Suddenly, he was level with Kompany and Silva. Suddenly, he was gone.
"It's over!" Arthur groaned from the touchline, throwing his hands up.
Kompany and Silva realized they'd been conned. They spun around and sprinted back, but they were chasing ghosts. Inzaghi had already darted behind them, pouncing onto the rolling pass. Within two strides he was inside the box, clean through on goal.
Single-handedly, Leeds' entire backline had been dismantled in three touches. Jankulovski's feint, Gattuso's clumsy-but-effective poke, and Kaka's divine backheel. And now Inzaghi was bearing down on Schmeichel.
Elland Road fell into a stunned silence. Time seemed to slow. Every Leeds fan in the stadium could feel the inevitability pressing down on them. "Super Pippo" didn't miss chances like this.
Schmeichel charged out, making himself big, trying to close the angle. For a split second, the Danish keeper looked like he might make himself the hero. But Inzaghi wasn't interested in dramatics. He knew his limitations, just like Gattuso did. No fancy chips, no overcomplicated tricks. He just waited for Schmeichel to commit, waited for the keeper's frame to crash sideways. And then, with the calm ruthlessness of a man who'd scored a thousand goals this exact way, he rolled the ball past him.
Into the bottom right corner.
Elland Road groaned in unison as the net bulged.
0–2.
Not even 30 minutes gone, and Arthur's Leeds United were staring at a two-goal deficit at home in the Champions League quarterfinal.
Arthur stood frozen on the touchline, his arms stiff at his sides. He wanted to scream. He wanted to kick something. He wanted to grab Kompany and Silva and shake them until their heads rattled. Instead, all he managed was a low growl under his breath:
"You've got to be bloody kidding me."
AC Milan celebrated like wolves circling prey. Leeds United, meanwhile, looked like they'd been punched in the gut. The mountain was suddenly enormous, and the climb had only just begun.
And so, at the 30th minute, Elland Road witnessed not just another goal — but a nightmare unfolding.