The camera panned across the stadium, the floodlights glaring like oversized spotlights at a rock concert. The commentators were back on air.
"Okay, the second half is about to start. We see that players from both sides have come out one after another…" Lineker's voice lacked its usual enthusiasm, his tone practically dripping with boredom. He leaned back as though he'd rather be sipping a pint than watching. Why? Because he noticed something that deflated him — Arthur hadn't made any substitutions at halftime. No dramatic shuffle, no "masterstroke." Just the same eleven faces walking out again.
"I told you already, Arthur's not the kind to make changes just for the sake of it." Jon's eyes stayed glued to the screen, scanning each Leeds United player as the cameras caught them jogging out. He squinted, then smirked. "But look at them… doesn't their body language look sharper? Heads up, shoulders squared… looks like Arthur gave them a proper injection of chicken blood during halftime!"
Lineker turned to him, skeptical. "Chicken blood? You mean one of those Churchill speeches or some kind of furious hairdryer treatment?"
Jon grinned knowingly. "Doesn't matter what he said — the point is, they look like they're ready to sprint through a wall."
That was the core of their halftime debate. For a full fifteen minutes, Jon and Lineker had gone at it, disagreeing like two uncles fighting over the last slice of pie.
Lineker's take was simple: down two goals at home, Arthur had to make changes. "You can't leave it to the same eleven who just got steamrolled in the first half!" he argued.
Jon, however, had been just as stubborn. "Substitutions? Doesn't matter who you throw on — the real problem is Kaka. And today, mate, Kaka looks like he was forged in a lab. Cannavaro's out, so no one on that pitch can keep him locked down one-on-one. Change whoever you like, it won't solve that."
Lineker had waved his hands dramatically. "Fine, but you're behind. You can't just sit there and admire him all night! You've got to go for it, gamble with fresh legs."
Jon had shaken his head like an old sage. "No, Leeds' best hope is to attack. If you pour everything into defending, you're just begging to suffocate. You've got to score. And as for Kaka… you just pray he has one off moment."
Now, as the broadcast cameras cut to the benches, the focus shifted onto the two generals of the night.
Ancelotti sat there with his usual calm, lips curved into a faint smile, as if he were a man who'd just ordered a perfect glass of wine. Confidence radiated from him.
Arthur, on the other hand, looked… unsettlingly calm. No stormy scowl, no pacing like a madman, not even chewing his nails. He sat back, arms folded, face as still as stone. His expression didn't change a bit, which was shocking in itself. To Lineker and Jon, that poker face almost felt more intimidating than if he'd been yelling.
····
The whistle blew, and the second half burst into life, carried on the roar of over 50,000 Leeds fans packed into the stands. The sound was deafening, a wall of noise that made the very turf shake. Leeds were behind, yes, but their supporters weren't giving up. They roared their boys back onto the pitch, singing as though sheer volume alone could shove the ball into Milan's net.
Milan kicked off. Inzaghi, ever the opportunist, rolled the ball back to Kaka. Immediately, the Rossoneri began to swarm forward, their front line charging into Leeds' half with the kind of energy that screamed, we're not finished yet. They wanted to land the knockout punch early in the second half.
But the move turned out to be surprisingly flat.
Kaka's initial carry was sharp enough, but once the ball reached the final third, Milan hit a wall. Kompany and David Silva — stationed firm and unyielding like two brick pillars — held their ground. The defensive line stayed compact, refusing to be pulled apart. When Kaka shifted it across to Gattuso, the Italian warrior glanced up, saw no opening, and decided, "Why not?"
He let fly from distance.
The ball whistled through the air but sailed over the crossbar by a good couple of feet. Harmless. The Leeds fans jeered, waving their scarves mockingly. That was Milan's grand opening act?
Arthur frowned on the touchline. His mind immediately whirred. Something didn't add up.
Has their style changed?
In the first half, Milan had been patient, ruthless in their structure. If an attack didn't pan out, they recycled possession, waited, stretched Leeds wide, then pounced. But this? A long shot straight away? That was sloppy, wasteful. Almost… casual.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. What's this? Have they decided they've already won? Are they relaxing? Or is this some kind of trap?
Either way, he wasn't going to waste time overthinking it. He leaned forward, catching Lahm's attention from across the pitch. With a sharp gesture — one finger stabbing upward, then a sweeping wave — Arthur's message was crystal clear: Push. Higher. Squeeze them. Don't let them settle.
The plan was simple. If Milan wanted to play cute with long-range efforts and lazy confidence, Leeds were going to punish them.
The match was only seconds into the half, but the mood had already shifted.
****
The second half had barely settled into rhythm when Arthur's little plan began to take shape. Philipp Lahm, sharp-eyed as always, immediately picked up on his manager's subtle signals. A quick glance over from the touchline was enough—Arthur's rolling eyes and small hand gesture practically screamed: "Go on, lad, make something happen. Push them, don't let them breathe."
Lahm understood. He was one of those players who didn't need a big speech to get the message—Arthur's tiny hints were enough. So, when Kasper Schmeichel lined up for the restart, Lahm sprinted deep toward his own half, flapping his arm like a traffic marshal. "Oi, here! Give it here, don't just hoof it!" His gestures made it clear he wanted the ball short, not another aimless long kick.
Schmeichel, reading the body language, shrugged and abandoned the idea of booting it long. Instead, he rolled it neatly toward Lahm, who collected it right by the baseline.
Oddly enough, Filippo Inzaghi, who was lurking in the middle, didn't bother charging him down. Lahm raised his eyebrows. Well, this is convenient… no Pippo trying to chew my ankles off? Lovely. Free of pressure, the German full-back trotted upfield with a spring in his step.
The real surprise came when he looked further ahead. Normally, Clarence Seedorf was like a restless terrier, always closing down, snapping at heels. But this time? There he was, planted near the center circle with all the urgency of a man waiting for a bus. Lahm nearly chuckled to himself—Seedorf didn't even twitch as he carried the ball closer and closer to halfway.
By the time Lahm was about to cross the line, finally someone cracked. Gennaro Gattuso, unable to watch this nonsense any longer, exploded forward like a cannonball. His shaggy hair flew as he charged with pure Italian rage.
"Ah, here he comes," Lahm thought, not at all interested in getting bulldozed by Gattuso. With zero hesitation, he nudged the ball sideways to Javier Mascherano, who had slid into position to support.
Mascherano took over, and—shockingly—no one closed him down either. The little Argentine had time. Time to receive, time to adjust, time to survey. That in itself was a rarity against Milan. He stopped it dead, glanced up, and spotted Lahm already darting past Gattuso into space. Lahm waved frantically, "Back here! Send it back!"
Mascherano obliged, slipping a neat pass forward. Just two exchanges, but suddenly, Lahm was flying. In the blink of an eye, he was well into AC Milan territory.
Now things got serious. As Lahm angled his run diagonally toward the penalty area, alarm bells finally rang in red and black heads. Gattuso spun and gave chase, while Andrea Pirlo, elegant as always but now slightly panicked, shuffled across to cut him off.
Lahm felt them closing, but instead of trying to dribble through, he spotted a glorious opportunity. With one sharp prod of his right foot, he threaded the ball perfectly into the gap between Paolo Maldini and Massimo Oddo.
"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant pass!" Jon's voice on commentary cracked with excitement. He'd been scrutinizing the game like a hawk, and this was the moment he'd been waiting for. "Two simple exchanges—Lahm to Mascherano, back to Lahm—and Milan's midfield is sliced wide open! Bale's making the run, he's already past Oddo!"
And indeed, Gareth Bale had been biding his time on the wing, almost casual, almost bored-looking—until Lahm let that ball fly. In a flash, he turned on the jets. Oddo realized too late what was happening. By the time he sprinted back, Bale had already surged ahead, ball glued to his feet, breaking into the box at pace.
"Gareth Bale!!" Lineker could barely stay in his chair, voice booming, words tripping over one another. He was shaking, almost vibrating, with excitement.
Inside the penalty area, Brazilian keeper Dida abandoned his line, charging out in desperation. His towering frame was a wall, and he spread himself wide like a giant bat swooping down. But Bale—cool as ice despite the pressure—kept his composure. Arthur's words from halftime echoed in his head: Don't waste chances, or you'll regret it for the rest of your life.
He measured every stride, eyes locked on Dida's movements. Timing was everything. As the keeper stretched his legs in preparation to block, Bale unleashed. With one precise push from his left boot, he sent the ball skimming low.
Straight through Dida's legs.
The entire stadium gasped. For a split second, silence. The ball slipped beneath the Brazilian's frame as if mocking his effort. But before the net bulged, a white-shirted figure came sliding in like a freight train.
It was Zlatan Ibrahimović.
The Swede hurled himself forward, telescopic legs outstretched. He made just enough contact to deflect the rolling ball and redirect it firmly across the line. Both Zlatan and the ball ended up tangled in the goalmouth.
And then—pandemonium.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!" Lineker bellowed, finally unleashing everything he'd been holding back. The roar rolled through the broadcast like thunder. "ZLATAN!!! Zlatan Ibrahimović!! The giant Swede! He's pulled one back for Leeds United in the 49th minute! The comeback is ON! This game is alive again!"
His co-commentator Jon added, barely containing his own glee: "What a move! From Lahm's initiative at the back, to Mascherano's calm support, to Bale's electric burst down the wing—and finally Ibrahimović, exactly where he needed to be! Leeds United aren't dead yet! They've come roaring back with fire!"
Arthur clenched his fists on the sideline, expression finally breaking into something between satisfaction and mischief. The plan had worked. They had cut Milan apart with ruthless efficiency.
Though Leeds were still one goal behind, the shift in energy was undeniable. The players were running harder, smiling wider, celebrating as if they'd been reborn. Just as Jon had said before kickoff of the half—Arthur's halftime words had lit a fire under them.
Fifty thousand Leeds fans inside Elland Road exploded into song, their belief flooding back in an instant.
The scoreboard still read 2–1 to Milan. But the game? It had just reopened.