The cameras cut back from the adverts, and instantly the roar of Elland Road filled living rooms across the country. The stadium was a pulsing, living creature, its white-shirted supporters bouncing in rhythm, flags fluttering like sails on stormy seas. The chants rolled and thundered, "Leeds! Leeds! Leeds!"—not so much sung as bellowed, like an ancient war cry.
Lineker cleared his throat and leaned slightly toward his microphone, his polished commentator's voice slipping seamlessly back into gear.
"Alright folks, the countdown is almost over. We are about thirty minutes away from the kick-off of this season-defining clash. The stands here at Elland Road are shaking with anticipation, and the atmosphere—well, it's nothing short of electric."
Beside him, Jon was already fiddling with his notes, looking like he'd lost a battle with a paper shredder. He peered down at the sheets, frowned, and then finally lifted his head with a dramatic sigh.
"Gary, I tell you what, the coffee in this press box is terrible. If Leeds don't win today, the real scandal will be that I've suffered through this for nothing."
Lineker smirked but pressed on, nodding toward the big screen showing the teams' walk back to their locker rooms after the warm-up.
"Now then, let's have a look at the starting lineups. We've got the official team sheets in front of us, and it's time to see how both managers have set up for this colossal encounter." He tapped the papers, his voice tightening with professional weight.
"First, the home side, Leeds United—Arthur has gone with his tried-and-true 4-2-3-1. In goal, it's young Schmeichel. Across the back, from left to right, Philipp Lahm, Fabio Cannavaro, Vincent Kompany, and Dani Alves. That's a defensive line with bite, brains, and, frankly, far too much hair gel."
Jon snorted into his mic, but Lineker ignored him, carrying on with gusto.
"In midfield, pulling the strings as always, the double pivot of Luka Modric and Xabi Alonso. Just ahead of them, Yaya Touré gets the nod in central midfield—big, powerful, and very capable of driving the play forward. On the wings, Franck Ribéry to the right and young Gareth Bale to the left—both quick, both dangerous. And leading the line, the big man himself, Zlatan Ibrahimović. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a terrifying lineup."
Jon finally piped up, voice half-exasperated, half-impressed.
"Terrifying? Gary, it's a nightmare. I mean, imagine you're Sheffield United's left-back, poor Derek Geary, looking up and realizing, 'Oh, today I've got to stop Bale—who's faster than a runaway horse. And if I somehow manage that, Alves will come bombing forward too.' Honestly, I'd feign an injury during the warm-up and get out of there."
Even Lineker had to chuckle.
"Now, now, Jon, let's at least be fair. Sheffield United have their lineup too, and they won't be rolling over." He adjusted his papers and read in his crisp tones.
"Warnock sticks to his familiar 4-1-3-2. In goal, Paddy Kenny. The back four: Kilgallon, Jagielka, Chris Morgan, and Geary. In midfield, Quinn out wide left, Tonge on the right, Gillespie central, with Montgomery as the holding man. Up front, Stead and Nade will try to trouble Leeds' defense."
Lineker paused a moment, allowing a delicate silence to highlight the difference in paper strength. Then, almost slyly, he slid the question over.
"Alright Jon, what's your take on these lineups?"
Jon stared down at his sheet, pursed his lips, then looked back up with all the helplessness of a man asked to review a children's school play alongside Shakespeare.
"Gary… professionally speaking, as a commentator, I should give a balanced assessment here. But let's be honest: it's chalk and cheese. Leeds are serving up prime steak; Sheffield United have brought a sandwich from the petrol station."
That drew laughter even from the studio crew, their chuckles faintly audible over the headsets. Lineker arched an eyebrow, still grinning.
"Oh? So you're that confident in Leeds?"
"If the opponent were Chelsea, Manchester United, or even Arsenal, we could have a debate," Jon explained, waving the lineup sheet like a white flag. "But here? This is so lopsided it feels rude to analyze. Sheffield's best hope is that Leeds get stage fright, or that Ibrahimović decides he's bored and spends ninety minutes practicing his kung fu kicks instead of shooting."
Lineker leaned back, feigning mock horror.
"Careful, Jon, Zlatan hears everything. You'll wake up tomorrow with a ponytail growing mysteriously on your head."
The two shared a laugh before Jon straightened, shifting gears.
"Look, miracles do happen. Sheffield United have more to fight for than pride—they're battling relegation. That kind of desperation can drag players to superhuman levels. If they throw themselves into tackles, defend like their mortgages depend on it, maybe, just maybe, they can nick something. But if we're being rational, Leeds are overwhelming favourites."
Lineker nodded sagely.
"That's fair. But remember, Leeds themselves are desperate in their own way. This isn't just about three points—it's about ending a fifteen-year wait, about lifting the Premier League trophy back into Elland Road for the first time in a generation. That kind of hunger can be just as fierce as the fear of relegation."
Jon sighed dramatically.
"Which means poor Sheffield United are essentially standing in front of a charging bull, holding nothing but a paper umbrella. If Leeds' determination matches their quality, there's only one way this goes."
"Still," Lineker added, leaning closer, "that's football, isn't it? We've seen bigger upsets before. Ninety minutes, eleven men a side, one ball—you never know."
Jon cracked a grin, tugging at his headset.
"You're right. I mean, I don't want to know, Gary. I've just emotionally prepared myself for Leeds to steamroll this match. But if Sheffield do it—if they actually pull off the miracle—you'll see me sprinting down to the pitch after the game, begging for their autographs."
"Now that I'd pay to see," Lineker laughed, shaking his head.
The cameras cut then to wide shots of Elland Road, the sea of white banners undulating like waves. Children were perched on parents' shoulders, scarves held aloft, faces painted in the club's colours. Chants swelled and echoed, the noise so thunderous it almost rattled through the commentary box itself.
Jon gazed out of the glass with an awed smile.
"Luck or no luck, Gary, one thing's for sure: Sheffield United are walking into a lion's den today. And these lions look hungry."
Lineker nodded, his eyes also fixed on the passionate crowd.
"Yes, Jon. Very hungry indeed."
And with that, the anticipation thickened like smoke in the air, the stage set for a decisive ninety minutes that would settle champions and survivors alike.
*****
The air inside the home locker room at Elland Road was buzzing with a restless sort of energy. Boots squeaked faintly on the tiled floor, shin pads clattered against benches, and a couple of players were still fiddling about—one tying laces far too slowly, another tossing a water bottle up and down as if the match were a carnival game. Nervous laughter rose in little bursts, and the occasional joke was muttered in half a dozen accents.
That was when the door swung open hard enough to bang against the stopper.
"Alright, cut the circus tricks and eyes over here!" Arthur barked, striding into the room as though the floor owed him rent. He clapped his hands together sharply, the crack of it cutting through the chatter.
The noise died immediately. One by one, the players—some guilty, some amused—put aside their distractions and turned toward the man in the middle of the room. Ribéry stopped trying to braid Bale's hair. Ibrahimović tossed the water bottle onto the bench with a scoff. Even Schmeichel, who had been pretending not to care while fiddling with his gloves, straightened up.
Arthur let the silence linger for a second, surveying them all with the kind of expression that suggested he knew every last one of their excuses before they'd even thought of them. Then his voice boomed out, firm and commanding.
"Lads! No doubt about it—today is the match of the season. Forget that, it's the match of your careers. This is the one that decides whether it's us or Manchester United holding that Premier League trophy aloft tonight."
His words snapped like whiplash across the room. The joking atmosphere evaporated.
Arthur continued, pacing slowly, his voice climbing with every step. "You've heard the noise all week. Pundits arguing, papers speculating, fans dreaming, rivals praying we slip. But all of it means nothing. Nothing! Because it comes down to ninety minutes. Ninety minutes where we either write history or we choke on it."
He jabbed a finger toward the floor for emphasis, his tone sharp enough to slice through steel.
"I'll be honest with you—when I walked in here just now, I had one worry. Just one. And it wasn't about tactics, it wasn't about formations. It was about you lot." He pointed around at them—at Kompany's determined face, at Yaya Touré fiddling with his armband, at Bale bouncing his knee like a restless colt. "I was afraid you'd stroll in thinking this was already won. That you'd see Sheffield United—fourth from bottom, desperate, cornered—and think, 'Easy points, lads, let's order the champagne now.'"
Arthur stopped dead in the middle of the room. His voice dropped lower, heavy with warning.
"But don't you dare forget—these men are fighting for their lives. Lose today and they're gone. Relegated. Every man out there in red and white is going to play like it's his last breath on earth. They'll kick, they'll claw, they'll bite if they have to. And if we give them one inch, one moment of arrogance, they'll tear it from us."
The players shifted uncomfortably. A few pairs of eyes narrowed. The weight of what he was saying pressed in thick.
Arthur didn't let up. His tone sharpened, voice rising again. "This club has been without the Premier League trophy for fifteen long years. Fifteen! Since 1992. Entire generations of fans have never seen it lifted at Elland Road. Do you know what that means?"
Without waiting for an answer, he strode to the door and pulled it open a crack. The sound from outside came rushing in like a tidal wave—nearly sixty thousand throats screaming, chanting, roaring themselves hoarse. The walls shook with it, the vibrations running straight through their chests. For a moment, the players just stood there, wide-eyed, letting the sound wash over them.
Arthur looked back at them, his hand still on the door. Then he slammed it shut again. Silence fell, broken only by the faint rasp of someone's breathing.
His gaze swept across them, sharp and unrelenting. "Did you hear that?"
Every head nodded.
"Out there, nearly sixty thousand fans—mothers, fathers, kids, old men who've been waiting their whole bloody lives—are begging us to bring that trophy home. Ninety-nine percent of them are ours, all in white, every heartbeat pounding for us. And right now, that trophy is sitting in the tunnel. Sitting there like a golden crown, waiting. If we don't win, if we stumble for even a moment, it gets taken away. Manchester United take it instead, and this stadium drowns in disappointment."
Arthur's voice broke like thunder. "Do you want that?!"
The silence hung for a split second, then Kompany exploded, his deep voice bellowing, "NO!"
The word echoed like a cannon, and the rest of the squad erupted behind him, shouting as one: "NO!"
Arthur's expression shifted, satisfaction flickering at the edges of his stern face. He nodded once, firmly. Then he thrust his right hand forward, palm down.
"Then we fight."
Diego Simeone, sleeves rolled up and eyes blazing like a man about to run through a wall, slapped his hand down on Arthur's. Without hesitation, one by one, the others followed—Ribéry's calloused palm, Bale's youthful grip, Alonso's steady hand, Modrić's wiry fingers, Zlatan's enormous paw. Even Cannavaro, cool as ice, pressed his hand on top.
The stack grew until every player was in, Rivaldo sliding his palm into place at the very top. The air in the room was practically crackling now.
Arthur looked around at their faces—sweat already beading, jaws set, eyes alight with fire. He drew a deep breath, then roared, "For Leeds United!"
The words rang off the walls like a war cry.
And then, all at once, they thrust their arms high into the air.
"For Leeds United!!!"
The roar of thirty men inside those four walls somehow drowned out even the thunderous crowd outside. It wasn't just noise—it was defiance, it was hunger, it was belief made flesh.
The stadium was waiting. The trophy was waiting. And Leeds United were ready to march out and seize it.