The air in the player tunnel was thick, almost suffocating in its intensity. Normally, this was where light-hearted banter and whispered greetings floated between familiar faces from both teams—jokes about missed passes, teasing about training habits, or even a playful elbow in the ribs. But today, none of that existed. The moment felt heavy, serious, and almost sacred. Every one of the 22 players, from the Leeds United veterans to the Sheffield United hopefuls, lined up with their heads held high, eyes forward, muscles tense.
On one side were the white-clad Leeds United players, with everything to gain—a Premier League trophy that had eluded them for fifteen years, glory, and a chance to cement themselves in the club's history. On the other side, Sheffield United, fighting for survival, their very place in the Premier League at stake. One side for glory, the other for existence. The tunnel was silent, the low pressure tangible, like holding your breath underwater for too long.
Arthur stood with his back straight, scanning his players. Every muscle in his body was alert, his pulse quickened, yet his mind remained razor-sharp. He could feel the tension radiating from his squad, a mixture of excitement and nerves that mirrored his own. No jokes, no casual chatter—just focus, resolve, and the weight of history pressing down on everyone.
Meanwhile, outside, Elland Road was a riot of white. The stands were packed with nearly sixty thousand fans, chanting, jumping, waving scarves, and singing the Leeds United team song at the top of their lungs. The sound carried into the tunnel, vibrating against the walls like a physical force. It was impossible to ignore, and it made the hair on the back of Arthur's neck stand on end. He could feel the energy, the expectation, and the sheer passion of thousands of people pressing in through every crevice.
From the South Stand, two massive TIFOs were slowly unfurling, catching the light and the eyes of everyone in the stadium. One was a colossal Leeds United crest, a "Rose and Ball Shield" emblem, glowing and towering over the crowd. The other was a portrait of Arthur himself, grinning widely and holding aloft the Premier League trophy, the gold glinting under the stadium lights. Even from the tunnel, Arthur could see it, and despite the tension in his chest, a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
At 3:55 pm, referee Atkinson led the players out into the stadium. The roar from the stands surged immediately, a wave of noise that seemed almost alive. Eddie Gray's voice over the stadium speakers was drowned out by the sheer volume of the crowd as the players lined up on the pitch. The atmosphere at Elland Road reached a fever pitch, an electric tension that could have lit up the entire city.
"Ladies and gentlemen! We see the players from both sides have now appeared!" Lineker's voice crackled excitedly through the broadcast. The camera swept over the field, capturing every detail—the focus in the players' eyes, the slight twitch of a nervous hand, the rhythmic bounce of a ball under a teammate's foot. Finally, it lingered on the coaches—Arthur, calm yet intense, and Warnock, grim and determined.
"Jon, I don't think I saw Arthur and Warnock shake hands just now," Lineker noted, a flicker of curiosity in his tone.
Jon rolled his eyes and let out a dry laugh. "Watching this game, Gary, this isn't your regular friendly. Today's a life-or-death match for both sides. Sometimes manners go out the window in the heat of battle. Don't expect pleasantries in a fight for the Premier League and survival."
The camera panned back to the players, and soon Kompany was stepping forward to perform the customary guessing ceremony. The referee's coin flipped, spinning in the air like a tiny silver comet, and Sheffield United won the right to kick off. The players took their positions, the stadium silent for a heartbeat before the tidal roar of fans returned to fill the space.
Atkinson checked his watch, raised his whistle, and the piercing sound sliced through the tension. The game was officially underway.
Stead pushed the ball forward to Nader, who immediately pivoted and rolled it out to Gillespie just outside the center circle. From the very first touch, it was clear Sheffield United were not planning to sit back and defend. Unlike most teams in their situation, their strategy was aggressive—they would meet Leeds United head-on, try to unsettle them early, and force a reaction.
Arthur had anticipated this. He had drilled his team to remain calm under pressure, to control possession, and to exploit every opportunity for a counterattack. Yaya Touré, stationed as one of the deep-lying midfielders, immediately took control, intercepting a pass and shifting the momentum back toward the Leeds half.
Touré pivoted, facing away from the onrushing Sheffield midfielders, and headed the ball to Modrić, who was already charging forward, weaving between the opposing lines. Arthur had instructed him to spot Ribéry's run early—predictive, fast, and precise. Modrić delivered a perfectly weighted pass, slicing through the defensive midfielders like a hot knife through butter, sending Ribéry sprinting along the right flank at full tilt.
Ribéry's control was superb; he used his agility to dodge Jagielka, spun past Geary, and drove toward the box with the elegance of a man painting with motion. Ibrahimović, as expected, made his presence known near the penalty area, his sheer height and anticipation forcing the Sheffield defenders to split their focus. The ball left Ribéry's boot, arcing perfectly toward the Swedish giant—but Paddy Kenny, Sheffield's goalkeeper, read the play like an open book. With a nimble leap and precise timing, he smothered the ball under his body, preventing the assist from reaching Ibrahimović.
The crowd groaned and then cheered, caught in the push and pull of hope and frustration.
"Good ball from Modrić!" the commentators shouted, their voices carried over the field. "Ribéry's pace is electric, but Kenny reads it perfectly. That could have been a hundred percent chance to score!"
Lineker and Jon continued to analyze rapidly. "It seems my prediction about Leeds United's offensive strength was right. Their cohesion, their passing speed—it's already putting Sheffield United under pressure."
Jon leaned forward slightly, eyebrows raised. "But credit where it's due—Sheffield United isn't rolling over. Their front two are pressing, and Nader's awareness of space is excellent. If Leeds lose focus, a counter could be deadly."
Arthur, standing just outside the technical area, watched with a calm intensity that belied the storm raging in the stadium. His instructions were crisp in his mind: control the midfield, stretch the defense, and make every touch count. Every player knew the stakes. One mistake, one missed pass, and it could shift the momentum—or worse, cost the title.
The first five minutes were a whirlwind of calculated movements, sharp passes, and defensive discipline. Leeds United were patient, methodical, waiting for the opening, testing the opponent, probing for weaknesses. Every intercept, every clearance, and every precise forward pass carried the weight of fifteen years of anticipation.
And all the while, the fans outside continued their chants, a living, breathing entity of hope and expectation. The TIFOs fluttered slightly in the breeze, reflecting the sunlight and watching over the players like guardians of history. Every player knew that this was more than a game—it was a moment frozen in time, where heroes were made and legends born.
*****
Leeds United started the game with a remarkable intensity that made the stands tremble. Less than three minutes after the opening whistle, they had already created a dangerous situation deep inside Sheffield United's penalty area. The ball zipped across the pitch like it had a mind of its own—each pass crisp, each movement intentional. It was a controlled chaos that only comes when a team knows what is at stake.
In the commentary studio, Lineker and Jon were practically bouncing in their chairs. "Leeds United's attack is electric right from the start!" Lineker shouted, his voice filled with excitement. "Bale's pace, Ibrahimovic's positioning, Modrić threading the needle—this is a perfect illustration of a team that refuses to waste even a second!"
Jon nodded vigorously, pointing at the screen as Ribéry burst past the defense, narrowly losing the ball to Kenny's quick reflexes. "Look at that movement! Ribéry is absolutely unstoppable when he's given space. Kenny had to make a miraculous save just to keep it from reaching Ibrahimovic. Leeds are telling Sheffield United that they are here for business!"
On the sideline, Arthur was clapping loudly, almost jumping in place. He called out, "Good job, Frank! Keep up the pressure! That's exactly the kind of breakthrough we need early on!" His voice carried across the technical area, catching Ribéry's attention even as the Frenchman knelt briefly on the grass, burying his face in his arms in mock despair. At that moment, Ribéry was frustrated—he had anticipated the perfect assist and missed it—but the acknowledgment from Arthur reminded him that effort mattered as much as the goal.
Arthur's grin widened. The pre-match speech had worked. The team wasn't hesitant, they weren't overwhelmed—they were focused, hungry, and ready to fight for every centimeter of the pitch. His confidence in his squad felt well-placed.
The game, as Jon had predicted before the match, gradually tilted in Leeds United's favor. While Sheffield United were equally determined—they had their entire Premier League fate riding on this match—the disparity in strength was becoming obvious. Leeds United's ball control, tactical awareness, and sheer skill created an ever-increasing wave of pressure. The home team began to dominate possession, pressing Sheffield United further and further back into their own half, leaving barely any room to breathe.
By the 16th minute, the intensity had reached a new level. Bale, stationed on the wing, received the ball and immediately cut inside with surgical precision, spotting Ibrahimovic's run along the bottom line into the penalty area. Bale's movement was so precise that it forced two Sheffield defenders to collapse on him, creating just enough space for Ibrahimovic.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. He had drilled his players to recognize these moments—timing, spacing, and exploiting hesitation. Ibrahimovic didn't hesitate for a second. As the defenders converged on Bale, the Swedish striker accelerated into the opening, pulling the ball slightly to his left and unleashing a blistering left-footed shot toward the near post. Kenny, Sheffield United's goalkeeper, had anticipated it, his positioning perfect. The ball thudded firmly into his hands, stopping a goal that might have shifted the balance entirely in Leeds United's favor.
From the sideline, Arthur gave a satisfied nod and clapped again. "Excellent vision, Zlatan! Perfect movement, perfect execution. Keep the pressure, don't relax now!" His encouragement echoed across the field, reinforcing the energy that had been building in the opening minutes.
But just as Leeds United's momentum seemed unstoppable, Simeone hurried up to Arthur with a serious expression. "Boss," he whispered urgently, "Manchester United is leading."
Arthur didn't flinch. He simply turned his head toward Simeone, nodded, and continued observing the game. His face remained calm, almost unreadable, but inside, a flicker of calculation and determination sparked. The news didn't rattle him—it was simply another variable to manage.
Within minutes, the news rippled through the stadium. Many fans had smartphones or radios and had already learned that Manchester United was taking the lead in their simultaneous match. A subtle tension began to creep through the stands, a collective sense of anxiety threading through the otherwise electric atmosphere. Murmurs mingled with cheers as fans realized the stakes were now even higher. Every pass, every tackle, every shot carried more weight.
Back in the studio, Jon felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He glanced down and saw the notification confirming the Manchester United lead. "Gary," he said to Lineker, trying to keep his voice steady, "we've got some bad news."
Lineker didn't even look up from the screen. "I know," he said calmly, eyes still glued to the live feed of Leeds United carving through Sheffield United's defense.
Jon blinked. "Wait—how did you know before I even said it?"
Lineker tilted his head and gestured at the headphones resting in front of Jon. "If you put those back on, you'd hear exactly what the director just relayed. Live, straight to you."
Jon's cheeks flushed, and he quickly popped the headphones back on, pretending nothing had happened. "Right, of course. Technical hiccup," he muttered, clearing his throat, and immediately resumed commentary.
"Dear fans," Jon said into the microphone, regaining his usual rhythm, "we just received confirmation that Manchester United has taken the lead at home. This complicates things for Leeds United. Their dominant performance on the pitch now has an added urgency: convert control into goals, and do so decisively. Every shot, every pass, every run carries the weight of the Premier League title today!"
Lineker leaned toward the camera, emphasizing the magnitude. "Exactly. Leeds United cannot afford to relax. Every moment counts. While they've created chances and maintained control, now is the time to turn pressure into points. Sheffield United will be digging in, but Leeds' intensity and precision must translate into goals. This is where champions are made."
On the pitch, the Leeds players responded immediately. Touré's presence in midfield was a constant pivot point, recycling possession, moving it wide to Bale or Ribéry, and keeping Sheffield United stretched and off balance. Ibrahimovic's positioning remained threatening, drawing defenders away and creating pockets of opportunity for his teammates. Every coordinated run, every overlapping movement reflected hours of preparation and the pre-match emphasis on composure, focus, and relentless pursuit of victory.
Arthur's eyes never left the field. He noted the timing of every pass, the angle of every cross, and the spacing between his players. His instructions were clear in his mind: "Patience. Precision. Pressure. Keep moving, keep probing, force mistakes, and exploit them immediately." He clapped whenever a play worked correctly, shouted corrections where needed, and nodded approval at clever movements, keeping his players sharp, motivated, and fully aware of the stakes.
Meanwhile, the Leeds fans in the stands were living every pass, every tackle, every save as if they were on the field themselves. Their chants and the TIFOs created a visual and auditory backdrop that amplified the intensity, making the stadium feel alive, like the crowd itself was pushing the ball forward, part of every move. The roar of nearly sixty thousand people washed over the pitch, a living reminder of what was at stake.
Leeds United had established the early rhythm, and even with the pressure of Manchester United's lead, the team's composure did not falter.
Every player moved with purpose, every pass calculated, every run intent on breaking the deadlock before the scoreboard elsewhere could snuff out hope. The first 20 minutes were a masterclass in disciplined dominance, a testament to Arthur's preparation and the squad's skill.
And yet, the tension remained. Each Leeds attack that failed to convert into a goal brought a heartbeat of anxiety, while every Sheffield United interception reminded everyone that relegation battles produced fighters who would not go down quietly. The stadium was electric, the commentary urgent and precise, and Arthur, calm on the sideline, remained the quiet eye of the storm, knowing exactly when to intervene and when to let his team flow.
The battle had begun, the stakes could not be higher, and every movement on the pitch carried the weight of fifteen years of Leeds United history. The Premier League crown was within reach, but only if Arthur and his players could turn these early chances into tangible rewards—and the first 20 minutes had proven they were more than ready to try.