"Gareth Bale! Gareth Bale! He crushed Chelsea with his speed!! He helped Leeds United take the lead!!!"
Eddie Gray's voice exploded through the speakers at Elland Road just as the ball nestled firmly into the back of the net. If you thought the crowd had been loud before, this was a whole new level of chaos. The roof nearly came off the stadium. Fans were jumping, fists pumping, scarves flying, drinks spilling everywhere—but nobody cared. A goal had just been scored, and not just any goal. A masterpiece of raw speed and perfect timing.
"I swear," Eddie roared on commentary, "I just saw a flash of white lightning tear through the Chelsea defence! Ladies and gentlemen, cheer for Gareth! Everyone else on the pitch was just there to watch him sprint past and eat his dust!"
And that's exactly what it felt like. One second Bale was a blur of legs charging into the final third, the next he was coolly rounding the keeper like he was playing on a Sunday with his mates.
Down in the studio, Jon sat with eyebrows raised so high they were threatening to abandon his forehead. The monitor showed Bale sliding on his knees by the corner flag, arms wide open, Arthur running toward him with a huge grin and flailing arms like someone who'd just won the lottery and lost their phone in the same moment.
"Is this what you meant when you said he'd hardly get a chance to perform today?" Jon asked, turning to Lineker with a grin that wasn't even trying to hide the sarcasm.
Lineker, for once, didn't fight back. He just laughed. A big, hearty laugh. "Hahaha! Alright, alright! I admit it. Sometimes even I make mistakes. But let's be fair here. As incredible as Bale's finish was, 70% of that goal—at least—belongs to Lahm. That steal? That pass? Textbook brilliance! If he were any sharper, he'd need a sheath!"
Jon nodded, his eyes drifting to the live feed now showing Chelsea's players trudging back toward the centre circle like they'd just been told Christmas was cancelled. "Yeah, and I still think Shevchenko made a poor decision there. Drogba was right there! Waving like mad, calling for the pass! And Sheva decided to try and take on Lahm like it was a one-on-one drill in training."
Indeed, the contrasting moods on the benches couldn't have been more dramatic. Over at Leeds United's technical area, Arthur was positively buzzing. His face was flushed with excitement, his hands still clenched in fists of joy, occasionally turning toward the fans to pump them up even more.
Meanwhile, on Chelsea's side, Mourinho looked like a man trying to hold in a sneeze and a scream at the same time. Furious didn't even begin to describe him. He was stomping near the touchline, face red, hair slightly disheveled, and he was waving his arms as though conducting a symphony of disaster.
He pointed directly into the Leeds penalty area and shouted furiously toward Shevchenko. "Andre! Can't you see Didier's position?! He's standing in a wide open pocket of space, arms in the air, BEGGING for the ball!"
Mourinho's accent was thick and fast now, his voice straining with frustration. "There was a gap in the middle big enough to park the team bus! Even my grandmother—bless her soul—would have passed that ball!"
Shevchenko, standing in the centre circle, was too far away to hear the words, but he didn't need subtitles. The message was clear. His manager was livid, and his expression practically screamed, "Why didn't you pass the damn ball?"
Shevchenko shifted awkwardly, trying to avoid eye contact with his boss while pretending to focus on the referee. But it was too late. Everyone had seen it. Everyone knew.
Back on the pitch, the Leeds United players were finally jogging back to their half, cheeks flushed, clapping each other on the back. Torres gave Bale a playful shove. Ibrahimovic was grinning, shaking his head like he'd just seen a magician pull a rabbit out of thin air. Even Schmeichel, way back in goal, was applauding slowly, a rare show of emotion from the normally stoic Dane.
And Arthur? He was soaking it all in. Arms around Bale's shoulders as they walked back, the manager leaned in and said something into the young winger's ear that made him smile even wider. Arthur then turned and gave Lahm a giant thumbs-up, mouthing what looked suspiciously like, "That pass was obscene."
As the referee gestured for the game to resume, Drogba and Shevchenko stood waiting in the centre circle. The mood around them couldn't have been more different. Drogba looked like he was ready to murder someone. Shevchenko looked like he'd just been caught stealing biscuits before dinner.
The camera panned back to the stands for a brief moment, catching fans still singing, still bouncing, still losing their voices for a team that had just taken the lead in the dying minutes of the first half.
1–0 to Leeds United. Elland Road was rocking.
And there were still 45 minutes to go.
****
The players retook their positions on the pitch, each one still buzzing from the energy of Bale's breathtaking goal. The referee glanced at his watch, then blew his whistle, loud and clear. The match resumed.
Didier Drogba stood tall in the center circle, nodded once at Essien behind him, then tapped the ball backward to restart the game. And just like that, Chelsea were back in action.
Time was not on their side. Including stoppage time, there were maybe five or six minutes left in the half. Not exactly a luxurious window for a comeback—but definitely enough for a team like Chelsea to stir up some chaos. And Arthur knew it. That's why, during the raucous celebration a few moments earlier, while his players were bouncing around like lottery winners, he had pulled each one aside—serious, sharp-eyed, loud enough to cut through the roar.
"Focus! We've still got time left in the half, don't let them back in it!" he barked, smacking shoulders and jabbing fingers like a coach trying to rein in kids who'd just tasted sugar for the first time. "Don't let them get lucky! No equalizers!"
He wasn't just yelling for fun either. Arthur had been in football long enough to know: momentum is a sneaky beast. One slip, one lazy back pass, one mistimed tackle, and that beautiful 1–0 lead could vanish like a free bar at a wedding.
And Chelsea—well, Chelsea weren't about to just lie down.
As soon as Essien received the ball, their entire formation shifted like a machine snapping into gear. No fancy build-up this time. No slow methodical passing triangles. Mourinho clearly didn't want to waste a single second.
Essien hoofed the ball up the left flank with a long, booming diagonal pass. The ball flew through the air like it was late for a flight, and on the far side, Arjen Robben was already in motion.
He made poor Danny Mills look like he was running through molasses.
Robben took off like a Dutch bullet, outpaced Mills in a heartbeat, and before the Leeds full-back could even consider a recovery sprint, Robben had already squeezed half a body ahead and whipped in a low cross from near the byline.
It was dangerous. Very dangerous.
In the center, Drogba was already muscling his way into the box like a battering ram, hoping to meet the cross and hammer home the equalizer.
But Leeds had learned their lesson.
Thiago Silva, who'd been bullied by Drogba once or twice already that half, didn't make the same mistake this time. No wrestling, no foolish one-on-one battle. Instead, he read the flight of the cross early, took a sharp step around Drogba's left shoulder, and launched himself into the air with the grace of a gazelle on springs.
Boom! A clean header. Ball out of danger.
Straight to the edge of the box, where Javier Mascherano was waiting like a loyal hound. He took one touch to control, but immediately felt the heat.
Essien and Lampard were closing in on him fast, like two lions spotting dinner. Mascherano's eyes widened like saucers. He spun on the spot, and without waiting to flirt with disaster, poked the ball out to Alonso on the left.
Alonso, calm as ever, took a quick glance upfield—just a flick of the eyes—and then swung his left foot through the ball. Long pass. Center circle.
There, towering and tangled up with Ricardo Carvalho, was Zlatan Ibrahimović. The Swede barely flinched. He leaned his big frame into Carvalho, shrugged him off like an old coat, and nodded the ball down to his strike partner.
Torres.
Now it was Leeds United's turn to charge.
"Here it comes again!" Lineker's voice leapt up through the commentary box like a rocket, laced with excitement. "Leeds United does not seem to be satisfied with only a one-goal lead entering the halftime break—they've launched a quick counterattack again!"
Elland Road was practically shaking from the noise. Leeds fans were on their feet, eyes wide, mouths open, screaming their heads off. They could smell blood.
Torres, with the ball at his feet, raced up the pitch like a man possessed. But Chelsea weren't caught sleeping this time.
Ashley Cole and John Terry weren't messing around. As Torres approached the final third—barely 25 meters from the goal—they pounced. One cut off the angle, the other lunged. Torres tried to drive between them, hoping for a bit of magic.
No dice.
Terry read it like a bedtime story and jabbed his foot in, knocking the ball cleanly off Torres and out of play.
Touchline. Leeds throw-in.
But the moment Torres turned to chase the ball, the shrill peep of the referee's whistle pierced the air.
That was it. First half, over.
Arthur exhaled. Not in relief—he wasn't the relaxing type—but with the short, sharp breath of a man whose players had listened. They'd kept their cool, didn't over-commit, and nearly snatched another goal on the break.
"Okay! The first half is over!" boomed Lineker, now fully in his rhythm, voice echoing over the highlights reel flashing across the broadcast. "Leeds United temporarily leads Chelsea at home with one goal, thanks to Bale's magnificent run and finish in the 42nd minute!"
He continued, animated, as replay footage showed Lahm's interception, the lofted pass, and Bale's dazzling run again in glorious slow motion.
"The two teams gave us a relatively exciting 45 minutes! And the tactical battle between Arthur and Mourinho has been fascinating. Both sides have gone after the other's weak spots. Mourinho's wing play, Arthur's pressing and fast breaks… but in the end, Leeds were the first to land a real blow!"
"And now," Lineker added with a grin, "Mourinho will have 15 minutes to make adjustments. I'm looking forward to seeing what he changes for the second half."
As the camera panned down to the pitch, players from both sides were already trotting toward the tunnel. A few wiped sweat from their brows. Some shook heads in frustration, others patted backs and exchanged words. Drogba and Shevchenko lingered around the center circle for a moment longer, then turned toward the tunnel too.
But one manager had already disappeared.
Mourinho stormed off the second the whistle blew, coat flapping, face twisted with frustration. He didn't wait for anyone.
Arthur, on the other hand, stood proudly on the touchline, his arms folded. He didn't leave until every one of his players passed him. He patted shoulders, offered nods, muttered things like "Good work" or "Stay sharp."
Finally, as Schmeichel jogged up behind him, Arthur turned, clapped him on the back, and walked into the tunnel with his keeper.
First half done. Leeds in the lead. Second half coming. The battle wasn't over yet.