After the referee's whistle shrieked through Wembley and the game got back underway, Leeds United immediately shifted gears. Instead of charging headlong into Chelsea's lines, Arthur waved his arms from the technical area like a conductor telling his orchestra to play a softer, slower tune.
The tempo dropped. Leeds no longer pushed forward in waves but instead chose to let the game breathe. It wasn't retreat exactly—more like controlled patience, the way a cat watches a mouse and decides it isn't quite time to pounce.
But the real intrigue came from Arthur's little tactical adjustment. To the untrained eye, it might have looked like nothing more than a bit of reshuffling, but on the field, it was like moving pieces on a giant chessboard.
Arthur pulled Philipp Lahm forward, nudging him up from left-back into the left defensive midfield role. At the same time, Gareth Bale—yes, the flying Welshman who usually terrified opponents with his pace—dropped back into Lahm's old spot at left-back.
The result? Leeds practically gift-wrapped the midfield and handed it over to Chelsea, saying, "Here you go, lads. Have a bit of space. Show us what you've got."
The fans scratched their heads. The commentators squinted at their screens. Twitter (if it had been around in this fanfic moment) would have been melting down with confusion. Why would Arthur let Chelsea have control?
Well, to Leeds United's players, the adjustment made perfect sense. Lahm as a defensive midfielder wasn't some wild experiment. He had done it before, and he could do it again.
Arthur had learned long ago that if your midfield only had finesse and no bite, then you were asking for trouble. Sure, Leeds had technical players who could pass, dribble, and pirouette like ballet dancers in boots. But when it came to raw mobility and defensive coverage? That was another story.
And Arthur knew what happened when speed met soft-footed midfielders. He hadn't forgotten last season's Champions League quarterfinals, when Kaka sliced through Leeds' midfield like a hot knife through butter. With just one burst of acceleration, Kaka had left their midfield anchors flailing, exposing the back line and nearly ripping Leeds apart.
Arthur had replayed that nightmare in his head too many times. He vowed never to let it happen again.
So when designing this tactical setup, he looked to Lahm.
Lahm wasn't tall. He wasn't intimidating in the way a hulking defensive midfielder might be. But he was ridiculously clever, quick across the ground, and sharp as a razor. His football brain worked at lightning speed, and he covered ground as if he had cloned himself.
For more than two years at Leeds, fans had come to adore Lahm's calm, clean defending. Ask any of them to describe his style, and they'd likely say: "Neat. Precise. Never a wasted tackle." Lahm didn't lunge in like a madman. He waited, he watched, and when the timing was perfect, he struck. And when he struck, it was nearly always the right move at the right time.
So Arthur thought: if the midfield needed protection, if Modric was to sit beside Kaka as the brains of the operation, then who better to be the shield than Lahm? Aside from Mascherano, no one else in the Leeds squad was better suited.
Thus, the Christmas tree was born.
From the press box, Lineker narrowed his eyes at the screen. "Leeds United has completely changed formation—it looks like a 4-3-2-1. The famous Christmas tree. But Jon," he said, turning to his co-commentator, "why on earth would Arthur do this? I've seen Bale play as a left-back before, sure. But Lahm as a defensive midfielder? That's new to me."
Jon gave him a look that could only be described as "are you seriously this daft?" He rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't fall out.
"Gary, come on. This is the Community Shield. It's not the Champions League final! You think Arthur's going to go all-out with his A-game here? No chance. He's not just testing his attack. He wants to test the defensive shape, too. This is the perfect playground for it. As for Lahm… well, maybe you should ask Arthur after the game. He's probably been planning this for ages."
Lineker scratched his head, smiling sheepishly. "Right, right. Makes sense. But doesn't this basically hand Chelsea the advantage? I mean, giving them the ball, giving them the midfield… isn't that risky?"
Jon shook his head, though his expression betrayed a flicker of unease. "Not necessarily. Don't forget—Arthur built this Leeds team on defensive counterattacks. Retreating into shape and soaking up pressure is second nature to them. And besides…" His voice dropped as he leaned closer to the mic. "…Adriano is still up front. He hasn't dropped deep. If Leeds win the ball and release him, it'll be fatal for Chelsea."
"Adriano?" Lineker blinked, as if he'd forgotten the Brazilian striker even existed. For a brief, embarrassing moment, it slipped his mind that Adriano was the man leading the Leeds line today.
Jon smirked, clearly enjoying Lineker's lapse. "Yes, Gary. That Adriano. The one with a left foot like a sledgehammer. If he gets a sniff of goal, Chelsea will remember his name in a hurry."
Back on the pitch, Chelsea indeed started seeing more of the ball. Their midfield trio of Lampard, Ballack, and Essien finally had room to breathe, passing it around and trying to build momentum. But every time they thought they spotted a weakness, Lahm popped up like a mosquito they couldn't swat. One moment he was blocking a passing lane, the next he was nipping the ball off Lampard's toes with surgical precision.
Arthur watched from the touchline, arms folded, lips twitching into the faintest grin. This was exactly what he wanted: Chelsea lulled into thinking they had control, only for Leeds to spring the trap when the time came.
*****
For the first twenty minutes, Adriano looked… well, let's be polite and call it "quiet." He wasn't storming into Chelsea's penalty area like a hurricane or smashing shots from thirty yards out. Instead, he seemed more like a very large, very expensive decoy. His job wasn't to dazzle but to drag Chelsea's defenders out of position, pull them around like dogs chasing a bone, and act as a pivot whenever Leeds needed to link their attacks.
It was the kind of unglamorous work that rarely makes headlines. You know, the stuff strikers do that makes their teammates look like geniuses while they themselves look like they've barely broken a sweat.
But Gary Lineker couldn't help noticing. From the commentary booth, he tilted his head, as if studying Adriano under a microscope. "He doesn't look in great shape," Lineker finally muttered. "I mean, we've heard Arthur and Kaka both talk about his… uh… condition in interviews. But honestly? I don't buy that he's back to his old self in such a short time. He doesn't look anything like the Adriano who terrorized defenses a few years ago."
Jon, his co-commentator, nearly fell out of his chair. He didn't say it aloud—he was too professional for that—but in his heart he was screaming.
Who's supposed to be the Leeds fan here, Gary? You support Chelsea! I'm the Leeds die-hard! And yet here you are, doubting our striker like he's some Sunday league player who just got dragged in from the pub!
Still, Jon had a job to do. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and gave his measured reply. "Well… Arthur insists Adriano is back to normal. To be honest, I had my doubts too. Let's face it, Adriano's reputation in Europe hasn't exactly been spotless these past years. People have called him the 'black shop owner' of football—always promising, rarely delivering. But then Kaka spoke up about him. And Kaka's no liar. He's as straightforward as they come. If Kaka says Adriano is fine, then I believe him."
Lineker raised an eyebrow. "You think that's enough evidence?"
Jon gave him a pointed look. "Gary, Kaka is practically a saint. The man could tell me the sky was purple and I'd glance out the window just to check."
Meanwhile, down on the touchline, José Mourinho was not amused. His arms folded tightly, his brow furrowed deeper than a freshly plowed field as he watched Frank Lampard try to build an attack—only for Lahm to dart in, nick the ball, and immediately send it wide to Bale.
Chelsea were supposed to be the ones dictating play, but every time they tried, Leeds snatched it away and countered with alarming speed. This particular move fizzled out with Bale being muscled off the ball by Glen Johnson near the touchline, but it wasn't the first time Leeds had sprung forward like that. It was happening again and again, and Mourinho's patience was wearing thin.
He turned his head toward the opposite dugout. There was Arthur, cool as ever, whispering with Rivaldo on the sidelines as if this was just another training exercise. Mourinho's scowl deepened. He wasn't stupid—he knew Arthur was using his Chelsea as a testing ground, probing, experimenting, seeing how his adjustments held up under pressure.
When Joe Cole restarted play from the center circle, Mourinho kept his eyes glued to Leeds' shape. The penny dropped almost immediately. Lahm and Bale had swapped roles. Lahm wasn't shackled to the full-back line anymore—he was patrolling the midfield like a hawk.
At first, Mourinho thought Arthur had lost the plot. Lahm? That tiny figure, dwarfed by Chelsea's midfield monsters? What use was he supposed to be? Lampard, Ballack, Essien—these were men who could bench-press a small car. Lahm, by contrast, looked like someone who might be asked for ID at the pub.
The logic seemed clear: if Lahm pressed too tightly, he'd get bullied off the ball. If he stood off, Chelsea would have all the time in the world to turn, look up, and pick their passes. It should have been easy pickings.
Except it wasn't.
Because Lahm was clever.
He knew exactly where he was outmatched. He wasn't going to go body-to-body with Essien, wasn't about to shoulder-charge Ballack into the stands. Instead, he played to his strengths. He read the game like a book, intercepting passing lanes before they even opened. He didn't lunge in—he glided, slid into space, and plucked the ball away like a magician palming a coin.
Every time Chelsea thought they had an angle, Lahm shut it down.
Mourinho's jaw tightened. What was worse was that Leeds didn't actually look weaker with this so-called "defensive" adjustment. In theory, they had conceded the midfield. In practice, their transitions were sharper, their counterattacks faster, their attacks even more dangerous than before.
It was infuriating. Leeds had given Chelsea the illusion of control, only to weaponize it against them.
Arthur, for his part, was enjoying the sight. He stood on the touchline with that calm, faintly smug expression that drove opposing managers crazy. He didn't need to shout. He didn't need to gesticulate wildly. Everything was unfolding exactly as he had drawn it up.
On the pitch, Adriano still hadn't exploded into life, but his shadow loomed larger with every passing minute. Chelsea's defenders couldn't ignore him. Even if he wasn't firing yet, the thought that he might was enough to keep them glancing nervously over their shoulders.
And Arthur knew. It was only a matter of time.