Cech barely had to stretch himself for this one. Modrić's corner, whipped in with too much ambition, swung dangerously close to the near post, but for a keeper of his size and reach it was child's play. The Czech giant rose above the crowd like a crane plucking a fish, arms extended, gloves wrapping around the ball with a solid thump. Not a hint of panic on his face, only that trademark calm expression beneath the helmet.
The Leeds attackers, seeing immediately there was no chance of forcing a rebound or a scramble, turned in unison. As if choreographed, they jogged and sprinted back into their own half, bodies streaming away like a receding tide.
This frustrated Cech. He'd been ready to launch one of those lightning counterattacks Chelsea fans adored — a quick throw to spark a surge upfield. But with Adriano, Bale, Modrić and the others already sprinting back to close off space, the opportunity dissolved in front of his eyes. He grimaced, held the ball a moment longer, then reluctantly rolled it out wide to Ashley Cole on the left flank. Chelsea would have to build the slow way.
Up in the Sky Sports studio, the cameras cut to the familiar faces of Lineker and Jon.
Lineker leaned back in his chair, the digital clock in the corner of the broadcast reminding him that halftime wasn't far away. His voice was calm, almost casual:
"The first half is winding down now. You can see Chelsea easing off the tempo. After nearly forty minutes of running and pressing, the players are brushing up against their physical limits. To me, it looks like Leeds will go into the break with their one-goal lead intact."
His tone was almost smug, as though the script had been written long before kickoff.
Jon, however, wasn't buying into the relaxed mood. His eyebrows knitted together, his voice carrying a worried edge.
"It's about time Mourinho slowed things down, yes, but here's my concern: Chelsea have been camped in Leeds United's half for over ten minutes and they've still got nothing to show for it. No real chances, no breakthrough. That kind of wasted effort frustrates players. It eats away at their mentality. And with fatigue piling on, I fear Leeds could pounce on a counterattack at any moment."
Lineker glanced sideways at him with a smirk, unwilling to let the mood sour. His eyes flicked back to the pitch, where Glen Johnson was pushing down the right.
"I don't think it's that dangerous. Leeds have pulled everyone back so deep they're practically building a wall in front of their box. Even Adriano is inside thirty-five meters, playing as an auxiliary defender. And Jon, to be honest, I think you're exaggerating a bit about him. It's been nearly twenty minutes since that one long-range effort, and he's been invisible ever since."
Jon chewed his lip, not convinced. His gaze locked on Adriano, who was indeed backtracking into the defensive third as Chelsea advanced. The sight of Leeds' main striker acting like a defensive midfielder gnawed at him.
"Maybe you're right," he muttered, though his frown only deepened.
····
While the pundits traded words, the battle raged on. Chelsea's attack had no intention of slowing.
On the right wing, Glen Johnson carried the ball forward with purpose, head up, eyes scanning for openings. But in front of him stood Gareth Bale, planted firmly, following Arthur's drilled instructions to the letter. Bale didn't bite. He kept a careful cushion of space between himself and Johnson, never diving in recklessly, never lunging for the ball.
This simple, disciplined defending irritated Johnson.
The Chelsea fullback was known for his athleticism — quick acceleration, raw strength, and a knack for beating his man with a sudden burst. Usually, he relished these one-on-one duels. But tonight, whether it had been Lahm earlier or now Bale, he couldn't find a crack. Lahm had used positioning and anticipation to frustrate him. Bale, though younger and taller, was sticking to the same philosophy: patience, discipline, no rash challenges.
Johnson prided himself on being able to outmuscle opponents. Against Lahm, he had felt like a heavyweight boxing a featherweight — the mismatch in size obvious. But Lahm's uncanny ability to nip in at the right moment had nullified him. Now, against Bale, Johnson realized that brute force wouldn't help. Bale had the pace to match him stride for stride. Any attempt at a raw speed duel risked ending with the Welshman exploding past him like a sports car pulling away from a hatchback.
Johnson tried dropping a shoulder, feinting, testing Bale's reactions. But Bale never budged from that careful gap. It was maddening. Every fake move felt wasted.
The thought crossed Johnson's mind: Maybe I should recycle the ball inside. Switch play, let Lampard or Essien take over.
But a quick glance at the Leeds defensive shape killed the idea. The central lanes were clogged tighter than rush-hour traffic. Three midfielders screened the defense, and even Adriano — the supposed spearhead of Leeds' attack — was parked just outside the box, chasing shadows and blocking passing lanes. The middle was a dead end.
So Johnson pressed on, dribbling closer to the edge of the penalty area, his frustration mounting with every step.
Finally, unable to bear it, he decided to act.
He raised his head quickly, taking in the scene inside Leeds' penalty area. Florent Malouda was wrestling with Fabio Cannavaro for position near the penalty spot, arms locked, jerseys tugged. The French winger was desperate to gain leverage. Johnson calculated the distance, measured Bale's proximity, and made his choice.
He whipped his right foot through the ball, aiming a cross toward Malouda. It wasn't the perfect delivery, but the intention was clear: give Malouda something to attack, bypass Bale altogether.
But Cannavaro had other ideas.
The veteran defender, ever the master of the dark arts, had Malouda locked down with his body. At the same time, his eyes never left the flight of the ball. Reading the trajectory like a scholar reading scripture, he stepped across at the perfect moment. Before the ball could even dip into Malouda's reach, Cannavaro stretched out his right leg and hooked it clear.
The clearance wasn't elegant — a kind of outside-foot jab more suited to futsal than Serie A — but it did the job. The ball was booted safely out of the danger zone, Leeds' defensive line breathing again.
*****
It all started with what looked like nothing more than a routine clearance.
Cannavaro, sharp-eyed and ruthless as ever, had hooked Glen Johnson's hopeful cross out of the penalty area. No nonsense, no hesitation, just the kind of clearance that defenders have been drilling since their teenage years. Everyone expected the ball to bounce somewhere awkward, maybe roll out for a throw-in, maybe find a Chelsea shirt loitering nearby.
But instead, fate decided to play a little trick.
The ball came spinning, skidding across the grass, and fell directly at the feet of Adriano — the very man Chelsea least wanted to see in possession during transition. The Brazilian was facing his own goal at first, but crucially, he had been alive to the situation. While some strikers might have been caught daydreaming, he had stayed tuned in, eyes scanning, body loose, ready.
With a neat touch of his right foot, Adriano killed the ball stone dead. Not even a hint of panic in him. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned. His whole body swiveled as though powered by hydraulics, and suddenly he was facing the wide-open Wembley turf stretching out ahead of him.
And that was the trigger.
The Leeds United machine, drilled by Arthur day after day on the training pitches, roared to life. Counterattacking was not something these players had to think about; it was muscle memory, ingrained into their very bones.
Bale was already shifting gears on the left flank, sprinting forward like a greyhound released from the trap. In the middle, Kaka glided forward with those long, elegant strides that made him look as though he was barely breaking a sweat even when covering ground at full tilt. And further to the right, Alves was darting ahead, eager to offer himself as an extra outlet, his energy limitless.
It was like watching three arrows fired from the same bow — straight, sharp, and terrifyingly quick.
····
The commentators on Sky Sports, seeing the play unfold from their elevated perch, could barely keep up.
"Johnson swung in the cross, clearly looking for Malouda," Lineker rattled off, his voice quickening as the play turned. "But Cannavaro read it like a book, positioned himself perfectly, and poked the ball away! Malouda had no chance. And—oh! Look at that, it's fallen straight to Adriano! The Brazilian's got it under control, and already his teammates are on the move. This… this is a counterattack opportunity for Leeds United!"
Jon leaned forward, practically pressing his nose against the monitor as the camera zoomed in on Adriano surging forward with the ball. His words came tumbling out in a rush.
"Leeds United's three lines are pushing together! Look at Bale, look at Kaka, and Alves making that run from deep! But Chelsea aren't asleep either — Joe Cole and Malouda are busting a lung to get back at him! Now it's all down to Adriano — does he keep it, does he release it? Where's he going to put this ball?"
It wasn't just the commentators who were fixated.
Around Wembley, sixty-thousand pairs of eyes locked on the Brazilian. The roar of the crowd swelled, a chaotic mix of anticipation and nerves. Chelsea fans screamed at their defenders to get back, to close him down. Leeds supporters rose from their seats, arms stretched out as if they could push Adriano forward by sheer will. Even Mourinho, standing tight-lipped in his technical area, leaned slightly forward, unable to mask his focus.
Everyone, everywhere, wanted to know: what would Adriano do next?
Everyone — except for three men.
····
On the Leeds United bench, Arthur stood shoulder to shoulder with his lieutenants Rivaldo and Simeone. The three of them didn't look like nervous spectators; they looked like gamblers, watching the dice roll across the table.
Rivaldo, unable to contain himself, muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
"Go on… go on… don't you dare pass…"
Arthur shot him a sideways look, rolling his eyes at the Brazilian's barely disguised greed. Rivaldo, of course, was imagining his compatriot bulldozing through Chelsea on his own, scoring a goal that would make headlines worldwide.
"Honestly," Arthur sighed, though there was a glint in his eye. He turned his gaze back toward Adriano, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips.
Because, truthfully, Arthur felt it too. That flicker of hope, that dangerous little spark of expectation.
This was more than just a counterattack.
For months, Adriano's transfer to Leeds had been mocked, dissected, and written off as a blunder. Pundits scoffed, fans doubted, rivals laughed. The consensus had been cruelly clear: Arthur had wasted money, time, and a starting spot on a striker whose best years had been drowned in alcohol and lost form.
Yet Arthur, stubborn as ever, had stood firm. He believed Adriano could still rediscover himself. And tonight, by throwing Ibrahimović and Torres onto the bench and trusting Adriano from the start, he was putting that belief on full public display.
This was his gamble.
And now, after nearly forty minutes of probing, running, sweating, and waiting… here it was.
The chance.
The perfect counterattack.
Adriano, the ball at his feet, space ahead, teammates flying with him. Everything lined up.
Arthur's heart thudded harder, but outwardly he stayed calm, lips pressing into a thin line. Rivaldo whispered beside him, Simeone's jaw was clenched like a vice. None of them blinked.
All three watched the Brazilian charge forward, and in that electric moment, the whole of Leeds United — the players, the coaches, the fans — seemed to hold their breath together.
This was it.
This was Adriano's chance to silence every critic.
And Arthur, deep down, wanted nothing more than to see him take it.
····
And that was exactly where the play stood. Adriano, ball at his feet, counterattack in full swing, Wembley holding its breath.