"He's back! The very definition of violent aesthetics—he's back!!" Jon's voice was cracking, his face flushed with excitement as he half-rose from his chair. Even though Adriano had just smashed the ball past Chelsea, Jon couldn't help himself. "Adriano! This man who fuses raw speed with brute strength has just scored his first Premier League goal! From the second he picked up the ball and charged, Chelsea threw five—yes, FIVE—men in his way, and not one of them could stop this runaway tank once it was rolling!"
The words burst out of him like fireworks, and it wasn't just the commentators who had been conquered by the goal.
At Wembley Stadium, a tidal wave of sound erupted the moment the ball hit the net.
"Gooooooooooooooooooooool!!!" boomed the stadium announcer through the speakers, his roar stretching as long as Adriano's run had been. "Leeds United have scored!! The score is now two–nil!! And the scorer, number 18, Adrianooooooo Wright—!"
"Ribeirooooooo!"
Ninety thousand voices answered in perfect unison, rolling the name like thunder through the stands. It wasn't just the white shirts of Leeds who were shouting. Even in the sea of Chelsea blue, plenty of fans rose to their feet, clapping their hands despite themselves.
Because at a moment like this, allegiance didn't matter. Rivalries didn't matter. That was football in its purest form. What mattered was the beauty and savagery of a striker reborn. Adriano had just given everyone in the stadium a story they would tell for years.
All ninety thousand were on their feet, applauding, whistling, shouting themselves hoarse for the Brazilian who had just bulldozed half a team to score.
Adriano himself was almost too overwhelmed to process it. The ball had barely kissed the net before he turned and exploded. He didn't even stop to celebrate with the teammates who were sprinting to mob him—Bale flying in with his arms wide, Kaka punching the air, Mascherano screaming something unrepeatable in Spanish.
No. Adriano had something else on his mind. He sprinted. Straight down the touchline, muscles rippling, face twisted in a roar that was half-joy, half-exorcism. It wasn't a celebration—it was a purge. All the frustration, all the doubt, all the nights drowned in alcohol and loneliness were pouring out of him with every step, every scream, until finally he reached the Leeds bench.
On the sidelines, Arthur had already been celebrating like a madman. He'd thrown himself into Simeone and Rivaldo, the three of them hugging, fists pumping the air, yelling like teenagers who'd just won a schoolyard brawl. But even as he jumped and shouted, Arthur's eyes never left Adriano.
The player he had gambled 35 million euros on.
The player everyone had mocked him for signing.
The player many said was finished.
And now, that same man was running straight toward him like a freight train with tears in his eyes.
When Adriano reached the bench, Arthur didn't hesitate. He opened his arms wide and pulled the Brazilian into a fierce embrace. "Well done, Didico!" Arthur shouted into his ear, voice cracking with pride. "This is the real you! The world's going to remember your name again!"
Adriano buried his face in Arthur's shoulder. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Arthur could feel the man trembling, his whole body shaking like a dam about to burst. Arthur just held him tighter, thumping his back with the strength of a man who had fought to give him this moment.
Because Arthur knew. He understood what this goal meant.
It had been three long years of suffering for Adriano. Three years since his father's sudden death after the Copa América in 2004 had left him shattered. For two years, he'd managed to hold it together with the love of his teammates and the patience of Massimo Moratti at Inter. But last year… last year had broken him.
He had drifted. He'd drowned himself in drink, in despair. He'd been the butt of jokes, a symbol of wasted talent. By the time Inter cast him aside, Adriano wasn't even sure he had the will to go on. He thought about quitting—about disappearing from the game forever.
And then Arthur came along.
Arthur, who had seen through the fog, who had reached out his hand and said, "Come with me to Leeds. We'll start again." Arthur, who took the insults, the headlines calling him crazy, the endless media criticism, and shrugged it all off with a grin.
And now, here they were.
Adriano didn't even know when it had happened. The crushing weight of depression, the gray fog that had smothered his soul for so long… it was gone. Completely gone, like smoke blown away by the wind. And in its place, there was fire.
It didn't matter why or how. What mattered was this moment—this embrace, this warmth, this surge of life back in his veins.
Arthur's arms around him weren't just a coach's hug. They were the arms of the man who had dragged him out of hell. The man who believed when no one else did. The man who gave him a second chance.
And now, after three years of darkness, Adriano finally believed again.
He believed he could be Deisler—another lost talent reborn at Leeds, another man given a second spring under Arthur's wing. He believed he could write a new chapter.
The roar of Wembley pounded in his ears, but what Adriano heard most clearly was Arthur's voice, fierce and steady at his side:
"You're back. This is only the beginning."
*****
Adriano's thunderous strike meant Leeds United walked into the halftime break with a commanding 2–0 lead.
Inside the Wembley dressing room, the mood was light and buzzing, yet Arthur's face carried the calm smile of a man who had seen exactly what he wanted.
"Well done, lads," Arthur said, his voice firm but warm as the players gathered around. "Not just because we've got a two-goal cushion—though I'm not complaining about that—but because you've executed my ideas to perfection. The pressing, the positioning, the quick transitions… that's exactly the Leeds United I want to see!"
The room filled with nods, a few laughs, and the sound of boots tapping the floor. Even Adriano, still riding the high of his solo wonder goal, leaned back on the bench with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
But praise alone wasn't the plan. Arthur quickly shifted gears, unfolding the tactics board.
"Now," he continued, tapping the magnet pieces into shape, "we're two goals up, and this is only the Community Shield. Don't get me wrong, winning is nice, but the Premier League and Champions League are what really matter. I don't want any of you carrying unnecessary knocks into the season. So we're using all six subs now."
A murmur spread through the squad, some surprised, some amused. But Arthur's decision was final. He pointed around the room, announcing the changes—straight swaps in most areas, but one notable switch:
"Hummels on for Kaka. That means we're going to a back five. From here on, it's about control, not chaos."
····
"Welcome back, everyone!" Lineker's voice filled television sets across the country as the second half prepared to kick off. "Leeds United lead Chelsea 2–0 here at Wembley… and wait—hang on! We've just received confirmation from the benches: Arthur has used all six of his substitutions at halftime!"
Jon, beside him, glanced down at the official team sheet and couldn't help a wry chuckle. "That's right, Gary. All six. He's emptied the bench before the second half has even begun."
Lineker blinked, eyebrows raised. "That's… unusual, to say the least. Jon, what's the thinking there? Is Arthur showing Mourinho no respect at all?"
"I don't think it's that," Jon replied, shaking his head. "Look closely—most of the changes are like-for-like. Fresh legs in every position. But here's the key: Hummels has come on for Kaka. That tells me Leeds are shifting into a five-man defense. Arthur wants to lock this down."
The excitement in Lineker's tone shifted into playful suspicion. "So… what you're saying is, Arthur might not even be trying to win this? Two goals in the first half, then park the bus in the second? Almost like he's daring Chelsea to come back."
"Why wouldn't he want to win?" Jon frowned, genuinely puzzled.
Lineker leaned closer to his mic, eyes sparkling. "Haven't you heard the stories about the Community Shield? They call it the 'cursed trophy.' Since the rebranding in 2002, three consecutive winners went on to flop in the league. Only Chelsea broke it a couple of years ago. Maybe Arthur, being a superstitious sort, thinks it's better not to win at all! Hahahaha!"
Jon shook his head with a laugh of his own. "Oh, come on. He's pragmatic, not mystical. This is just Arthur ensuring his players don't pick up injuries in what's essentially a glorified friendly."
····
And indeed, when the second half began, the contrast was clear. Leeds United, who had attacked with fire and fury before the break, now sat deep in their own half. Five defenders held their line, midfielders tucked in, and the forwards chased only when absolutely necessary.
Chelsea poured forward, wave after wave, but the white wall of Leeds absorbed it all. Carvalho pushed higher, Essien surged from midfield, even Lampard and Ballack tried speculative shots—but De Gea and his backline stood firm.
The minutes ticked away, frustration mounting in blue shirts. Mourinho paced his technical area, barking instructions, while Arthur stood with arms folded, calm as a man guarding a treasure chest.
Finally, in the 87th minute, Chelsea broke through. A foul on Drogba just outside the box gave Lampard the stage. He placed the ball, took his trademark short run-up, and whipped a thunderous free kick past the Leeds wall. De Gea leapt full stretch, fingertips grazing air—but the ball smacked into the top corner.
2–1.
Chelsea fans roared, believing in a grandstand finish. But Arthur's men didn't flinch. They tightened the screws, slowed the tempo, and killed the game with clever fouls and calm possession.
When the board went up showing four minutes of stoppage time, Chelsea threw everything forward. Yet Leeds refused to yield. Every cross was headed away, every second ball fought for. Adriano, though subbed off, clenched his fists on the bench, living every clearance as if he were still on the pitch.
And then, at last, the shrill whistle blew.
Final score: Leeds United 2, Chelsea 1.
Arthur's men lifted the 2007 Community Shield—their first piece of silverware of the season. Goals from Lahm and Adriano in the first half proved decisive, and while Lampard's late strike threatened drama, Leeds had done enough.
At Wembley, confetti rained, players embraced, and Arthur stood with a satisfied grin, applauding his squad. A trophy was a trophy, cursed or not—and this was only the beginning.