The Emirates Stadium, home to over 60,000 passionate Arsenal fans, had never been this quiet.

One moment, the crowd was a roaring, pulsating sea of red and white. The next? Silence.

Not stunned silence. Not respectful silence. Just… blank, open-mouthed, wide-eyed disbelief. Even the stadium's sound system, which had been blaring energetic chants and music just moments before, seemed to give up. It fizzled into a low hum, then fell completely silent, as if it, too, couldn't comprehend what had just happened.

Zlatan Ibrahimović had scored.

But it wasn't just any goal. No. This one came gift-wrapped—with a big, shiny red bow—directly from Arsenal's veteran goalkeeper, Jens Lehmann. One moment Lehmann was trying to show off his footwork like some overconfident ballroom dancer, the next he was lying face-down in the grass, and Zlatan was wheeling away in celebration, grinning like a man who'd just pickpocketed a prince in broad daylight.

Up in the commentary booth, the stunned silence was just as palpable. The commentator sat frozen, mouth open, eyes blinking, as if someone had hit pause on his brain.

To be fair, how was he supposed to describe Lehmann's mistake in any dignified way?

He shuffled his papers. He tapped his mic. He muttered under his breath.

Nothing.

Not even a diplomatic, sugar-coated "moment of miscommunication" would do the trick. Because this wasn't miscommunication. This was… football comedy. A blooper reel moment served in 1080p.

A few moments later, the silence was finally broken—not by cheers, but by an explosion of boos from behind Arsenal's goal. It started as a low rumble, but like wildfire on dry grass, it spread across the entire stadium.

"IDIOT GERMAN!"

"ARE YOU RETIRING OR WHAT?!"

"YOU DONKEY IN GLOVES!"

And the more colorful, more vicious, entirely unprintable insults were aimed squarely at Lehmann—not at the Leeds United players, and definitely not at Arthur, who stood proudly on the sidelines, arms crossed, as his players hugged and celebrated.

Even the Arsenal players didn't rush over to console their goalkeeper. Not even a hand to help him off the ground. They just stood around, glancing at each other, then back at Lehmann, faces full of confusion, embarrassment, and possibly a hint of "What the hell is wrong with him?"

He lay there, staring into the grass, probably wishing it would swallow him whole.

Over at the Leeds United bench, Arthur watched the chaos unfold with a smirk slowly stretching across his face. He didn't even have to say anything. He just tilted his head back and let out a quiet, satisfied exhale through his nose—the universal sound of smug triumph.

Opposite him, Arsenal manager Arsène Wenger had lost all semblance of elegance. Usually so composed, so suave—he was now a man possessed.

With a snarl of frustration, Wenger kicked a full bottle of mineral water clear across his technical area. It spun in the air, landed with a smack, and rolled into the advertising boards. He turned to his assistant Pat Rice, red in the face, and roared, "What the hell is wrong with that lunatic?! Has he gone senile?! He's 38! Thirty-bloody-eight! Why is he trying to dribble around Zlatan Ibrahimović?!"

Pat could only shrug, lips pressed in a grim line. There were no words.

Up in the studio, Eddie Gray and Norman Hunter were just as stunned.

"Well…" Eddie began slowly, still trying to process what he'd just seen. "I—uh—I don't even feel like celebrating that one."

Norman blinked at him. "You mean Zlatan's goal?"

"Yeah," Eddie said, lips twitching into a confused grin. "I mean… how do I even describe it? Divine intervention? A gift from the heavens?"

Norman chuckled. "I'd say more like… a gift from Lehmann."

Both men stared at each other for a second, and then burst into helpless laughter.

"HAH! HAHAHAHAHA!"

"Lehmann's Gift!" Eddie wheezed. "I'm writing that down!"

Meanwhile, down on the pitch, the game resumed after a brief celebration. Leeds United were in front—1–0—and they had no intention of sitting back. In fact, if anything, their pressing intensified.

Midfield was once again a war zone.

Yaya Touré, in particular, was playing like a man possessed. Every time Arsenal tried to funnel the ball through Cesc Fàbregas, hoping he could organize the attack and reset the rhythm, Yaya popped up like a ghost in a horror film—snatching the ball away, turning, and charging forward like a battering ram.

"That's excellent midfield work from Yaya Touré!" Eddie Gray said gleefully. "He's made Fàbregas look like a traffic cone today."

Norman, ever the realist, leaned forward. "They're doing well now, but Arthur better keep an eye on the positioning. The whole Leeds side is pressing so high that if Arsenal manage to break the line—just once—it could be dangerous. They might not have Thierry Henry today, but Adebayor and Van Persie are no slouches. If there's space, they'll sprint into it."

He had a point.

Further up the pitch, tension was brewing.

Emmanuel Adebayor, clearly frustrated, had dropped back toward midfield in search of the ball. His plan was to become a pivot—receive, hold, distribute. Something. Anything.

But instead, all he got was Bale flying in like a Welsh hurricane, taking the ball off Hleb again and again. Adebayor had seen enough.

"PASS THE BLOODY BALL!" he bellowed, slapping his thigh in frustration.

So far, his big opportunity to shine in Henry's absence was going horribly. He hadn't had a proper pass since kickoff. Every ball forward was a hail Mary, a long punt from Lehmann, and every time, Kompany beat him to it like a smug older brother winning every sibling fight.

Now, with the clock approaching the 39th minute, and the score still stuck at 0–1, Adebayor turned to Van Persie with a grimace.

"This isn't working," he muttered.

Van Persie, equally frustrated, nodded. "We need a new approach."

They didn't have time to run a tactical seminar, so they settled on something quick: Adebayor would drop a little deeper to act as a target man, using his strength to hold the ball up and finally bring Arsenal's playmakers into the game. It wasn't revolutionary, but it was better than nothing.

Somewhere on the sideline, Wenger paced like a man watching his house burn down.

And opposite him, Arthur stood with his arms still crossed, quietly studying the field like a chessboard—and so far, every piece was right where he wanted it.

****

Adebayor had dropped back again, trying to be the anchor Arsenal so badly needed—but no matter how many times he motioned, gestured, or even shouted, his teammates just couldn't seem to get the ball to him cleanly. Pass after pass went wayward, sloppy, or straight into Leeds' hungry tackles.

Hleb had a perfect chance just now—a golden opportunity to slip a through ball into Adebayor's path. But instead of trusting his instincts, he froze up for half a second too long. And that was all it took for Gareth Bale to swoop in like a red-and-white hawk, snatching the ball right off his feet and bolting down the line.

Watching it unfold, Adebayor felt the last remnants of his enthusiasm sink like a stone in a puddle.

His thoughts weren't on the pitch anymore. They were stuck on the frosty chat he'd had with Arsène Wenger yesterday—when he'd asked for a pay bump during contract renewal talks. He could still hear the way Wenger had looked at him, the way his voice had gone completely cold:

"More money? Let's talk about scoring goals first, Emmanuel."

The words echoed like a slap.

"Hey, Emmanuel! What are you doing? Get ready to score!"

Van Persie's shout snapped Adebayor out of his mental spiral. He looked up and saw the tide had suddenly shifted. Gallas had intercepted Leeds United's counterattack and was already lining up for a long pass. Not just a hopeful clearance, either—this one had real venom behind it.

"Bloody hell! This is it!"

Leeds had committed too many men forward during the last attack—most of them were still jogging back, unaware of the danger about to hit them like a train. Only Cannavaro remained behind, patrolling the backline like a lonely lighthouse. Kompany was scrambling back as fast as his legs could carry him, but Adebayor had the advantage—he was already planted, ready, and hungry.

Cannavaro might have had the timing of a surgeon and the wisdom of a veteran, but at 1.75 meters, he simply didn't have the height to win this kind of aerial duel.

As the ball soared in from Gallas, Adebayor made his move. He leaned into Cannavaro's shoulder, muscled him just enough to carve out space, and leapt. A clean header—not a shot, but a clever flick—sent the ball into Van Persie's path on the left side.

Immediately, Adebayor began his sprint toward goal.

On the Leeds bench, Arthur nearly knocked over the water bottles as he dashed to the touchline.

"Fabio! Go with Persie! Vincent—catch Emmanuel! Don't let him get that ball!" he roared like a man trying to steer traffic during a hurricane.

"Xavi! Get your legs moving! Don't let them equalize!"

Arthur didn't care if the players heard him or not—yelling helped him think, and right now, he needed to process this storm of red shirts flooding toward his penalty area.

Van Persie was making good progress. The Dutchman's dribbling was quick and close, keeping the ball tied to his foot like a yo-yo. But Leeds weren't giving up without a fight. Lahm and Cannavaro, recovering fast, converged from either side like twin shadows, cutting down the angles.

On Van Persie's right, Adebayor was already reaching the edge of the box. Kompany was giving everything to catch up, but he was still four or five meters behind. That kind of gap was a mile at this level.

"Robin! Pass it! I'm wide open!"

Adebayor waved frantically. This was it—the chance he needed to remind everyone, especially Wenger, what he was worth. If he scored here, he'd run straight to the bench, right into his manager's face. "Still think I'm not worth it, boss?"he imagined saying.

But Van Persie didn't pass.

Not immediately, anyway.

The sound of Lahm's boots thundering toward him was getting louder. From the corner of his eye, Van Persie caught a glimpse of Cannavaro, who was practically on top of him now.

If he passed it now, Cannavaro could dive in and cut it out.

So Van Persie took another step forward, buying space to slide the ball across more cleanly.

But that one step changed everything.

Adebayor saw it and misunderstood.

He thought Van Persie was going to go for glory himself.

"This greedy Dutchman—he's going to hog it again!"

Frustration flared. Just like that, Adebayor slowed down. As if to physically express his disgust, he even leapt into the air slightly, as though he'd just pulled a hamstring or stubbed his pride.

But the ball did come.

It rolled right into the space two meters in front of him—perfectly weighted, just begging to be slotted home.

Too late.

He was already airborne, off-balance, and by the time his boots touched grass again, Kompany had closed the gap.

Kompany didn't even hesitate. He just gave Adebayor a quick side-eye that said, "Seriously?" and swept the ball back to Neuer with a simple, tidy pass.

Neuer collected the ball calmly, without fuss.

The Emirates Stadium—moments ago surging with anticipation—fell eerily silent once more. On the Arsenal bench, where coaches had leapt up in celebration a second earlier, confusion now reigned.

Wenger's expression morphed in real-time, like a man watching his lottery ticket burst into flames. First came the excitement, then the confusion, then that unmistakable flicker of betrayal. His jaw slackened.

He turned slowly to Pat Rice, his assistant, and spoke in a deadpan tone that didn't even try to mask his contempt.

"Patrez… can you tell me… was I dropped on the head as a child?"

Pat blinked.

Wenger didn't wait for an answer. He just kept going.

"Because I must've been, to sign that idiot from Leeds United! "