"Hahahahahaha! Oh this—this is going straight into the highlight reel!" Eddie Gray was laughing so hard he could barely keep his headset in place. His voice crackled through the commentary mic, slightly uneven from all the cackling. "Norman, I'm tellin' you, this is absolutely one of the most bizarre—no—one of the most beautiful games I've ever called in my entire life! My word!"

He wasn't even trying to pretend anymore. He'd already wiped away tears twice and was now smacking the desk between breathless laughs.

"I mean—oh Lord—I have to say it, Norman, it has to be Emmanuel! I'm so touched right now! After all this time, after leaving Leeds United... the man's heart is still white! Hahahahaha!"

Next to him, Norman Hunter just shook his head and sighed.

"Eddie, I'm lost, mate," he muttered, holding his mic with one hand while trying to figure out if he should be laughing or crying. "I've watched football for decades. I've seen some real strange ones. But this? A striker just giving up a clear one-on-one in front of goal? That's a new one."

He rubbed his temples and exhaled.

"Maybe you're right," he said, glancing sideways at his giggling co-commentator. "Maybe he really couldn't bring himself to score against Leeds."

The camera panned across the Emirates. Some Arsenal fans looked absolutely flabbergasted, mouthing silent curses in disbelief. Meanwhile, Leeds supporters in the corner of the stadium were bouncing with joy, a few even chanting Adebayor's name mockingly.

With that baffling moment, Arsenal's best—and only—dangerous attack of the entire first half crumbled into ashes. A few uneventful minutes later, the referee finally blew the whistle, signaling the end of a chaotic first 45 minutes.

Both sides headed into the locker rooms for the 15-minute break. But in the Arsenal dressing room, things weren't looking too restful.

There was an odd chill in the air—not just because of the sweat cooling off the players' backs, but because no one knew where to look.

Half the room kept glancing sideways at Jens Lehmann, who had his arms crossed and jaw clenched like he was chewing nails. The other half, especially Robin van Persie, were exchanging heated words with Adebayor.

Van Persie's face was as red as the Arsenal crest.

"Emmanuel," he snapped, his voice dripping with disbelief, "can you please explain why the hell you jumped like a flaming gazelle instead of putting the ball in the net?"

Adebayor didn't even try to get defensive. He scratched his head, shrugged, and said weakly, "Robin, I thought you were going to take the shot, mate. So I... I wanted to celebrate early for you..."

"CELEBRATE!?"

Van Persie looked like he was about to explode. He took a step forward, fists clenched, when suddenly—

"BANG!!"

The locker room door blasted open with a deafening crash.

Everyone flinched.

It was Arsène Wenger. And judging by the boot-sized mark on the door, he hadn't used his hands.

"Pop."

The sound of a wooden tactics board slamming against the tile floor echoed like a gunshot.

Wenger stood at the entrance, silent at first, but his eyes were sharp, his jaw tight, and his presence sucked every remaining drop of warmth from the room.

He didn't say anything for a moment. He just stared.

Right at Adebayor.

When he finally spoke, it was low and dangerous.

"Emmanuel," Wenger said slowly, "I need an explanation."

Adebayor swallowed. He looked like a schoolboy who'd been caught breaking windows with a football. He didn't raise his eyes. Just stared at his shoes and muttered, "Boss, I thought Robin was going to shoot, so I... I just wanted to celebrate in advance…"

"STUPID!"

The word exploded from Wenger's mouth like a thunderclap. Players winced. Someone in the back even dropped a water bottle.

"IDIOT!"

Wenger took a step forward, jabbing a finger into the air.

"I have been in this game for decades, and I have never—not once—seen anything so ludicrous on a professional football pitch!"

He turned to the rest of the team, sweeping his arm across the room.

"Your teammates are fighting to equalize! Running themselves into the ground! And you—you decide to jump in the middle of the penalty box like it's some kind of dance recital?!"

"I—I didn't mean—" Adebayor tried again.

"Stop talking!" Wenger barked, cutting him off with a slash of his hand.

He turned away abruptly and pointed across the room.

"You!" he snapped. "Theo! You're on. Warm up."

Seated in the corner, Theo Walcott, barely 17 and built like a racehorse still figuring out how to use its legs, blinked twice and pointed to himself.

"Wait—me?"

"What?" Wenger snapped back. "You don't want to play?!"

"No! Yes! I mean—yes! I do!" Walcott yelped, springing to his feet so fast his training top flew off the bench.

He practically bounced to the door, grabbing his vest with both hands and sprinting out to the tunnel like a kid who'd just been told Christmas was coming twice this year.

Walcott couldn't believe it.

Since joining Arsenal last season, he'd been stuck as the fourth-choice striker behind a mountain of stars. Most weeks, he didn't even warm up. On Champions League and Premier League nights, he was a professional seat-warmer. Only in domestic cups did he get a sniff of the action.

And now? Wenger was throwing him into a Premier League game against Leeds United?

Unreal.

As Walcott disappeared through the tunnel, a hush fell again. All eyes turned back to Adebayor, who was still slumped against his locker like a man who'd just watched someone else get the promotion he wanted.

His shoulders drooped. His eyes didn't move from the floor.

*****

After giving Adebayor a verbal thrashing that could melt steel, Wenger finally turned his attention to the other corner of the dressing room—where Jens Lehmann was sitting, arms crossed, legs stretched, his face wearing an expression that was somewhere between smug and sheepish.

But Lehmann wasn't stupid. He had been around long enough to know when the wind was about to blow straight down his neck. As soon as Wenger's eyes locked on him, the veteran German goalkeeper straightened up, gave a sharp nod, and jumped ahead of the lecture.

"Sir!" he called out, standing up like a soldier. "I already know I was wrong. Absolutely. No need to worry. You'll see—I'll play a lot more steadily in the second half. Much more stable. Rock solid!"

Wenger paused.

His glare didn't soften, but it shifted slightly. Not quite the murderous look he had for Adebayor, but still one that could peel paint off the locker walls.

"Steady?" Wenger repeated, his voice sharp as broken glass. "Does that word have anything to do with your career?"

Lehmann winced.

"I warn you, Jens," Wenger continued, jabbing a finger in the air. "If I see you dribbling the ball in the penalty area for even one more second in the second half—I'll haul you off myself and send Almunia in. Immediately. Do you understand?"

"I understand!" Lehmann said quickly, hands up in surrender.

It wasn't just the words that silenced the dressing room—it was the tone. Wenger, usually elegant, articulate, and every bit the calm professor, had officially blown a gasket. And when Wenger got truly angry, he wasn't much different from a hairdryer-wielding Ferguson.

Lehmann sat down without another word, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He pulled up his gloves like a man preparing for court.

"OK!" Wenger suddenly barked, slapping his palm against the tactics board. The sound echoed through the dressing room like a gunshot. "We're only one goal behind. Just one. Forty-five minutes left to turn it around. It's not impossible to overtake!"

He grabbed the tactics whiteboard again—thankfully not the one he had thrown earlier—and started moving magnets around like a man possessed, outlining his second-half plan with rapid, crisp commands.

On the opposite side of the stadium, inside the away dressing room, the mood couldn't have been more different.

Arthur stood in front of his squad, clipboard in one hand and a confident smile on his face. He wasn't about to scream at anyone. Quite the opposite—he gave every player a nod of encouragement, his eyes scanning them calmly.

"Great job, everyone," he said with satisfaction. "You followed the game plan to the letter."

He'd just discreetly checked player stamina using the system—no major issues. Legs were holding up. The tempo was under control. For now, there was no need to change tactics.

"But keep pressing in their half," Arthur reminded them, tapping the board. "They're shaky under pressure—especially in the midfield and back line. Push hard. Don't let them breathe."

Simeone gave an approving nod from his usual seat beside him, arms folded, eyes gleaming. The whole dressing room buzzed with quiet confidence.

The referee's whistle soon summoned both teams back onto the pitch, and the fans returned to their seats as the second half approached.

"Okay, welcome back, audience friends!" Eddie Gray's voice rang out again in the commentary box, still sounding a little breathless from his earlier laughter. "The 15-minute break is over, and the players from both sides have returned to the pitch one after another. We saw that Arsenal made the first adjustment..."

The camera cut to the Arsenal side of the pitch, where a fresh-faced youngster was pulling up his socks, already jogging on the spot.

"It seems that Wenger couldn't stand Adebayor's high jump on the spot," Eddie continued with a chuckle. "He killed him during the halftime break—metaphorically, of course—and the 17-year-old young player Walcott replaced him!"

Norman snorted softly beside him, clearly still recovering from the shock. "Walcott? I don't have any opinion on this. It's just a normal substitution."

Eddie's tone sharpened just a little. "I think what Leeds United really needs to pay attention to is Fabregas. Did you see that? He retreated after the start of the second half…"