Rijkaard stood rigid on the sidelines, hands tucked in the pockets of his tailored coat, eyes fixed on Arthur.

Arthur was in full celebration mode, practically swallowed by a sea of Leeds United players. They jumped on him, slapped his back, ruffled his hair, shouted into his ear. The grin on his face could have powered the Camp Nou floodlights for a week.

Rijkaard's lips twitched into the faintest smile, but it wasn't one of amusement. It was the kind of smile you give when you've just bitten into a lemon by accident. He gave the slightest shake of his head.

This… this was uncomfortable. Too uncomfortable.

In the locker room before the match, he had hammered the point into his players—again and again. Open strong. Press high. Win the ball back as soon as we lose it. Put enough pressure on them in the front third. Score first.

The plan was clear: get that opening goal. Not just for the scoreboard, but for the mind games. Barcelona's style thrived on early control—possession, passing triangles, those sudden bursts of acceleration that ripped defenses open. Score first, and Leeds United would have no choice but to come forward.

And that's when the real fun would begin—pulling them around with pass after pass in midfield until frustration built like a kettle left on the stove. Eventually, impatience would leave gaps, and Barcelona's sudden changes in tempo would carve them apart for the second, maybe third goal.

It was, in Rijkaard's mind, a perfect plan.

Except now… the script had been thrown into the shredder before the ink had even dried.

One lapse, one burst of speed from Torres, and Leeds United had not only scored—they had an away goal. In the Champions League knockout rounds, away goals could be pure gold. Sometimes it was one scrappy finish away from home that decided an entire tie.

Now the shoe was on the other foot.

Instead of Barcelona forcing Leeds to chase, it was Barcelona who had to push.

Up in the highest row of the Camp Nou, the press box had fallen into a stunned silence. Most of the media and commentators were Spanish or Catalan; only one or two journalists from England had the audacity to grin.

The home commentator had tried to keep his voice steady, but the enthusiasm had drained out of him like a punctured ball. After muttering that Torres had scored, he launched straight into damage control.

"Anyway… the current situation is certainly not ideal for Barcelona," he said, the words dragging like a tired defender's legs. "But you can be sure that in Rijkaard's tactical preparation, he will have accounted for the possibility of conceding first. It's still very early. We are not even one minute into the match. We have eighty-nine minutes to equalize—and more than enough time to take the lead."

It was the same thought Barcelona fans were beginning to cling to.

The shock was fading. Yes, it was only one goal. Yes, there was an entire match ahead. And this was the great Barcelona—masters of possession, kings of the Camp Nou. Surely they weren't about to be humbled by Leeds United on their own turf.

The restart came.

Saviola and Messi, standing over the ball at the center circle, exchanged a quick nod. Messi tapped it short; Saviola returned it. And Barcelona's engine roared to life.

This wasn't the tentative start from before. The passes zipped faster, the movement was sharper, and the intention was clear.

Arthur, watching from the technical area, spotted it instantly.

Barcelona weren't just trying to get back into the game—they were stung. Their pride had been nicked by a razor blade.

The players were hunting the ball with twice the aggression they'd shown before the goal. Shoulders went in harder. Feet pressed down faster. Passing lanes closed like sliding doors.

And Arthur knew exactly why.

They'd been embarrassed.

Not just by conceding early, but by conceding in the very style they prided themselves on—quick passing, slick combination play, and a ruthless finish.

And in just two or three passes, Leeds United had pulled it off in their stadium.

It was like being beaten at chess in three moves.

The Barcelona players' blood was up now. They were angry, and in their minds there was only one way to answer: goals. Goals to wipe the grin off Leeds United's faces, to remind them whose house they were in.

····

But Arthur was no fool.

Leeds United hadn't reached this stage of the Champions League by being fragile. He knew Barcelona's next twenty minutes would be a storm, and if they weren't careful, they'd be swept away.

That's why, even while Rivaldo was still in his ear after the goal, Arthur was already barking instructions down the line.

"Get your heads straight! Next phase, full focus! Defense first!"

By the time the celebrations ended and the players jogged back into position, they were clear on the plan.

When Barcelona had possession, only Torres would stay forward. Everyone else—wingers, midfielders, even the more adventurous fullbacks—dropped into their own half.

Arthur's orders were simple but strict: keep the shape compact, close the spaces between the three lines, and don't give Barcelona's midfield an inch to breathe.

Modric, playing in the middle, was the conductor of this defensive orchestra. Every time Barcelona tried to probe forward, he was shifting players, telling them when to press, when to drop. Cannavaro was the anchor, making sure the backline never got pulled out of position.

Barcelona's usual trick—lulling teams with side-to-side passing before suddenly slicing through—wasn't working.

Each time Xavi or Deco received the ball in the middle, they found their forward options sealed tight. No gaps between fullback and center-back. No space between midfield and defense.

The result? Barcelona had to play wide, over and over again, pinging the ball from left to right and back, hoping to stretch Leeds United out just enough to send in the killer pass.

But so far, the killer pass wasn't coming.

····

And Arthur, on the sideline, stood with his arms folded, eyes sharp. This was going to be a battle of patience.

****

Leeds United's retreat wasn't a full-on retreat like an army abandoning the battlefield, but it was close enough.

They'd pulled back deep, parked a metaphorical double-decker bus in front of their box, and told Barcelona: Here, you can have the ball… just don't break the windows.

But this came with a price.

Handing over possession to Barcelona was like letting a cat hold your goldfish and saying, "I trust you."

From the moment Leeds dropped off, the game's rhythm bent to Barcelona's will. The ball zipped between red-and-blue shirts almost nonstop, and Leeds were mostly just shuffling around, waiting for their moment to pounce.

And then, as if Arthur didn't have enough to worry about, Barcelona decided to crank things up even more—they switched to full-blown high-pressure tactics.

This was the tactical style they had practically invented, refined, and turned into a form of torture for opponents.

Leeds had been proud of their own high press earlier in the season, but this was different. Barcelona didn't just press; they hunted.

The second a Leeds player got the ball, the alarms went off. Saviola, Ronaldinho, and Messi came charging like three rabid dogs who'd just heard the dinner bell. Their eyes were locked, their legs pumping, and their only goal was to strip that ball away before the poor Leeds defender even remembered which way he was supposed to be kicking.

The pressure was so suffocating that Leeds rarely got a chance to play their way out. Most of the time, their only option was to send the ball long, hoofing it into Barcelona's half like someone punting a grenade away.

Arthur paced his technical area, hands in his pockets, trying to keep his cool.

He wasn't just watching—he was studying. Every short pass Barcelona made, every clever movement off the ball, every tiny detail of their rhythm.

Arthur knew tiki-taka inside his head. He could diagram it on a napkin. But knowing something and getting eleven other people to do it perfectly in real time were two very different things.

It had taken Cruyff over a decade to shape Barcelona into this passing machine. The precision, the unspoken understanding between players, the almost telepathic awareness of where the next pass would go—that wasn't built in a training session or two.

And the thing about Barcelona's style—whether here or with the Spanish national team—was that it wasn't just about attack. Sure, they could pass you dizzy in possession, but the second they lost the ball, they snapped back into shape like an elastic band. Runners cut off passing lanes instantly, and the closest player swarmed the ball-carrier. You had maybe half a second before someone's boot came poking at your ankles.

That's exactly how the game looked as the clock ticked to the 31st minute.

Schmeichel, in goal for Leeds, decided he'd had enough of risky short passes. He gave the ball an almighty thump, launching it downfield.

Max rose with Torres, the two of them leaping like salmon in a river. Max won the duel, flicking the ball down… straight to Xavi, standing coolly in the middle circle.

The maestro took one touch to settle, then lifted his head.

Arthur held his breath.

Xavi scanned the field, but nothing obvious presented itself. No forward runners free, no easy switch pass.

So instead of forcing it, he started strolling forward with the ball—slow, measured, the way you might casually carry a glass of water across a room without spilling it.

That slow walk was a trap. Arthur knew it.

Alonso saw it too. He'd been told—specifically told—before kickoff: If you see Xavi on the ball, you stick to him like a shadow. Don't let him breathe.

Alonso surged forward, timing his steps to nick the ball just as Xavi overran it.

But Xavi was playing chess while Alonso was still on checkers.

Just as Alonso's boot swung in, Xavi stopped dead. The ball stayed still under his sole. Then—smooth as silk—he rolled it back, dragged it sideways, and flicked it into space with the outside of his boot.

Alonso's momentum carried him right past, like a commuter missing his train by one second.

And before Leeds could reset, Xavi was off—accelerating, ball glued to his feet, slicing straight toward the Leeds penalty area.

Arthur swore under his breath.

Normally, Modric would have been there in a flash to shut that down. But Modric had Deco lurking near him, and abandoning Deco would have been like leaving an unlocked door in a bad neighborhood.

That left Cannavaro.

The Italian veteran was retreating, side-stepping, adjusting his angle, but even at full speed he wasn't closing fast enough.

Arthur knew the danger.

If Xavi got within thirty meters of the goal, anything could happen—a delicate through ball, a whipped shot, a pass you never even saw coming until it was in the back of the net.

And Xavi was the last player you wanted to give options to.

The crowd was buzzing, sensing something was about to break.

Arthur's stomach dropped.

Right on cue, Xavi saw Cannavaro coming.

He didn't panic. Didn't even look hurried.

Instead, he just gave the ball the faintest lift with the bottom of his right boot, like he was scooping it off the ground.

The ball rose in a perfect arc, clearing Cannavaro's head by inches.

And as it hung in the air, the commentator's voice at the Camp Nou exploded with excitement:

"Ronaldinho! He's in from the left!"