The final ten minutes of the first half felt like an extended scene from a disaster film — only instead of earthquakes or tidal waves, it was Barcelona's relentless passing that battered Leeds United into their own half.

Every time a Leeds player even thought about stepping forward, a red-and-blue shirt was already there, closing down angles, poking the ball away, and sending it back into Leeds territory. The pitch felt tilted, as if gravity itself was pulling the ball toward the Leeds goal.

The only silver lining? The defence, after Alonso relayed Arthur's sharp reminder, had tightened up. No more rash lunges. No more reckless gaps in the middle. They might have looked like a wall of slightly panicked traffic cones, but they were at least keeping Barcelona from threading the killer pass into the penalty area.

It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was the football equivalent of clinging to a cliff by your fingernails while a hurricane tried to blow you off. But ugly or not, it worked.

Barcelona, for all their swirling possession and endless triangles, couldn't find the gap they wanted. Leeds, backs against the wall, stayed organised, stubborn, and just… survived.

When the referee finally blew after two minutes of stoppage time, the score still read 1–1. It was like coming up for air after being held underwater.

The players trudged back into the dressing room, sweat dripping, shirts clinging to them like clingfilm. The air was thick — not just from the humidity, but from the mental exhaustion of chasing the ball for 45 minutes.

Arthur, standing in the middle of the room, didn't waste time.

"Kevin, Luca — you're both getting a rest in the second half. Gareth, Yaya — start warming up now."

The two substitutes shot to their feet instantly.

"Wesley," Arthur continued, "you're staying on for a while. But second half, you move to the left. Gareth's taking the right — I want him cutting in and getting shots off after beating his man. And listen, you two can switch sides when you need to. Read the game. If it's on, do it. You've got the authority to call it."

The players he named nodded in unison. Arthur's delivery was fast and precise — no wasted words.

Forty-five minutes had been enough for Arthur to diagnose the real issue with his team's attack: it wasn't going anywhere. They couldn't get past halfway without coughing the ball up.

Inside, he let out a silent sigh. I shouldn't have gone into a midfield possession battle with Barcelona. Not here. Not with this crowd. Not with these players.

He knew he'd been stubborn. Ever since that draw last month, he'd been holding onto a quiet defiance, almost a grudge.

So what if Barcelona are defending champions? he had told himself. So what if Rijkaard was named best club coach last year? I can do what he can do — and I can do what he can't.

It wasn't just talk. It was a genuine fire in his chest.

The Rivaldo conversation had only poured petrol on that fire. The idea had lodged itself in Arthur's mind and refused to leave: I want to beat Barcelona at Camp Nou playing their game. With their style. In front of their people.

That's why, before kick-off, he and Rivaldo had cheekily provoked the home fans — a calculated move, designed to set the tone.

And when Torres scored in the opening blitz, Arthur had thought, Yes. They're not so untouchable after all. This is ours.

But the next thirty minutes had been a brutal wake-up call. Barcelona pressed so high, so fast, that Leeds couldn't breathe. The midfield battle he'd wanted was a mirage; he'd been running headfirst into the part of the game Barcelona knew better than anyone else.

Ronaldinho's equaliser had finally broken through Arthur's pride.

Why, he thought now, would I try to beat their perfected system with my half-developed one? That's like taking a wooden sword to a gunfight.

It wasn't that Arthur didn't understand tiki-taka. In fact, with his experience and his "system," he might even grasp some aspects more clearly than Rijkaard himself. But understanding was one thing; executing it against masters of the art was another.

Tiki-taka wasn't just a coach's blueprint. It was a symphony that required virtuosos. And Barcelona had them in spades.

Arthur leaned against the whiteboard, mind ticking.

Barcelona under Rijkaard were excellent — dangerous enough to dominate Spain and push deep in Europe. But they weren't yet the unstoppable machine they'd become under Guardiola.

Why? It wasn't about Rijkaard's tactical IQ; Arthur knew the Dutchman was no less capable on that front than Guardiola.

The real difference was timing. Guardiola had inherited not just a philosophy, but a golden generation: Messi, Xavi, Iniesta, Busquets — players who didn't just fit tiki-taka; they were born for it. Players who had grown together, sharpened each other, and reached their collective peak right as the system itself matured.

It was the perfect marriage between idea and execution. Rijkaard's Barcelona, as strong as they were, didn't yet have that complete alignment. But they had enough quality to punish any team foolish enough to try beating them at their own game.

Arthur had learned that the hard way in just one half.

By the time the fourth official's whistle signalled the end of the break, Arthur's plan for the second half was clear: stop trying to win their battle, start making them fight a different one.

The first 45 minutes had been pride.

The next 45 would be pragmatism.

****

Arthur prided himself on being a coach who didn't just bark orders — he noticed the small things. Training sessions weren't just endless laps or shouting about "pass and move"; he drilled his players on first touch, clean passing, and receiving under pressure.

The problem? Well… let's just say that in the grand history of football, this wasn't exactly the era of laser-perfect passing from top to bottom.

Sure, in the Premier League, Leeds could still boss most teams without needing to mimic the smoothness of a Barcelona midfield. Even against the big names from Europe's top five leagues, Arthur's squad could hold their own — their midfield was a luxury few could match in England.

But this wasn't just "a big team." This was Barcelona. And not just any Barcelona — this was the ancestral temple of possession football. They didn't just keep the ball; they hypnotised it.

Trying to beat them at their own game was like challenging a fish to a swimming contest. On their home turf. In an Olympic pool.

Arthur had finally admitted it to himself:

Right. Forget trying to outpass you lot. We're not playing your game anymore.

If Barcelona had delicate feet, Arthur would bring brute force. If they could thread needles, Leeds would swing hammers.

If the middle of the pitch was a locked vault, then fine — they'd smash in through the wings instead.

The plan was simple. First, introduce Yaya Toure into the fray. Not for elegance. Not for delicate through balls. No — Toure's job was to park his enormous frame in midfield alongside Alonso and bully Barcelona's advanced midfielders. If they couldn't nick the ball cleanly, they'd lean, bump, and foul. Not maliciously — just enough to make every touch a little more uncomfortable.

Then came the second piece of artillery: Gareth Bale. If Leeds couldn't walk the ball over halfway on the grass, they'd launch it over the top. Bale's sheer pace was the key — and Arthur had done the maths. Zambrotta, thirty years old, versus Bale, eighteen and practically made of rocket fuel? The odds weren't kind to the veteran.

Up in the commentary box, the broadcast resumed.

"Okay, audience friends, welcome back to the live coverage!" boomed the ever-energetic Jon. "The second half of Barcelona versus Leeds United is just about to kick off!"

"Oh? We've got changes here already," Jon continued, one hand cupped over his earpiece. "Looks like Leeds United have made the first adjustments. Modric is off for Yaya Toure, and De Bruyne's been replaced by Bale. Two substitutions. Huh — doesn't look like Arthur's made any drastic tactical shift though."

"Jon," Lineker cut in immediately, the tone of a man spotting a twist before anyone else, "you're wrong."

Jon blinked at him. "Wrong?"

"Look at the setup," Lineker said, pointing at the monitor. "Bale's not playing where you'd expect him. Sneijder's gone out to the right, and Bale's not hugging that left-midfield position he knows best. Arthur's cooking something here. Special arrangements, guaranteed."

Jon leaned forward, squinting at Bale down on the pitch. The young Welshman was bouncing on his toes, stretching, hopping side to side like a greyhound before the gate opened. "Alright…" Jon murmured. "But I still can't see the shape of it yet."

On the far side, Rijkaard was having the same problem.

His gaze flicked from Bale — still stretching like a coiled spring — to Toure, who looked like a tank idling at the halfway line.

Before the match, Rijkaard had done his homework. Leeds had two dangerous wide threats in Bale and Ribery, and Barcelona had drilled specifically to block Leeds' rapid counterattacks. The plan was straightforward: shut down their wing breaks, force them inside, and take away their comfort zone.

But when he saw Leeds' starting lineup, something hadn't added up. Neither Bale nor Ribery were starting. Instead, Arthur had stacked the midfield with ball players.

He's actually trying to play possession with us? Here? At Camp Nou?

Rijkaard had been surprised, maybe even a little flattered. That was like turning up to a chess match against Kasparov and deciding to outthink him move for move.

The first half's evidence was damning. Aside from Torres' lightning bolt of an opening goal, Leeds hadn't so much as sniffed a proper shot since.

Now, with the second half about to start, Arthur had thrown Bale into the mix — but on the right, not the left where he was most dangerous. And Toure had replaced Modric, changing the texture of the midfield entirely.

Rijkaard's eyes kept darting: Bale. Toure. Bale. Toure. Then to Arthur, standing calmly on the touchline, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

Finally, Rijkaard muttered under his breath.

"What on earth are you planning?"

From the stands, it might have looked like Arthur was simply adding fresh legs. But in truth, he'd shifted the entire axis of Leeds' game.

Barcelona's tiki-taka revolved around squeezing the middle of the pitch until opponents couldn't breathe. The ball pinged between midfielders like a pinball, with full-backs joining the carousel and wingers drifting inside to overload central areas. Most teams collapsed under it, retreating into a deep block until they were either broken down or suffocated entirely.

Arthur's adjustments aimed to flip that pressure back onto Barcelona.

Toure's job: shut down Iniesta and Deco, Barcelona's creative heartbeat. Not gently. If they got past him, fine — Alonso would be there to meet them. If not, well, maybe they'd get a polite nudge to the turf and a free kick forty yards from goal. No harm in reminding them that the midfield was no longer a ballroom dance floor.

Bale's job: stretch Barcelona's shape until it squeaked. Hug the touchline, wait for Alonso or Sneijder to ping a diagonal, and then go. Make Zambrotta run every single step of that touchline until his legs begged for mercy.

And Sneijder on the right? That was the bait — pull Barcelona's left side a little narrower, drag their midfield out of shape, and open the channel for Bale to burst through.

In the commentary box, Jon still looked unconvinced. "So you're telling me Bale's not here to slot into his normal role?"

Lineker grinned. "Watch and see. Arthur's just moved the chess pieces. Barcelona think they're still playing the same game. They're not."

Down on the pitch, the referee raised the whistle to his lips. The second half was seconds away.

Arthur's plan was set. He wasn't going to out-Barça Barcelona. He was going to drag them somewhere they didn't want to be — a place of bruises, long sprints, and desperate chases.

Rijkaard still didn't know exactly what was coming. But he would, very soon.