"Bloody hell! That big lad plays like a wrecking ball with legs!"

Deco's face was a picture of indignation as he hauled himself off the turf, brushing clumps of grass from his shorts. He had just been flattened again — not in the box where it might have meant a penalty, but in that no-man's-land 40 metres from Leeds United's goal.

Xavi jogged over, offering Deco a hand up with a smirk. "That's Yaya Toure for you. Think of him as a very polite bulldozer — never speeds, but somehow you still end up under him."

Deco grumbled, still rubbing his hip. "I swear I've lost count. Less than ten minutes into this half, and I've been sent flying more times than the ball's been in their box. And he's got it down to an art — just enough shove to topple me, never enough to earn a card. Unsportsmanlike genius!"

"Not just him," Xavi replied, brushing a bead of sweat from his forehead. "Alonso's been at me the same way. In the first half, he stood off, shadowing like he was marking Kaka — space, angles, textbook stuff. Now? Now he's decided we're in a rugby match. He's all elbows and shoulders."

Deco looked puzzled. "But we still have the ball. They're fouling us in safe zones. They're not scoring. What's the point? They're just… being annoying."

"That's the point," Xavi said, half-laughing but half-frowning. "They're not trying to win the midfield anymore. They're trying to slow us down, chip away at our rhythm. Like getting stuck behind a tractor on a country lane. You'll still get there, but you'll be late and irritated."

Deco was about to reply when the referee's whistle pierced the air for another foul — Alonso again, this time leaning heavily into Xavi as the ball zipped past. Xavi gave the official a look that said, "Are you seeing this?" The referee just waved play on and marked the spot.

From the dugout, Arthur was leaning casually against the technical area barrier, arms folded, watching his plan tick along like a mischievous cat knocking ornaments off a shelf. The first half had taught him the hard way — you don't try to out-Barça Barcelona at their own game. Possession wasn't just their weapon; it was their religion. And Arthur, after thirty painful minutes of his lads chasing shadows, had decided it was time to commit heresy.

No more trying to match their fancy passing triangles in midfield. If they wanted the ball that badly, they could have it. But every time they tried to thread it into dangerous zones? Bang — either Alonso or Yaya would be there, leaning on their man like an unwanted drunk uncle at a wedding, politely but firmly ending the conversation.

When Leeds had the ball, Rivaldo had become less of a playmaker and more of a postal sorting office. One touch, two seconds max, and the ball was out wide — either to Sneijder or the fresh-legged Bale.

And Bale — oh, Bale was Arthur's secret spice in this recipe. If Leeds couldn't pass through Barcelona, they'd go over or around them. And nothing said "around" like an 18-year-old with cheetah legs being unleashed against a 30-year-old Zambrotta.

Arthur didn't need magic midfielders. He needed chaos, and chaos had speed.

On the other bench, Rijkaard had noticed. Oh, he'd noticed all right. He'd seen enough tactical curveballs to know when an opponent had binned Plan A and was rummaging for something more… primitive.

Leeds had stopped pressing high. They weren't hunting the ball in packs anymore. Instead, they were lying in wait, fouling in clever areas, and launching immediate wide counters.

Rijkaard folded his arms, lips twitching in what might have been a smirk or mild annoyance. "So, you've finally stopped trying to tango with me in midfield," he thought, eyes narrowing at Arthur. "Gone back to your fast-breaks, have you?"

He knew this dance. Chelsea had tried something similar last year in the Champions League — and Chelsea's counterattack was, on paper, more dangerous than Leeds'. They'd had Drogba, Robben, Duff… pure pace and power. And Barcelona had still kicked them out.

Zambrotta and Belletti, Rijkaard told himself, could handle this. The first half had been kind to his full-backs. They'd barely been tested, meaning their legs were fresh enough to shadow even a sprinting Bale. And Sneijder? A clever passer, yes, but his pace wouldn't scare anyone.

Still, Rijkaard wasn't careless. As Xavi jogged over to take a set-piece, he stepped to the edge of the technical area and crooked a finger at Zambrotta, who trotted over.

"Listen," Rijkaard said, voice low and direct. "They're going to try to hit you on the break. Watch Bale. Do not — and I mean do not — give him open grass behind you. If you have to foul him, foul him high up the pitch. And no yellow cards unless it's life or death."

Zambrotta nodded, eyes flicking toward the Welsh teenager bouncing on his toes like a sprinter about to leave the blocks.

Meanwhile, Bale glanced across at the Italian and grinned — not a friendly grin, but the grin of a greyhound that's just seen the rabbit move.

Back in midfield, the pattern repeated. Barcelona would string together 10, 12, sometimes 15 passes in that silky rhythm of theirs, only for Yaya to step in with a hip-check that sent Deco stumbling, or Alonso to "accidentally" clip Xavi's heels.

The home fans whistled and jeered. The referee, clearly under some unspoken law of European officiating, refused to start handing out cards unless someone needed medical attention.

And all the while, Arthur stood there on the sideline, deadpan, occasionally sipping from his water bottle like a man watching a barbeque slowly catch fire — confident that eventually, one of these interruptions would lead to his moment.

To the untrained eye, it looked ugly. To Arthur, it was art. Barça couldn't get into full rhythm. Their triangles were lopsided, their runs were half a second too late, and when they did get a sniff at goal, Leeds' centre-backs had time to reset.

The crowd might not have liked it, but Arthur didn't care. This wasn't a popularity contest. This was Camp Nou, and his lads weren't here to be another chapter in Barcelona's highlight reel.

Somewhere in the middle of this controlled disruption, Deco muttered to Xavi again, shaking his head. "I don't get it. They're not even trying to win the ball properly."

Xavi gave a small, knowing shrug. "Sometimes stopping someone from playing is the same as playing yourself."

Neither of them realised that for Arthur, that was exactly the point.

****

If Arthur had overheard what Rijkaard was thinking on that far sideline, he'd have laughed — no, cackled — and thrown in a sarcastic clap or two.

"Chelsea last year, eh?" he would have muttered under his breath. "Of course you don't mention Del Horno's early red card. And naturally, you 'forget' Mourinho's little nugget — played you four times in two seasons, and every time it was 11 v 11, you never beat them. Funny how memories get patchy when you're losing an argument in your own head."

But Rijkaard, lost in his own tactical sermon, wasn't thinking about inconvenient truths. And while he was mentally replaying Chelsea's failed counterattack strategy from the previous season, he missed a small but rather important point — the quiet Brazilian in Leeds United's midfield who'd been jogging through the match like he had a dinner reservation at eight and didn't want to break a sweat.

Rivaldo.

In Rijkaard's mind, Rivaldo was little more than a ball courier service. Receive. Two touches. Offload to someone faster. Repeat. Sure, the guy had an assist in the opening exchanges, but for most of the match he'd been strolling in the centre circle, taking the occasional polite touch and getting rid of the ball the moment Thiago Motta showed him teeth.

What Rijkaard didn't clock was why Arthur had kept him on. Because if Rivaldo looked like he was doing very little, that was exactly the point. While Barcelona's midfielders had been running marathons in the first half, Rivaldo had been conserving energy like a solar panel on a cloudy day. No lung-busting runs, no chasing shadows, no flying tackles. Just a few neat passes, a bit of standing around, and the kind of calm that annoyed opponents who thought football was supposed to be constant motion.

Now, with the clock creeping into the final quarter of an hour, Rivaldo's legs were still fresh. And fresh legs in a tired midfield are dangerous legs.

The match was balanced on a knife edge. Barcelona had come close to breaking the deadlock several times — Messi twisting through defenders like they were traffic cones, Deco firing from distance, Xavi threading needles with his passes. But every time they thought the goal was inevitable, there was Schmeichel — the big Dane, hands like reinforced doors, claiming crosses and swatting shots away as if he was tidying his living room.

Rijkaard decided to twist the knife. Off came Saviola. On came Samuel Eto'o — a man who didn't so much run as pounce. The change almost paid off instantly. Messi darted down the right, skipped past Bale tracking back, and whipped in a vicious cross. Eto'o met it with a striker's instinct, but the shot was straight down Schmeichel's throat. No problem for the Dane — he caught it clean, almost casually, like someone plucking a loaf of bread from a supermarket shelf.

And then came the moment.

Schmeichel didn't waste time. One glance upfield, a measured inhale, and thwack — he sent a booming drop-kick arcing high into the Catalan sky.

The ball plummeted toward Yaya Toure in the middle third. Barcelona's midfield was many things — elegant, precise, even a little smug — but winning headers wasn't exactly their party trick. Deco hovered nearby, enough to be an inconvenience but not enough to matter. Yaya, built like a friendly freight train, just nodded it down effortlessly.

Straight to Rivaldo.

Now, if you were Thiago Motta, you'd have been confident here. Rivaldo had been predictable all game. Ball comes, Motta closes, Rivaldo panics and lays it off backward or sideways. Easy.

So Motta surged forward, ready to make him cough it up. But Rivaldo, instead of panicking, smiled. And not the nice smile you give your gran — the sly smile you give when you're about to nutmeg someone in front of 90,000 people.

With one fluid movement, Rivaldo rolled the ball across his body with his left foot, then flicked it back behind him — the elastico, the bull-tail flick, the same trick Ronaldinho had humiliated Leeds with in the first half. Motta bit, lunged, and found himself watching Rivaldo's back as the Brazilian strolled away with the ball.

"Rivaldo! He's done the bull-tail! He's left Motta for dust!" Lineker's voice cracked in delight. "Well, well — Leeds United do have a Brazilian, and he can wag the tail just as cheekily!"

The Camp Nou buzzed. Rivaldo wasn't just moving — he was gliding, carrying the ball diagonally toward Barcelona's right side.

The home defenders reacted instantly. Marcos, the centre-back, stepped up first, eyes fixed on the ball. Zambrotta, stationed wider, started to close in too, boots pounding the turf.

Two steps in, though, Zambrotta's memory kicked in like a flashing warning light: Watch the counter. Watch Bale.

He lifted his head, scanning the sideline — and there it was. A white-shirted blur tearing forward in parallel to him. Gareth Bale, the 18-year-old with legs that looked like they'd been stolen from a gazelle.

Zambrotta slammed on the brakes and turned sharply, deciding to race Bale instead of closing Rivaldo.

Unfortunately for him, Rivaldo had read the same playbook. The moment Zambrotta shifted his weight, Rivaldo's left foot came down hard on the ball, nudging it forward and up — a perfectly weighted scoop over Zambrotta's shoulder.

The commentator's voice leapt an octave: "Over the top! Over the top!"

From the higher stands, the fans saw it too — the arcing pass, Bale and Zambrotta neck-and-neck, the yawning space behind the full-back.

A wall of boos erupted across Camp Nou, but it wasn't out of disrespect — it was out of fear. Everyone knew exactly what could happen next.