The boos rained down from the stands like some kind of confused thunderstorm.

Even the fans themselves didn't seem to know exactly why they were doing it. Was it an attempt to rattle Gareth Bale, the teenager who had just been unleashed down the flank like a greyhound spotting an open gate? Or was it pure, unfiltered self-preservation — the desperate noise of a crowd watching their defensive line get ripped apart in real time?

Arthur, standing further back, had seen this coming since halftime. In the dressing room, he'd told the lads — and specifically pointed it out — that Gianluca Zambrotta was a quality defender, experienced, intelligent, versatile. The man had played as both full-back and winger at the top level. He'd faced monsters in his career and lived to tell the tale.

But he was 30 now. And standing opposite him was Gareth Bale — a lightning bolt with football boots. In a static, shoulder-to-shoulder battle, Zambrotta might still have kept the lad quiet. But in an open-field sprint? No chance. That wasn't a duel, that was a bad idea.

And the problem for Barcelona was that this was open-field warfare — nothing static, no body contact, no time to set himself. Bale didn't need tricks here. He had the only weapon he needed: speed.

It took maybe two seconds — no, less — for Bale to overtake him.

The ball had been chipped into the space ahead, bouncing and skidding along the Camp Nou grass like it couldn't wait to get involved. Bale ate up the ground in long, elegant strides, already leaning forward like a sprinter crossing the 70-metre mark.

Zambrotta? Poor man looked like he was trying to chase a bus he'd just missed by half a second. His right arm flailed in the vague direction of Bale's shirt, but it was like trying to grab a cloud. The distance only grew.

Marcos, the centre-back, saw what was happening and adjusted his line, angling across to cut Bale off. Zambrotta, red-faced and puffing, joined him in the recovery run. But this wasn't a solo act — Rivaldo, after sending that beautiful pass over the top, wasn't just standing there admiring it. No, the Brazilian ghosted in from midfield, cutting through the centre toward the edge of the penalty area, dragging Motta behind him like a fisherman reeling in a stubborn catch.

Up ahead, Fernando Torres — Leeds United's number nine, all energy and sharp movement — had peeled wide to the right edge of the box. Puyol was stuck to him like Velcro, barking instructions to the rest of the back line. Sneijder, that crafty Dutchman, was also charging forward on the far side, shadowed by Belletti.

Because of Rivaldo's burst and his defence-splitting pass, Barcelona's carefully structured lines were suddenly in a raw, dangerous four-versus-four. That's the sort of ratio attackers dream about — and defenders have nightmares over.

Bale didn't check his run. Didn't even think about slowing. He flicked his eyes toward the middle for just half a heartbeat, saw the positions of his teammates, then knocked the ball forward with a touch that carried it perfectly toward the byline.

The young Welshman reached it just before it threatened to roll out, his stride long and easy despite the speed. Torres was in the middle now, one arm up, shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Gareth! Here! HERE!"

Sneijder had also stormed into the six-yard box, arms raised like he was hailing a taxi in heavy rain.

But oddly, hardly anyone else on the pitch seemed to notice Sneijder's run. The defenders were fixated on Bale and Torres. Rivaldo, meanwhile, had slipped into the penalty spot zone like a man casually entering a crowded party without anyone realising. Clever — and suspiciously quiet. Not a single hand raised to call for the ball.

Bale, now pinned tight to the byline, finally delivered. The cross wasn't a high, looping ball — wrong foot for that. He went for the cut-back, a skimming pass drilled along the grass toward the near post.

The ball zipped toward Torres. It was clearly aimed for him — you could tell by the angle and pace. But Torres, for some reason, was a half-step too far forward. The crowd murmured.

"Bale's found Torres!" Lineker's commentary voice jumped in, just a shade too eager. Then, mid-sentence, a note of worry: "Oh… Torres is a bit ahead of it…"

From the studio, Jon had leaned forward in his chair, eyes locked on the replay monitor. "That's not the cleanest ball. Even if Torres gets a touch, he'll need to take a moment to settle it before he can shoot, unless…"

And that's when it happened.

Lineker's shout cut him off like a power outage: "OH!!! BEAUTIFUL!!! Does Torres have eyes in the back of his head?!"

Because somehow — impossibly — the ball didn't stop under Torres' foot. It didn't get trapped, it didn't get hoofed clear. It just… rolled right between his legs.

****

Torres was ready to trap the ball, his body coiled like a spring, but there was one problem — Carles Puyol. The Barcelona captain was already right behind him, breathing down his neck like an overprotective older brother who refused to let him play with the good toys.

In that split second, Torres' brain spun like a washing machine on its fastest cycle.

Alright… how do I shake this lion's mane off me and get my shot away?

But before he could decide, the answer came from behind — in a voice so distinct, so familiar, it was like hearing your favourite song's opening chord.

"Fernando! Over here!"

Rivaldo. No need to turn and check — that Brazilian voice was unmistakable, deep and commanding, with the kind of self-assurance only a man who'd been a world-class superstar could carry.

Torres didn't hesitate. His left leg stepped sideways, his body leaning hard into Puyol. The captain was caught between marking tight and glancing over at the sound behind them. In that tiny moment of distraction, Torres slid his right leg open just enough…

The ball rolled right between his legs — perfectly weighted — and headed straight toward the penalty spot.

And waiting there, already set like an archer with his bow drawn, was Rivaldo.

As the ball spun toward him, the veteran's eyes lit up. This was it — the moment he'd been craving since stepping onto the Camp Nou pitch tonight. This wasn't just another chance. This was the chance. Against his old club. In their house.

He could feel the blood rush hot through his veins. Rivaldo's gaze locked onto the upper left corner of the goal, the spot only a perfect strike could reach.

He adjusted his body, standing half-sideways to the net, his golden left foot hovering for a split-second above the grass like a predator waiting to pounce.

"Rivaldo!!!" Gary Lineker's voice cracked from anxious to electric in an instant.

But the Camp Nou crowd wasn't going to make this easy. Oh no.

The boos roared now, not as individual shouts but as one crushing wall of sound, like the stadium itself was trying to press down on him. Ninety thousand voices combining into one giant "DON'T YOU DARE."

If they thought it would shake him, they were wrong.

In Rivaldo's mind, the noise faded. Valdés in goal blurred into the background. The only thing left sharp and clear in his vision was the white net just twelve yards away — and the memory of how many times he'd defended it in this very stadium, how many times he'd given everything for this badge, and how little recognition he'd felt he'd received when it was over.

His muscles tensed.

Now.

BANG!

The sound was like a gunshot in the box. Even the players standing nearby could hear the dull thump of leather slamming against leather, drowning out the crowd for half a heartbeat.

His golden left foot had unleashed everything — not just power, but months of pride, frustration, and hunger rolled into one strike. The ball bent under the impact, captured mid-spin on the TV replay like a sphere of pure force.

It didn't just hit the ball. That strike hit the Barcelona defenders' morale. It hit the 90,000 home fans square in the chest. And somewhere on the touchline, it punched Rijkaard's heart just enough to skip a beat.

Valdés, sharp as ever, had read the body shape. He saw Rivaldo's eyes fixed on that top-left corner. He coiled and pushed off the turf, flinging himself fully outstretched to his right, fingertips straining for the touch.

He felt… nothing. Well, almost nothing — just the rush of air as the ball screamed past at blistering pace, maybe grazing the hairs on his glove.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!"

Lineker lost it entirely. Words failed him; his voice broke into pure roar. His commentary desk shook from the impact of his fist hammering down in celebration.

"The ball's in!! An absolute dead corner! Valdés had no chance!" Jon's normally measured tone cracked with excitement. "And Leeds United have their second away goal! Two away goals at Camp Nou! Against Barcelona!"

Jon's professionalism lasted all of three seconds before his national bias bubbled to the surface. "And I tell you what — look at Rivaldo's face. That's more than just a goal celebration. Gary might've been right earlier… there's something personal in this for him!"

On the sideline, the Leeds bench had been coiled tight during the whole sequence. Bale's pass had already got Arthur and Simeone twitching, leaning forward on the seats like sprinters in the blocks.

When the net bulged, both men exploded upward, sprinting to the touchline with the rest of the substitutes, fists pumping and voices tearing through the Catalan night. The sheer release of it — the joy, the tension, the disbelief — came pouring out in one wild rush.

For Leeds, there were barely more than ten minutes left on the clock. And with two precious away goals in the bag, the bigger picture didn't even matter anymore.

This wasn't just a scoreline. It was a statement.