At Old Trafford, the stadium was a living, breathing monument to Manchester United's history—every seat filled, every banner waving proudly, every fan on the edge of their seat. The cheering erupted in waves as news spread that Leeds United had yet to score. It was a surge of satisfaction and anticipation. Victory here would put their team firmly in the Premier League conversation for the season, at least temporarily.

On the pitch, Manchester United's players were still basking in the euphoria of their early goal. Rooney and Giggs walked side by side toward the bench, exchanging light-hearted banter, their faces glowing with the kind of confidence only a striker and a veteran winger could exude after scoring at the right moment. Ferguson stood at the edge of the field, hands clasped behind his back, a subtle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His beloved disciple had delivered, and the satisfaction of seeing Rooney's contribution made him feel, momentarily, that the world was perfectly aligned.

"Alex," Mike Phelan whispered, sidling up with his phone in hand, "good news. Leeds United hasn't made a move yet. No shots, nothing."

Ferguson nodded calmly, his voice low but firm. "Good. Make sure the lads don't get complacent when they return to the field. Keep pressing, keep attacking. A one-goal lead won't be enough if Leeds United decides to catch fire."

It was a small thrill for Ferguson, yet one laced with respect. Over the past two years, he had watched Arthur grow from a promising, bright-eyed rookie coach into a strategic force in the Premier League. Ferguson remembered the early days vividly. When Arthur first took Leeds United back into the Premier League, Ferguson had barely acknowledged him as a threat. In those first few months, Arthur was just another young coach testing his ideas, still learning the brutal rhythm of top-flight English football.

But Arthur had matured at a terrifying speed. That first season, he had led Leeds United to a stunning victory over Chelsea, and by the end of it, he had nudged Liverpool out of the top four. Then came Champions League qualification, a League Cup, and now—on the brink of the Premier League title. Ferguson's admiration was begrudging but real. Leeds United had become a juggernaut under Arthur's guidance, and the speed of their rise was, by any standard, remarkable.

Back at Elland Road, the players were blissfully unaware of the news from Old Trafford. Their focus was entirely on the pitch. Leeds United continued pressing Sheffield United relentlessly, waves of attacks crashing against the visitors' stubborn defensive line. Kenny, Sheffield United's goalkeeper, was in top form, making several crucial saves that kept the scoreline at zero. Each save seemed to fuel the anxiety of the fans a little more, their cheers tinged with nervous energy as Leeds' offensive efforts were repeatedly denied.

Then, in the 32nd minute, a fresh challenge threatened to derail Leeds' momentum. Yaya Touré received a perfectly timed pass from Modrić on the left flank. He had the ball under control and was ready to burst into the penalty area when Tongqi appeared from behind, a blur of motion, and sent Touré tumbling to the turf.

"Oh! God!" Lineker exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair, his voice cracking with concern. "Tongqi's tackle is definitely reckless! That's a yellow, at least!"

"Absolutely," Jon agreed quickly, keeping his eyes on the replay. "Atkinson's already pulling the card from his pocket. Judging by the angle, it's going to be yellow. But…uh…Touré doesn't look great. Alonso is signaling to the bench for the team doctor immediately."

The tension grew, mirrored in the stands. The camera panned over Leeds fans, capturing them biting their nails, covering their mouths, and exchanging worried glances. Touré's influence in midfield had been instrumental; his ability to intercept, drive forward, and disrupt Sheffield's defensive setup made him a constant threat. Losing him now would be a huge blow, both strategically and psychologically.

For a moment, it seemed like the game might stall entirely. But after a few minutes of intensive treatment on the sideline, Touré rose to his feet. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the stadium, and the Leeds fans visibly relaxed, their chanting resuming with renewed vigor as their hero returned to the pitch.

Simeone, pacing near Arthur, frowned. "Boss, this isn't working. They're defending like their lives depend on it—oh wait, they literally do! Aren't you panicking? We haven't scored yet!"

Arthur remained perfectly calm, his eyes fixed on the field as he tracked every movement. "Nonsense," he said evenly, placing a reassuring hand on Simeone's shoulder. "You think Warnock doesn't know what's happening? Of course he does. If anything, this is exactly what he expected. He's trying to hold firm. That doesn't mean we panic."

Simeone squinted at him, still a bit skeptical. "But we're running out of time—look at their numbers back there, the way they're pressing and closing. We need a breakthrough!"

Arthur pointed toward the field, his expression sharp. "Take a good look. Watch Frank—Ribéry. See how he's moving between their lines? Look at the space Modrić is opening with those clever passes. That's our loophole, Simeone. The moment one of them slips, we'll exploit it. Patience and precision. Trust the boys—they've prepared for this exact scenario."

Simeone's eyes followed Arthur's finger, scanning the field. Slowly, his furrowed brow relaxed as he began to see the subtle patterns his boss had been describing. Leeds' players weren't frantic; they were probing, observing, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Every movement was calculated, every feint and run part of a larger design that only became apparent if you watched carefully.

Arthur remained unmoved by the knowledge of Manchester United's lead. He didn't panic, didn't shout, didn't gesticulate wildly. Instead, he observed, analyzed, and guided. He knew the match was as much about mental resilience as it was about skill. His team's patience, their discipline, and their ability to maintain focus under pressure were what would ultimately decide the outcome.

Simeone, finally understanding, gave a slow nod. "Okay… I see it now. Patience, precision. Watch the gaps… Frank is finding it."

Arthur's lips curled into a slight smile, barely noticeable, but enough to communicate quiet confidence. "Exactly. We'll get our opportunity. When it comes, we strike, and we strike decisively. Until then, stay calm, stay sharp, and keep the pressure up."

On the field, Leeds United pressed forward again, testing Sheffield United's defensive resolve. The ball moved fluidly from midfield to wing to penalty area, orchestrated like a symphony. Every step, every pass, every run was part of a plan. And somewhere in the stands, the fans continued their chants, their energy intertwining with the players' determination, creating a rhythm that carried the team toward the looming goal.

Arthur's calm, measured presence on the sideline was the perfect counterbalance to the chaos of the match. He didn't need to shout or panic—the game was unfolding exactly as he had anticipated. Now, it was just a matter of time.

*****

Leeds United had been steadily pressing from the backcourt, orchestrating attack after attack with patience and precision. Alonso, who had been running forward with the ball, spotted Ribéry waving eagerly for a pass. Without hesitation, Alonso delivered a neat, accurate ball directly into Ribéry's path. It was a textbook example of timing and vision—the kind of move Arthur had drilled into his players countless times during training.

Ribéry received the ball and immediately began dribbling towards the bottom line, his movements smooth and controlled, almost hypnotic in their rhythm. Oddly, Sheffield United's left-back Quinn didn't rush forward to intercept, as defenders are supposed to do. Instead, he mirrored Ribéry's movements, retreating at the same pace, as though afraid of committing too early. That hesitation was exactly the loophole Arthur had instructed his players to exploit.

Earlier in the match, Ribéry had noticed Tongqi's pattern. The Sheffield United midfielder was disciplined but cautious—he would never commit to a tackle too early for fear of being bypassed. Tongqi relied on the left-back, Kilgallon, to eventually converge and press the winger at the baseline. Once Ribéry noticed this, he whispered a few words to Touré, formulating a plan for the perfect timing.

As Ribéry advanced, he kept a close eye on Tongqi's footsteps. Everything was calculated. Ten meters from the baseline, Tongqi suddenly lunged, planting his left foot and rushing toward Ribéry with full intent. But Ribéry was ready. With a swift, fluid motion, he halted the ball, nudged it delicately to Touré, who had sneaked around the defenders, and then made a clever diagonal run into the penalty area.

Touré held the ball just long enough to draw the attention of both Tongqi and Kilgallon, forcing the two defenders to shift and adjust. Then, almost like a choreographed dance, Touré passed the ball back through the tiny gap between the defenders—an inch-perfect, strategic feed—and Ribéry, now inside the penalty box, received it with the goal yawning before him.

Lineker's voice erupted through the commentary box, excitement practically vibrating in his tone: "Nice pass! Ribéry and Touré's exquisite two-on-two combination has completely broken Sheffield United's defense! There's no defender in front of Ribéry—absolutely no one between him and the goalkeeper!"

Indeed, the view on the pitch confirmed it. The nearest Sheffield central defender, Jagielka, was at least two to three meters behind Ribéry, and any attempt to close down the space immediately would be futile. Ribéry's eyes scanned the goal quickly, spotting Kenny positioned slightly toward the near corner. Recognizing the opportunity, he abandoned his instinct to dribble further and instead took a precise shot with his left foot toward the far corner.

Interestingly, Ribéry preferred his right foot, but today, his left foot would suffice. The ball was not struck with maximum force; it glided with controlled speed, aiming to exploit Kenny's positioning. Kenny reacted immediately, stretching his left hand to intercept. He managed to make contact, but his hurried movement wasn't enough to alter the ball's trajectory significantly. The football slowly kissed the far post before trickling into the net.

The roar of Elland Road was deafening. 1:0. After nearly forty minutes of relentless pressure, Leeds United had finally pierced Sheffield United's defenses. The goal was the culmination of strategy, awareness, and teamwork—a perfect embodiment of Arthur's tactical vision.

Ribéry's excitement was palpable. He didn't pause to think about teammates; Ibrahimovic dashed toward him, but Ribéry had other priorities. He sprinted directly to the bench, colliding into Arthur with an enthusiastic hug, nearly sending both of them toppling over. Arthur, quick on his feet and grinning from ear to ear, reciprocated the celebration, pumping his fists with unrestrained joy.

Ribéry then grabbed Arthur and dragged him along the sideline, heading toward the Leeds goal, while the rest of the team—caught up in the euphoria—followed behind like a jubilant parade. At the south stand, Ribéry attempted to hoist the corner of his jersey in celebration, but Arthur's sharp eyes and quick reflexes stopped him just in time. He grabbed Ribéry's hand, preventing what could have been a yellow card in the first half.

The fans in the south stand erupted at the scene, their enthusiasm spilling over in waves. They recognized the significance of the goal and the clever execution of the play. Some of the most devoted supporters even removed their shirts in excitement, tossing them toward Ribéry as if trying to pass along their own energy. Men, women, young, old—everyone became part of the celebration, their voices mingling with the chants that reverberated around the stadium:

"Leeds! Leeds! Leeds! Leeds!"

Ribéry, still caught in the euphoria, bounced along the sideline, waving at the fans, grinning, and laughing. Arthur, slightly breathless from the excitement, looked on with pride. He knew this goal was more than just a point on the board—it was a psychological statement. It was a declaration to Sheffield United, a message to Manchester United watching from Old Trafford, and a promise to the tens of thousands of Leeds fans that their team had the determination and skill to seize the Premier League crown.

As the team reorganized and prepared to resume play, Ribéry returned to his position, adrenaline still coursing through him. Touré offered a quick nod, acknowledging their seamless cooperation, while Alonso, Modrić, and Bale readied themselves to continue the offensive push. Arthur, meanwhile, paced the technical area calmly, hands behind his back, scanning the field. Every player was in position, every movement considered, every potential response of the opposition anticipated.

The subtle humor of the moment wasn't lost on him, either. Here was Ribéry, his main winger, running nearly half the pitch in celebration, only barely restrained from risking a yellow card. And there were the fans, throwing clothing toward the player, cheering with such intensity that it seemed like the stadium itself was alive, breathing, and cheering in unison. Arthur allowed himself a small smile, shaking his head in disbelief at the pure chaos of football euphoria—but it was chaos harnessed perfectly in favor of his team.

Meanwhile, Sheffield United's defenders, recovering from the unexpected breach, scrambled to reorganize. Tongqi and Kilgallon exchanged hurried words, eyes darting nervously toward Ribéry and Touré. Jagielka sprinted back to close the gap, but the play had already been executed with precision. Kenny, too, was visibly frustrated, brushing dirt from his gloves while mentally replaying the slow, cruel journey of the ball into the net.

Lineker, still nearly vibrating in the commentary box, summed up the scene: "A brilliant, calculated move by Leeds United! Ribéry and Touré's combination play has shown perfect understanding and patience. This goal is not just a strike—it's a lesson in tactical awareness!"

Jon, slightly more composed but equally impressed, added, "Absolutely, Gary. This is why Leeds United is at the top of the table. They don't just play; they think. Every movement, every pass, every feint is designed to create these moments. Sheffield United simply didn't see it coming. And now Leeds has the lead—a crucial one in the context of the championship race!"

As the crowd continued their uproar, Arthur took a deep breath, mentally noting every detail of the play. The team had executed the plan flawlessly, but there were still 55 minutes remaining. The championship was still not in hand. Yet for a moment, he allowed himself to feel the joy of success, the pure, unfiltered happiness of watching his players deliver under pressure.

Ribéry, catching his breath, gave Arthur a thumbs-up, his grin infectious. The bench erupted in laughter and cheers, some players dancing lightly, others clapping in rhythm with the chanting from the stands. Arthur quickly gestured for calm, but even in his controlled manner, it was clear he was celebrating quietly with his team, savoring the moment.

Elland Road had erupted, but the game was far from over. Leeds United had broken the deadlock, and now, more than ever, they had momentum, confidence, and the tactical upper hand—all of which Arthur had orchestrated masterfully.

******

The moment Ribéry struck the ball, Gary Lineker had already subconsciously squatted in his seat, his ten toes curling as if gripping the soles of his shoes for dear life. His hands clutched the armrests, eyes wide with anticipation, heart hammering against his ribs like a drumroll. Every muscle in his body screamed, "Don't let this miss!"

The ball arced through the air, time seeming to slow to an almost cinematic pace. Ribéry's left-footed strike flew true, heading straight for the far post. Kenny, Sheffield United's goalkeeper, lunged valiantly, stretching his left hand in a desperate attempt to intercept. He grazed the ball—just enough to slightly alter its path—but physics, fate, and Ribéry's calculated brilliance conspired against him. The ball bounced off the far post and trickled into the net.

Lineker couldn't hold it any longer. He leapt from his seat, arms flailing, voice shattering the studio's usual calm:

"Goooooooooooooooooool! Ribéry!! Franck Ribéry!! He has helped Leeds United break the deadlock on the field!! Leeds United lead Sheffield United 1-0 at home!! And once again, they reclaim the lead in the championship battle!!"

Beside him, Jon patted Lineker's arm, grinning at the sheer chaos his partner had become. "What a beautiful combination!" he said. "Ribéry spotted the gap in Sheffield United's defense from the moment he picked up the ball. I said it before the game—let Ribéry and Bale push so deep, and sooner or later, the defense cracks. Well, here it is!"

Lineker wiped sweat from his forehead, collapsing back into his chair but still shaking slightly. "Too nervous," he admitted, voice cracking with residual excitement. "If Leeds United hadn't scored in the first half, I don't know how I would have survived the next fifteen minutes of build-up to halftime!"

Jon laughed knowingly. "I can feel that. Being a Leeds fan during a championship-deciding match… well, it's not for the faint-hearted."

Meanwhile, across the country at Old Trafford, the mood was quite different. The Manchester United faithful were on high alert, and their initial joy from an early goal had suddenly been muted. Mike Phelan, ever vigilant on the sidelines, felt his phone buzz. Glancing down, he saw the notification and immediately leaned toward Ferguson, voice low but urgent: "Alex, Leeds United have scored a goal."

Ferguson turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly in contemplation. He didn't speak. He didn't flinch. To an observer, it seemed as if the goal meant nothing—but those who knew Ferguson understood the gears turning behind the calm exterior.

Mike Phelan gave a subtle thumbs-up, impressed with Ferguson's composure. But then, in a sudden burst of movement, the manager rose from his seat, hands thrust into his pockets, and strode to the side of the pitch. At that exact moment, Cristiano Ronaldo had just launched a shot from outside the penalty area—it soared too high, missing the target completely. Ferguson's voice boomed across the field, carrying both fury and precision:

"Cristiano! If you don't want to play, get off! Wayne's waiting for your pass in the middle! Can't you see the space? And Wayne! Move your little steps to the right! Don't stand there like a statue! How do you expect Cristiano to find you?"

The force in Ferguson's roar was so palpable that even Mike Phelan felt a shiver run down his spine. On the field, Ronaldo and Rooney turned toward their manager, eyebrows raised, confusion flickering briefly across their faces. Whether they fully processed Ferguson's verbal torrent is unclear, but one thing was certain: the old manager's authority was absolute, and his displeasure unmistakable.

Back at Elland Road, the celebration was equally intense—but now a challenge for the match officials. Referee Atkinson had to expend considerable effort corralling the Leeds United players, who were still caught up in the euphoria of the goal. Waving yellow cards like a warning flag, he herded the players back onto the field, one by one.

Arthur, ever composed despite his excitement, coordinated with Atkinson, ensuring that the celebrations didn't spiral into chaos. The scene was chaotic yet controlled. Staff members raced to collect the jerseys and other clothing tossed from the stands by overzealous fans, cataloging each item to return it after the match. Even in the frenzy, order was being maintained—an almost comical ballet of professionalism amid chaos.

Once everyone was in position, Atkinson's whistle signaled the restart. Leeds United, still riding the adrenaline wave, wasted no time. Their high spirits translated into a seamless continuation of play. Sheffield United attempted to regroup and launch a counterattack, but Leeds' pressing was relentless. Each pass, each movement was executed with surgical precision, cutting off potential avenues for Sheffield United to advance.

The first half had now reached its 39th minute, and the tension in the stadium remained electric. Leeds United's lead wasn't just a number on the scoreboard—it was a psychological hammer, signaling to both Sheffield United and Manchester United that this team meant business.

Sheffield United tried desperately to reorganize, to create openings, but Leeds' momentum was overwhelming. Ribéry's goal had ignited not just the players, but the crowd itself. Fans leapt from their seats, chanting, waving banners, and waving their scarves in frenzied rhythm. Every corner of the stadium felt alive, vibrating with energy and expectation.

Lineker's voice rose above the tumult once again, capturing the scene perfectly: "Leeds United have taken control! The goal is well-deserved, a combination of tactical brilliance and perfect execution. Sheffield United are being pushed back, and Leeds' confidence is palpable."

Jon nodded, adding with a smile, "This is why we analyze every pass, every movement. Leeds United has created a blueprint of how to break down even the most disciplined defenses. And now, with this 1-0 lead, they enter the final stretch of the first half in full control!"

The minutes ticked by, and Leeds continued to assert their dominance, not recklessly, but with calculated aggression. Sheffield United's attempts to counter were met with organized blocks, interceptions, and precise pressure from the midfield. Atkinson, keeping a careful eye on both the players' conduct and the tempo of the game, allowed play to continue fluidly.

Finally, after four minutes of stoppage time, the whistle blew, signaling the end of the first half. Leeds United had managed to maintain their lead. The players retreated to the locker room, shoulders high, eyes shining—not just with the pride of a goal scored, but with the understanding that they had taken a critical step toward the championship.

For the fans in the stands, it was more than just a scoreline. It was validation, excitement, and a glimpse of what could be—the hope that, after 15 long years, the Premier League trophy might finally return to Elland Road.

1:0. Leeds United led Sheffield United. The first half had been dominated, controlled, and punctuated with a masterpiece of tactical brilliance. And as the players regrouped for the second half, the city of Leeds buzzed with anticipation, hope, and the unmistakable thrill of football at its finest.