The match had already been tense and cagey, but now it was starting to get a little testy. The fans were restless. So were the players. The battles across the pitch were heating up—not just physically, but mentally too. And though the football had been fierce, there was something brewing that was about to annoy Manchester United even more.
It was the 17th minute.
Cristiano Ronaldo had tried and failed multiple times already on the right wing. He'd been double-teamed, blocked, and boxed out by Maicon and Ribéry every time he touched the ball. So when he got it again near the touchline, with both defenders closing in, he didn't even try to take them on. Instead, he played it safe—smartly tapping the ball back to Carrick in midfield.
Carrick took one touch, scanned the pitch, and swiftly switched it to the left flank, where Giggs was waiting.
Now Giggs, the veteran winger, wasn't foolish either. He knew that in a flat-out sprint, there was no way he could outpace Gareth Bale. The young Welshman had him beat in every stride. So Giggs opted for intelligence over speed.
As soon as he received the ball, he flicked it toward Paul Scholes, who had drifted over to support him. The two veterans executed a quick one-two—Giggs laying it off, darting forward, then collecting the return pass to escape Bale's shadow. It was classic football, smooth and efficient.
Now on the move with space ahead, Giggs began carrying the ball forward. Bale was chasing, but a half-step behind. Lahm came up next, sprinting across from the central area to cut Giggs off before he could reach the byline.
Sensing the pressure coming, Giggs quickly slid a pass inside to Dimitar Berbatov, who had found space just outside the box.
At first, Giggs expected a return pass as he continued his run. He darted down the left channel toward the byline, hoping to receive the ball and swing in a cross. But Berbatov had already spotted a problem.
Fabio Cannavaro was moving fast, closing off the potential passing lane to Giggs. The Italian defender's reading of the game was, as always, razor sharp. Berbatov took one look and decided against the obvious.
Instead, he opened his body slightly and redirected the ball toward Ronaldo, who had ghosted into space on the far side of the box.
Berbatov struck the ball with the inside of his right foot, trying to deliver it at a tricky, half-height angle—something between a ground pass and a lofted one. But just as the ball zipped across, it struck something solid—Mascherano's arm.
The whistle blew.
Berbatov immediately stopped in his tracks, his arms raised above his head in frustration. He turned and pointed toward the referee, shouting that it was a clear handball. Not only that—he wanted a card. With both hands above his head, he made the universal gesture asking for the referee to reach into his pocket.
Mascherano, however, had already sprinted toward the referee. His face was a mixture of confusion and disbelief.
"No! No, no, no!" he insisted, repeatedly patting both sides of his torso with his palms. "Look! My arms were down! I didn't even open them!"
He gestured quickly, showing how tightly he had kept his arms to his body, trying to demonstrate that there was no unnatural movement. "That's not handball! It hit me, but they were tucked in!"
The referee stood firm, not even glancing at Mascherano's pantomime. He had seen the contact—yes—but after a quick nod of the head, he made his decision clear: free kick for Manchester United. No card. No penalty. No further discussion.
Mascherano looked relieved. Berbatov did not.
The Bulgarian striker threw his arms up in the air and turned away, muttering to himself. He wasn't happy with the call—especially not with the referee waving away the card request.
Back in the technical area, Arthur gave a subtle nod. No panic. He trusted Mascherano, and judging by the replays now flashing across the stadium screen, it looked like his midfielder had told the truth. His arms were indeed pinned tightly to his sides—no flailing, no intent.
****
On the other touchline, however, Sir Alex Ferguson was fuming.
The referee's decision didn't go down well with Sir Alex Ferguson—at all.
The moment the free kick was awarded without a card for Mascherano's handball, Ferguson leapt off his seat like a man stung. In two quick strides, he stormed toward the fourth official, hands flying to his head in disbelief.
"That's handball!" he bellowed. "Clear as day! No card? What are you lot even watching out there?!"
The fourth official calmly touched his earpiece, listening to a few words from the head referee before turning to face the furious Scotsman. With both hands raised, he tried to deescalate.
"Alex, calm down," he said firmly. "The referee saw it clearly. Number six kept his arms tight to his body. No deliberate movement. You've got your free kick—that's already in your favor."
Ferguson wasn't convinced.
"That's not enough! If that's not a card, what is? This is the Champions League, not Sunday league!"
And just then, Arthur, who had been quietly observing a few steps away, turned his head and smirked.
"Oh come on, Alex," he quipped, a grin forming across his face. "This is Elland Road, can't we enjoy a little home advantage once in a while?"
Ferguson scowled, but before he could fire back, the fourth official stepped in sharply, eyes flicking between the two managers.
"Enough," he said sternly. "Arthur—watch your words. There is no such thing as home advantage in officiating. And Alex—if you keep pressing the issue, I'll notify the referee and have both of you sent to the stands."
The threat worked like magic.
Arthur raised his hands in mock surrender and turned back toward the touchline, still wearing that faintly amused expression. Ferguson, red in the face and muttering under his breath, gave one last disapproving glance before backing off too.
But the moment hadn't gone unnoticed.
Cameramen caught every second of the sideline spat. The broadcast quickly cut to a split-screen: Ferguson's face flushed with visible frustration, and Arthur smiling as if he had just pulled off a cheeky trick. The contrast was stark—and sure to be replayed again and again before the night was over.
Back on the pitch, the drama shifted to the ball.
Paul Scholes stood over the free kick, scanning the distance to goal. It was a tempting angle, but not ideal. Still, the veteran midfielder went for power.
He struck it with force, but the shot never worried Manuel Neuer. Leeds' towering keeper simply watched it sail high and wide, leaping up more as a formality than necessity. A few jeers rang out from the Leeds supporters behind the goal, and Neuer quickly restarted the play.
But Manchester United weren't finished.
Just minutes later, they came again—this time with more menace.
Ronaldo, who had been bottled up so far, finally managed to shake loose on the right. Using a burst of pace and a clever step-over, he broke past Ribéry and Maicon. The crowd held its breath—but just as Ronaldo surged into the box, Vincent Kompany came sliding in with perfect timing.
With a clean tackle, he knocked the ball over the byline for a corner.
Applause erupted around Elland Road. It wasn't just about denying a chance—it was the timing, the commitment, the confidence.
Still, United had won a corner. And with players like Berbatov, Vidic, and Ferdinand in the box, danger loomed.
It had to be said—Manchester United, even away from home, had the upper hand in possession and attacking pressure. They had seen more of the ball, pressed higher up the pitch, and looked sharper in the final third. Leeds, for all their defensive structure, hadn't quite clicked into rhythm going forward.
Arthur knew it too.
This season wasn't like the last. If Ferguson had been cautiously shaping his team in the previous two years—rotating players, experimenting with tactics—this was the season United were gunning for silverware again.
What caught Arthur slightly off guard was how quickly Dimitar Berbatov had slotted into Ferguson's system. He hadn't expected it. The Bulgarian forward, often criticized for his languid style, had suddenly become the link United were missing. His touch, his vision, his composure—it was all syncing perfectly with their movement.
Arthur narrowed his eyes as the corner was taken.
This wasn't the same Manchester United from their previous encounters.
This version was quicker, sharper, more dangerous—and Berbatov was turning out to be the unexpected piece that tied it all together.
****
Cristiano Ronaldo had been quiet so far. Too quiet for Manchester United's liking.
Every time he received the ball on the right flank, Leeds United had already closed down the space. Maicon stood his ground with discipline, and Ribéry tracked back tirelessly to double up. It was a tactical trap that Arthur had laid out with care, and so far, it was working.
With Ronaldo restricted, Manchester United had to adjust—and that's where Dimitar Berbatov stepped up.
The Bulgarian forward began drifting deeper, abandoning his post near the Leeds penalty box and instead dropping into midfield, linking up cleverly with Paul Scholes. It wasn't flashy, but it was effective. In the span of just a few minutes, Berbatov delivered several sharp passes between the lines, splitting Leeds' midfield press and creating moments of danger. He even tested Neuer twice from distance—one curling low shot and another powerful drive, both forcing the German keeper to stay alert.
Then came a corner for Manchester United.
Ryan Giggs jogged over to take it, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he glanced around the crowded box. Most eyes in the stadium were trained on the usual suspects—Ronaldo and Rooney jostling with Cannavaro and Kompany near the six-yard line. Even Vidic and Ferdinand had moved up from the back to add more aerial threat.
But Giggs didn't swing it into the crowd.
Instead, with a subtle change of body shape, he lofted the ball to the edge of the box—toward the left arc of the penalty area.
And there, exactly as planned, waited Berbatov.
Mascherano, who had been marking Ferdinand inside the area, caught the trajectory out of the corner of his eye. Instinct kicked in. He broke off from Ferdinand immediately and rushed toward Berbatov. The Bulgarian had already taken position, body leaning slightly to the right, eyes locked on the descending ball.
Mascherano had to guess quickly—and he made the wrong call.
In a moment of panic, perhaps forgetting which foot Berbatov preferred, he lunged to block the shot angle on the right. But Berbatov had no intention of shooting yet.
With a calmness that bordered on arrogant, he cushioned the ball with his left foot, then flicked it gently up into the air.
The ball floated gracefully over Mascherano's head.
"Wow! Beautiful lob, very imaginative!" Lineker exclaimed from the studio, voice rising with excitement. "Berbatov is in superb form today!"
Back on the pitch, Berbatov danced around the charging Mascherano, who had completely committed himself. The Leeds midfielder could only skid to a stop, watching helplessly as Berbatov repositioned.
Now on his left foot for support, Berbatov swung his right leg back, perfectly balanced.
He didn't wait for the ball to drop.
With a fluid, effortless motion, he struck it clean in mid-air.
Bang!
The sound echoed down the touchline, loud enough that even Arthur heard it from the dugout. He winced—not because it was loud, but because he knew just how dangerous that strike was.
The ball flew like a missile—no spin, no swerve, just pure power—aimed for the top-left corner of the Leeds goal.
Neuer saw it instantly.
His positioning was near perfect. As soon as Berbatov cleared Mascherano, Neuer had shuffled left, anticipating the shot. As the ball left the striker's foot, the Leeds keeper launched himself full-stretch, arms wide, eyes focused.
He got a fingertip on it.
Just enough to graze it.
But not enough to stop it.
The ball didn't slow down. It clipped his glove, kissed the inside of the post, and crashed into the back of the net.
Goal.
0–1. Manchester United lead.
Berbatov had just scored a masterpiece against his former club.
The stadium fell into stunned silence for a moment—broken seconds later by the roar from the away section and the unmistakable celebration of Sir Alex Ferguson.
The legendary manager charged out of the dugout with fists pumping in the air, eyes wide with joy, his coat flapping behind him as he shouted toward the pitch in celebration.
It was the kind of goal that makes managers believe in destiny.
As Ferguson returned to the touchline, his grin widened, and a cheeky thought crossed his mind.
"Looks like Arthur didn't Rip me off this time after all."
He had been wary of signing Berbatov, especially considering how unpredictable he could be in tight matches. But the way the Bulgarian had read the play, executed the flick, and then delivered that thunderous finish—it was everything Ferguson had hoped for when he brought him in.
On the other side, Arthur remained composed, though he couldn't help but let out a short sigh. Leeds had been defensively organized all match—but that moment of brilliance had undone them. Not a lapse in tactics, not a failure of system—just pure, unplayable skill.
He turned to his bench and clapped twice, sharp and loud.
"Shake it off," he shouted. "It's just one goal. Keep pressing!"
And just like that, the match continued—Leeds trailing, but far from finished.
The war was still on.