On the sidelines, Vincenzo Montella spat a glob of saliva onto the turf, his eyes narrowing.
He was a man under immense pressure.
Since Unai Emery left, the Sevilla managerial seat had been an ejector seat. Sampaoli left for Argentina; Berizzo was sacked for poor results.
Montella had arrived in December, but his league form was erratic. The board was already sharpening their knives.
If he failed in the Champions League, he knew he was next.
"Focus!" Montella screamed, cupping his hands. "United only has one defensive pivot! Overload the middle! Make them suffer!"
He pointed frantically at Ling. "And tell Banega and Navas—learn your lesson! Do not get tight to the Number 7! Give him a yard, or he will spin you again!"
On the other bench, Mourinho wasn't celebrating the lead. He was frowning, his tactical mind racing.
He sensed a disturbance in the force.
12th Minute
The match resumed, and Sevilla executed Montella's plan with surgical precision.
The wingers, Correa and Sarabia, dropped deep into the half-spaces. This dragged United's fullbacks inside. Simultaneously, Sevilla's fullbacks, Navas and Escudero, pushed high, acting like wingers.
It was a flood. A sharp wedge driven straight at the heart of United's 4-3-3.
They targeted Nemanja Matic.
With McTominay caught upfield trying to press, and Pogba drifting wide, Matic was left alone to cover the entire width of the pitch.
"They are overloading the central channel," Neville noted nervously.
Sevilla pushed forward.
McTominay scrambled back to cover, but he was too late. He was caught in no-man's land.
Steven Nzonzi saw the gap on United's left. He didn't hesitate. He carved an exquisite outside-of-the-boot pass out to the wing.
Whoosh.
The ball bypassed the entire United midfield, landing perfectly in the stride of Jesus Navas.
The Ramón Sánchez-Pizjuán erupted.
Navas had space. Ashley Young was caught narrow, marking Sarabia.
Navas drove to the byline. He looked up.
Luis Muriel was making a darting run across the near post, dragging Smalling with him.
But the ball wasn't for him. It was a cut-back.
Navas whipped a low, fizzing cross into the corridor of uncertainty.
Luis Muriel, adjusting his run brilliantly, threw himself at the ball.
Slide.
He got a toe on it before De Gea could react.
The ball squeezed inside the near post.
1-1!
"Sevilla equalize!" Martin Tyler shouted. "Just twelve minutes after conceding! The Fortress strikes back!"
"It was too easy," Neville groaned. "They pulled United apart. They shifted the attack, isolated Matic, and exploited the space behind Young. That is a tactical failure from United."
Muriel sprinted toward the Biris Norte ultras, basking in the roar of 42,000 Andalusians.
The noise was deafening, a physical wave of sound that made the United players' eardrums throb.
On the touchline, Montella adjusted his suit cuffs and shot a provocative glance toward the away dugout.
He felt a surge of superiority.
As a player at Roma, Montella had watched Mourinho's Inter Milan dominate Italy.
He had seen the "Special One" at his peak, winning the Treble. But looking at the man now—with his snow-white hair and conservative tactics—Montella felt the balance of power shifting.
'You are old now, Jose,' Montella thought, a smirk playing on his lips.
'The game has evolved. The future belongs to us.'
Mourinho, staring intently at the pitch, had no idea about Montella's rich inner monologue.
And even if he did, he wouldn't care.
To Mourinho, Montella was a manager whose greatest achievement was an Italian Super Cup—a trophy with less prestige than the Audi Cup.
Mourinho was focused on the problem.
The 4-3-3.
It created vertical space for Ling, yes. But it left the team naked defensively.
McTominay was working hard, but his positional awareness wasn't elite yet. He couldn't plug the gaps alone.
Mourinho didn't hesitate. He wasn't a manager who waited until the 60th minute to admit a mistake.
He strode to the technical area, whistling sharply.
"Paul! Scott! Change it!" Mourinho signaled with his hands. "4-2-3-1! Two pivots!"
The message filtered onto the pitch.
"Oh, look at this," Tyler analyzed. "Lukaku is now the lone striker. Matic and Pogba have dropped deep to form a double pivot. McTominay has pushed up to the Number 10 position."
"Mourinho has abandoned the 4-3-3 immediately. He is plugging the hole."
The shift worked.
With Pogba sitting deeper alongside Matic, the central channel was sealed.
Ashley Young and Valencia could stay wider, dealing with Navas and Escudero without fear of being overrun inside.
Sevilla tried to repeat the overload, but they ran into a red wall.
Peep-peep!
The referee blew for the break.
The score remained 1-1.
...
In the dressing room, Mourinho was calm but direct.
"My mistake," Mourinho said, holding his hands up. "I tried to be clever with the shape. It didn't work. We were too open."
The players respected the honesty.
"We go back to basics," Mourinho continued, drawing on the whiteboard. "Defensive stability first. From the defensive midfield, we go straight to the wings. Bypass the middle."
He looked at Ling.
"Ling, use the full width. Stay wide. Isolate Navas. If he gets tight, spin him. If he stands off, drive at him."
"Romelu," Mourinho pointed to the striker. "Drift left. Drag the center-back with you. Switch positions with Ling in the half-spaces. Confusion creates chances."
"We have the away goal," Mourinho reminded them. "A 1-1 draw is a good result. But we can win this."
"Come on!"
The players stacked their hands.
"UNITED!"
...
The teams emerged.
The atmosphere was still hostile, but United looked more settled.
Their structure was rigid but familiar.
52nd Minute
Paul Pogba, operating from deep, looked up. He saw the movement.
He launched a heat-seeking long ball toward the left flank.
It was a 50/50 duel.
Jesus Navas and Ling both sprinted for the drop zone. Navas used his experience to lean in, trying to shield the ball.
But physics is cruel.
Ling didn't just have speed; he had raw power. He engaged his core and accelerated through the challenge.
Zoom.
Ling reached the ball a split-second before Navas. He poked it forward with his toe, using his momentum to burst past the Spaniard.
"He's won the race!" Tyler shouted.
United flooded forward. It was a storm-like assault.
As arranged, Lukaku drifted wide to the left, acting as a pivot. He received the ball from Ling, held off Lenglet with his immense strength, and laid it off.
Ling didn't stop moving. He cut inside, receiving the return pass.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The ball moved in a sharp zigzag pattern—Pogba to Ling, Ling to Lukaku, Lukaku back to Ling.
Ling looked up. He saw McTominay making a run into the box.
But McTominay wasn't a playmaker. He was a battering ram, a decoy. His run dragged Nzonzi away from the central zone.
This left the passing lane open to the right.
Ling whipped a diagonal ball across the face of the defense.
Juan Mata was arriving.
"United are bypassing the Number 10!" Neville noted. "Pogba is orchestrating from deep, Ling is driving the transition, and McTominay is just causing chaos with his body!"
Mata controlled the ball. He looked up. The cross was on.
"Mata squares it!"
The ball rolled across the face of the six-yard box.
So, what was Scott McTominay's role in this new 4-2-3-1 setup? He wasn't a playmaker.
He wasn't a Number 10 in the traditional sense. His role was singular: Attack the box.
He was a battering ram.
A ghost who arrived late to the party to smash the furniture.
Manchester United's No. 39 appeared on the screen, a blur of motion. He used his forward momentum to lunge toward the ball, sliding across the wet turf.
Thump!
The ball flew off his boot.
CLANG!
A crisp, metallic sound rang out.
To Manchester United fans, it was the sound of heartbreak. To the Sevilla faithful, it was the sweetest music in the world.
"The crossbar!" Martin Tyler screamed. "McTominay hits the woodwork! United miss the chance to retake the lead!"
"What a pity!" Gary Neville groaned. "His timing was perfect. He arrived exactly where Mourinho wanted him. But the finish... just inches too high."
"Look at the shape though," Neville added, his analyst brain taking over. "Pogba surged forward too. Only Matic was left holding the fort. If that rebounded to a Sevilla player? United were wide open."
The match resumed, and the intensity ratcheted up.
Sevilla, realizing they couldn't match United's pace, turned to the Dark Arts. Their defensive attitude was resolute, cynical, and violent.
In less than ten minutes, Ling hit the deck twice. His white shorts were already caked in mud and grass stains.
But these weren't the reckless, career-ending stomps of Kieran Trippier.
These were "professional" fouls. A tug of the jersey. A hip-check. A subtle trip.
Sevilla were smart.
They never showed studs. They never risked a red card.
Referee Clément Turpin was lenient. He showed Jesus Navas a yellow card for accumulation, but mostly, he waved play on.
67th Minute
The pace of the game began to sag as legs grew heavy.
Mourinho made his move. The fourth official raised the board.
Paul Pogba OFF. Ander Herrera ON.
"Interesting," Neville noted. "Herrera offers more defensive stability. Is Mourinho settling for the 1-1 draw? Taking the result back to Old Trafford?"
Montella responded instantly.
Ever Banega OFF. Guido Pizarro ON.Luis Muriel OFF. Sandro Ramirez ON.
"Fresh legs," Tyler said. "Sevilla aren't settling. They want a winner."
78th Minute
The game was balanced on a knife-edge.
Steven Nzonzi, dominating the midfield physically, shook off McTominay with a drop of the shoulder.
He played a quick one-two with Pizarro before slotting a diagonal pass to Pablo Sarabia on the wing.
Whoosh!
The Sevilla fans roared. Another overload on the flank.
Sarabia surged forward. He knocked the ball past Ashley Young, intending to burn him for pace.
But Ashley Young, despite his age, was in a renaissance. His contract was expiring in July, and he was playing for his future.
Young didn't turn and chase. He anticipated. He stepped across Sarabia's line, raising his right arm to shield the ball, and timed his slide perfectly.
Crunch.
Clean as a whistle.
"Whoa!" Neville cheered. "Ashley Young channeling his inner Maldini! That is a match-saving tackle!"
Young didn't just clear it. He saw the transition.
With Pogba off the pitch, United didn't look for the midfield pivot. They went direct.
Young rose to his feet and launched a long, arcing pass down the line.
Boom.
The ball soared like a rainbow, dropping into the space behind Jesus Navas.
Ling had already started running before Young even kicked the ball. He had that sixth sense—the anticipation of the counter-attack.
That half-second head start was lethal.
"Don't follow him!" Montella screamed from the touchline, his voice hoarse. "Drop! Drop to the box! Cut the angle!"
Montella was panicked.
He knew Navas couldn't catch Ling in a foot race.
Navas heard the instruction. He abandoned the chase and sprinted diagonally toward his own penalty area, trying to intercept Ling's path.
Sevilla's defense scrambled.
In the middle, Lukaku dropped deep to drag the center-backs out.
McTominay made a run to the near post. On the far side, Rashford was locked down by Escudero.
Ling collected the ball on the left corner of the penalty box.
He was isolated.
It was Ling vs. Jesus Navas. 1v1.
The stadium held its breath.
To beat a man at this level, you need speed, strength, and technique. But above all, you need confidence.
If you hesitate, you die.
Ling didn't hesitate. He had the reward from the Tottenham game in his muscle memory.
Navas stood his ground, crouching low, eyes locked on the ball. He blocked the path to the byline. He blocked the cut inside.
He was a veteran.
Ling charged at him.
He dropped his right shoulder. He touched the ball with the outside of his right boot, pushing it slightly to the right.
Feint.
Navas reacted. He shifted his weight, preparing to block the shot or the drive down the line.
And in that split second—the moment Navas committed his balance—Ling snapped.
Using the inside of the same right foot, Ling whipped the ball back across his body to the left.
It was violent. It was fluid. It was faster than the eye could follow.
The ball seemed to obey physics of its own, snaking one way and then instantly reversing.
The Elastico.
Navas's brain screamed right, but the ball went left. His ankles tangled. His balance evaporated.
He tried to turn, but his legs betrayed him. He crumpled to the turf in a heap, looking like a man slipping on ice.
"OH MY GOODNESS!" Martin Tyler screamed. "He has ended him! The Elastico! The Cow Tail!"
"That is Rivellino! That is Ronaldinho!" Neville gasped. "Navas is on the floor! He's broken his ankles!"
Ling was free. He had ghosted past the defender and into the box.
The angle was tight and Sergio Rico was rushing out.
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