Chapter 103: League Cup Final

After the frantic clash with Tottenham, the Premier League slammed on the brakes and went into a long vacation. No more weekend drama, no press conference fireworks, no controversial VAR calls—for now. Leeds United's next match? Not until early March, and it was going to be a big one: the League Cup final against Manchester United. Naturally, Arthur wanted nothing more than to drag Sir Alex's team into the mud and lift his first trophy. But while Leeds waited, Europe was still in chaos. All eyes turned to the Champions League knockout stages, and let's just say... it was not a good week to be an English football fan. Things started off okay. Arsenal, clinging to their last thread of dignity, managed a 0–0 draw at home against Real Madrid. That meant they squeaked through to the quarterfinals on away goals, thanks to Henry's strike at the Bernabéu in the first leg. Not pretty, but effective. English fans clung to that result like it was a national treasure. Then it all went downhill. Fast. Liverpool welcomed Benfica to Anfield needing a comeback—and instead got a slap in the face. A 0–2 loss at home. Zero goals scored across two legs. They didn't just get eliminated. They got eliminated while playing like they'd mistaken the Champions League for a testimonial match. Chelsea didn't fare much better. Sure, they grabbed a draw at Camp Nou, but it wasn't enough to overturn the first-leg defeat. Barcelona waved them off like unwanted guests, and Mourinho's smugness took a temporary holiday. Back in Leeds, Arthur sat watching the chaos unfold on TV, a mug of tea in one hand and a smirk on his face. He wasn't exactly celebrating the other teams' failures—but let's just say he wasn't crying about them either. "You'd think English fans would be used to this by now," Arthur muttered. "At least one team always bottles it." And yet, in his opinion, they really should be thankful. For years, Premier League clubs had been a consistent presence in the Champions League final. Win or lose, someone usually made it to the big dance. Arthur leaned back and chuckled. "If they think this is painful," he said, "wait till 2012 hits. Six straight years of watching La Liga have all the fun. They'll be begging for nights like this." *** By the time March rolled around, the Champions League heartbreak had started to fade (for most fans, anyway), and the attention of English football began shifting back to where it belonged—pure domestic chaos. Specifically: Leeds United vs. Manchester United. Three days to go until the League Cup final, and the fanbases were already treating the internet like a warzone. Social media platforms, forums, and comment sections were ablaze. Leeds fans, United fans—no one was holding back. It didn't matter that the match hadn't even started. In fact, that made it even worse. "Leeds should focus on keeping their fourth place before dreaming about trophies!" a United fan jeered confidently. "Manchester United finished bottom of their Champions League group. Let that sink in. Hehe. Dog head emoji," a Leeds fan replied instantly. "Oh really? At least we played in the Champions League," came the smug comeback. Then again: "Manchester United. Bottom. Group stage. Dog head." This comment repeated itself. Again. And again. Every reply thread had the same guy just spamming the same sentence like it was a sacred chant: "Manchester United is at the bottom of the Champions League group, hehe, dog head." Someone eventually snapped: "Bro, is that all you know how to type?" Still the same reply came. Even threats started popping up. "Where do you live, you little—" You already know the response. "Manchester United is at the bottom of the Champions League group, hehe, dog head." It was football banter in its purest form. Completely unhinged. Truth be told, the League Cup didn't usually get this kind of hype. Among English fans, it's generally ranked just above the Community Shield—which is basically a glorified friendly—and well below the FA Cup, Premier League, and of course, the Champions League. It's the kind of trophy that's nice to win, but nobody brags about it too hard... unless it's the only thing up for grabs. Which was exactly the case here. For both clubs, this final might be their only shot at silverware this season. That fact alone gave the fixture emotional weight far beyond the size of the actual cup. Lose, and your season is officially a bust. Win, and you at least get bragging rights, a medal, and some nice photos for the trophy cabinet. Leeds fans, to their credit, were surprisingly level-headed. Most of them had already accepted that the real goal this year was finishing top four and qualifying for next season's Champions League. The League Cup was a bonus. If they won it, brilliant. If not, well, at least they were punching above their weight all year. But Manchester United fans? Oh, they were desperate. Knocked out of the FA Cup by Liverpool—an unforgivable sin in itself. Humiliated in Europe, finishing rock bottom of their Champions League group. And in the league, though still mathematically in the title race, everyone could see the writing on the wall. Chelsea, free from cup distractions, were charging like an angry bull toward the Premier League crown. There was no catching them. So for United fans, this final wasn't just about silverware—it was about salvaging pride from an otherwise forgettable year. They needed this. Arthur, watching it all unfold from his office at Thorp Arch, couldn't help but laugh every time he scrolled past another "dog head" comment. It was nonsense, but it was perfect nonsense. In the days leading up to the League Cup final, fan trash talk wasn't the only thing heating up—England's football media had also started doing what they did best: wildly overanalyzing everything while pretending to be neutral. Among the loudest voices was the Manchester Evening News, Manchester United's unofficial megaphone, which had already published a full tactical breakdown that was basically just a smug pat on the back. Their bold conclusion? "Leeds United have been in good form recently," the column admitted, "with three wins and one draw in February." But of course, the praise stopped there. "If you look closely," the article continued in its most condescending tone, "you'll see that this unbeaten run is a bit... inflated." Cue the breakdown. "Liverpool and Arsenal didn't field full-strength squads because they had Champions League commitments—so those matches were practically charity. Everton were a mess, their midfield was held together with duct tape and prayer. And Tottenham? Well, that's the only match where Leeds faced a proper side, and guess what? They didn't even win." Then came the inevitable Manchester United flex: "Meanwhile, United have been flawless in February. Four wins. A goal difference of more than three in every game. The difference in squad quality? Massive. The gap between the managers? Laughable. Based on all that, we give Manchester United an 80% chance of lifting the trophy." Naturally, Leeds fans printed that article, framed it, and put it up in their locker room. Despite the media's confident predictions, one person was definitely not sipping champagne early: Sir Alex Ferguson. Far from underestimating Arthur's Leeds side, Ferguson had turned Carrington training ground into a tactical military camp. The players—usually bantering, teasing, and kicking balls at each other's heads—had gone nearly silent. Even Rooney and Ronaldo, known for clowning around in drills, were acting like they'd taken a vow of silence. "Don't slack. Leeds press hard in the second phase!" "Carrick, how many times do I have to say—don't stand flat!" Ferguson's booming voice echoed across the pitches. Players knew not to roll their eyes. The gaffer was in full beast mode. What they didn't know was that after training, the old man wasn't clocking off like usual. Instead, he'd head straight to his office, fire up his laptop, and watch Leeds' recent games—on repeat. For several nights in a row, the lights in Ferguson's office were the last ones still on at Carrington. Long after the kitmen had gone home, and the cleaners were wiping down empty corridors, Ferguson was still hunched over his screen, analyzing Arthur's movements, formations, and substitutions frame by frame. He'd faced Arthur before. He knew what kind of tricky bastard he was dealing with. This wasn't just about tactics. It was personal. Arthur wasn't some loudmouthed kid with Twitter followers—he was the one manager who had actually given Ferguson a headache. And Sir Alex didn't forget headaches. What made it worse? Manchester United hadn't won a single trophy in two years. For a club of their size, that was an emergency. Normally, the League Cup was treated like a training session with medals. But now? It was Manchester United's only real shot at stopping a full-blown crisis. And across the Pennines in Leeds, Arthur wasn't exactly sipping cocktails either. This was his first-ever cup final with Leeds. His first real shot at silverware. The media could scoff all they wanted, but Arthur knew this was probably the only trophy they'd have a chance at this season. He'd told the players: forget the reputation of the League Cup. This was war. Just like Ferguson, he had his reasons not to lose. March 1st arrived with the tension of a microwave about to explode. Fans were packed into every seat at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, the air buzzing with the kind of nervous energy usually reserved for tax deadlines and marriage proposals. This was it—the final of the 2005–2006 English League Cup. Leeds United versus Manchester United. White versus Red. David versus Goliath. Arthur versus Sir Alex. And smack in the middle of the action? Gary Lineker, beaming in his commentator's booth like it was Christmas morning. "Ladies and gentlemen!" Lineker shouted over the roar of the crowd, his voice nearly swallowed by the stadium's thunder. "Welcome! I'm Gary Lineker, and it is an absolute honour to be with you here tonight at the magnificent Millennium Stadium in Cardiff! We've got a cracker on our hands, folks—Leeds United versus Manchester United! In just 90 minutes—unless someone decides to get dramatic with extra time—one of these teams will lift the League Cup!" Cameras panned across the stands, catching everything from face-painted toddlers to an old man in a Leeds scarf visibly chewing his fingernails down to the bone. Lineker's voice boomed again: "Now, let's welcome both teams with the warmest applause and cheers!!" On cue, the tunnel lit up. First came the referee, striding out like a man who'd told his barber, "Just give me the most serious haircut possible." And behind him, out marched the teams. Leeds United in crisp white, eyes locked forward like soldiers heading into battle. Manchester United in classic red, faces focused, chins up. The stadium erupted into a deafening mix of chants, boos, cheers, and someone playing a trumpet terribly off-key. And just as the players stepped onto the pitch, it happened—Arthur, in his black coat and slightly too-calm expression, turned his head. Ferguson, already watching, met his eyes. No words. No smirks. Just a long, tense stare between the two managers. Both had the same thought blazing in their heads: This is it. It wasn't just a cup final. It was a test. A proving ground. A chance to shut up critics, silence rivals, and write a chapter that might just be remembered. The final was about to begin. And neither side was going to give an inch.