Chapter 104: Brutal Punch to the gut

Arthur had been preparing for this final like it was his own wedding—spreadsheets, game film, late nights muttering about defensive transitions. He didn't sleep, didn't smile, and at one point even drank tea instead of coffee. That's how serious it got. And unlike most weddings, his big tactical decision wasn't about flowers or seating arrangements—it was about shutting down Manchester United's deadly right flank. Specifically, Cristiano Ronaldo, who had recently decided to stop being a teenager and start playing like a cheat code. Paired with Patrice Evra, who arrived in January and immediately started acting like he owned the left-back position, that wing had turned into a highway of terror for opponents. Arthur wasn't taking any chances. He looked at his options—Ribéry, full of flair and poor decisions; Bale, fast but allergic to defending—and then looked away in horror. No, for this job, he needed two wide players who wouldn't panic if Ronaldo so much as breathed near them. So he turned to Milner and Camoranesi, the footballing equivalent of two grumpy guard dogs. Not flashy, but they'd happily tackle a brick wall if it wandered into their zone. Behind them, he gave Lahm and Maicon strict orders: "Don't die." In midfield, Arthur went even more cautious. Modrić, the little genius, was benched. It wasn't personal—it was survival. Instead, Javier Mascherano and Xabi Alonso were deployed in the middle, like two bouncers standing in front of a very exclusive nightclub called The Final Third. Their job? No one gets in without a fight. It was the perfect plan. Until it wasn't. Because less than sixty seconds into the game, it all collapsed like a cheap folding chair. Manchester United kicked off and passed the ball around casually, like they were just loosening up. Leeds kept their shape, pressed a little, everything seemed normal—until Paul Scholes, with the body language of someone ordering takeaway, pinged a pass out wide to Ryan Giggs. Giggs, now basically operating on instinct and muscle memory, took two touches and swung in a ball from the left. It wasn't exactly elegant. It looked more like he was clearing his throat with his foot. But it worked. Because in that moment, Javier Mascherano, Leeds' midfield enforcer and part-time traffic cone, did something truly magical—he ran back to help defend, jumped for the header... and nodded the ball beautifully into his own net. Straight past his own goalkeeper. 1–0 Manchester United. And just when Arthur thought things couldn't get worse, they absolutely did. Schmeichel—Leeds' trusted shot-stopper—had charged out, trying to meet the cross. But he collided mid-air with Mascherano in the process, and when they landed, it was clear something was wrong. The team doctor sprinted on. A few moments later, with Schmeichel holding his wrist like it owed him money, the dreaded substitution signal went up. Arthur stood on the sideline, motionless for a second. Then he raised a hand, covered his face, and sighed the sigh of a man who had just seen all his plans flushed down the toilet. "Neuer! You're up!" he called. And so, on this enormous night, 20-year-old Manuel Neuer—birthday boy, backup keeper, and professional bench warmer—was thrust into the spotlight for his first official senior appearance. As the camera cut to his terrified face, fans across the stadium leaned forward. This final had barely started. Leeds were already behind. Their starting keeper was out. A kid was in goal. And Mascherano had just scored a goal... for the wrong team. Welcome to the League Cup Final. *** It wasn't over. Not even close. If the first-minute own goal felt like a slap in the face, what came next was more like being drop-kicked off a moving bus. In the 11th minute, Cristiano Ronaldo—who apparently mistook this final for an Olympic sprint trial—picked up the ball on the right, saw Philipp Lahm in front of him, and decided, "Nah, I'll just go through you." What followed was less a footballing move and more an act of public disrespect. He didn't shimmy, didn't feint—he just dropped his shoulder and exploded down the touchline like he had rockets in his boots. Lahm, to his credit, tried to keep up. For about two steps. Then Ronaldo was gone, blazing past like a red blur. Even the cameraman almost missed it. Arthur, watching from the sideline, was frozen in place. "Is he legally allowed to run that fast?" he mumbled to no one in particular. Ronaldo didn't stop there. As he hit the final third, Mascherano came sliding across like a man trying to clean up his earlier disaster. But all he managed to do was slow Ronaldo down just enough for the Portuguese winger to cut inside onto his right foot, drift just outside the box, and unleash a low drive toward the bottom corner. Neuer, now just ten minutes into his senior debut, flung himself across and made a brilliant save. It was sharp, it was strong, and it was... pointless. Because Wayne Rooney, lurking like a hungry raccoon near a tipped-over bin, was right there in the box. The ball bounced perfectly to him, and with all the calm of a man ordering breakfast, he tapped it into the open net. 2–0. And the match wasn't even 15 minutes old. The Manchester United end of the stadium erupted. Red scarves were spinning, fans were bouncing, and a group of lads in the front row started singing something deeply inappropriate about Arthur's mother. Meanwhile, in the commentary box, Lineker was cackling like a man who'd just watched someone slip on a banana peel. "Oh, what did I just see?" he cried. "Ten minutes ago, I thought we were in for a tight contest between two strong sides. But now? Now I feel like I'm watching someone get steamrolled by a tank! Eleven minutes in, and Manchester United already have two goals. Sir Alex, are you trying to destroy Leeds United?!" The Manchester United supporters roared with laughter at that. The Leeds fans seated beneath the commentary booth responded with a mix of boos, foul gestures, and creative uses of the word "Lineker" that would get you banned in most public libraries. Back in the studio, Eddie Gray—legend of Leeds, loyal to the end—couldn't find it in himself to joke. "Ah," he sighed into the mic, "this start's even worse than last time at Old Trafford. And with Arthur already forced to burn one of his subs so early, it's... it's not looking good. I don't want to say it, but this could be a long, painful night for Leeds United." As the broadcast cut to the touchline, the contrast between the two managers couldn't have been clearer. Arthur stood frozen, arms crossed so tightly he looked like he might fold into himself. His jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the pitch, probably doing mental math on how to fix the mess. Behind him, the Leeds bench sat in grim silence—except for Ribéry, who had his head buried in his warmup jacket like he was hiding from reality. And then there was Sir Alex Ferguson. The old man sat back on the Manchester United bench like he was watching a dress rehearsal for a play he'd already seen a dozen times. Chewing gum with rhythmic intensity, he grinned with the kind of satisfaction only earned by years of seeing your enemies suffer just enough. Two goals down. One keeper injured. A tactical plan unraveling faster than Arthur's sanity. And the final had barely begun. Arthur didn't need to check the system interface to know how bad things looked. He could see it right there on the pitch—his players were moving like they'd just been told their favorite snack was discontinued. Shoulders slumped, eyes empty, like someone had unplugged their spirit and left the shells to jog around. Still, Arthur knew one thing for certain: if he, the head coach, looked defeated now, they were all doomed. So, arms stiff at his sides, he took the biggest breath of his life—big enough to suck in half the air in the Millennium Stadium—then stepped forward and yelled at the top of his lungs: "BOYS! HEADS UP! THE BALL'S ROUND! YOU'VE STILL GOT EIGHTY MINUTES LEFT—YOU HEAR ME?! EIGHTY! RUN! STAY FOCUSED! STOP THINKING ABOUT THAT STUPID OWN GOAL! IT'S DONE! OKAY?!" There was a brief pause. A couple of players blinked. One nodded. Lahm might've even exhaled. It wasn't exactly a movie moment... but it was something. Maybe it was the shouting, or maybe Manchester United just decided to relax after going 2–0 up like they'd already booked the open-top bus. Either way, Leeds slowly crawled back into the match. Lineker's commentary piped in again. "Wonderful effort from Xabi Alonso—oooof, but Van der Sar reads it well, great save!" Leeds were finally stringing passes together. Lahm was still getting cooked alive by Ronaldo every five minutes, but Kompany was covering like a man on a mission, and Leeds started pushing the ball forward with some confidence. "Here comes Ronaldo again... oh Lahm, mate, just... just lie down at this point. BUT WAIT—Kompany comes in like a wrecking ball and clears it out!" The crowd roared as if Leeds had scored a goal. Lahm looked over at Kompany like he was considering naming his firstborn after him. Then came another big chance. "Lovely link-up... Camoranesi to Falcao—HE SHOOTS!—oh no, just wide! That was close!" Suddenly, the Leeds fans woke up again. Flags started waving, chants erupted across the stands. Someone threw a scarf so hard it landed two rows down. For the first time since kickoff, the energy was back. Leeds kept pressing. Alonso was dictating the tempo, Falcao was finding space, and even Milner had stopped looking like he wanted to go home. It was shaping up to be a decent little comeback attempt. Unfortunately, football doesn't care about your hopeful vibes. In the 39th minute, as Leeds pushed high looking to steal a goal before halftime, Manchester United struck like a thief in the night. It began with Giggs—of course it was Giggs—sprinting down the left like he'd just remembered he left the oven on. He cut inside and slid a perfect low cross across the penalty box. Rooney was already dragging half the Leeds defense with him like a fat magnet. Everyone expected him to shoot. But he smartly let it roll past. And who was there, completely unmarked and probably humming the national anthem as he approached? Ronaldo. One touch. Boom. 3–0. Arthur felt his soul detach from his body. Before he could even yell, shout, or throw anything, Manchester United decided to put an extra knife in. Five minutes later, as Arthur was frantically scribbling notes on how to salvage the second half, a high ball dropped near the edge of the box. Saha won the header and flicked it perfectly to Paul Scholes. What followed was less a shot and more a physics-defying missile. From 25 yards out, Scholes hit it first time with such savage, unholy precision that Neuer didn't even dive. The ball curled, dipped, and slammed into the top corner like it had been remote-controlled. Lineker's voice cracked with disbelief. "OH MY GOD! I TAKE BACK EVERYTHING I SAID EARLIER—THIS IS A MASSACRE! THE FIRST HALF'S NOT EVEN OVER AND IT'S FOUR–NIL! MANCHESTER UNITED ARE ALREADY THINKING ABOUT THEIR VICTORY POSES!" On the sideline, Arthur reacted the only way his body allowed. BANG! A poor innocent bottle of mineral water—unopened, still cold—was launched several meters down the touchline by Arthur's right boot. Simeone, standing behind him, flinched so hard he almost ducked. The assistant coach didn't even dare speak. He looked like a man at a funeral, whispering prayers under his breath. It was baffling. Leeds had started to play. They were building momentum. And then—bam, bam—two goals, and they were back in the abyss. Arthur stared at the scoreboard. 4–0. His eyes narrowed. This wasn't a football match anymore. This was a public humiliation. And he still had one more half to get through.