Chapter 137: Against Manchester-1

Gary Lineker sat in front of the camera with his usual professional smile, the roar of the crowd behind him humming like a live wire through the studio feed. His guest, Kevin Blackwell, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The moment had arrived—Lineker's introduction. "Well, joining me here today is a man who knows a thing or two about Leeds United—former Leeds manager Kevin Blackwell." Blackwell grimaced subtly. His expression barely changed, but inside, he was groaning. Why'd he have to say that? Couldn't he just ask the damn question without dragging up the past? Former Leeds manager... like I'm some dusty relic. He clenched his jaw, but forced a diplomatic half-smile. This was a paid gig, after all. He'd swallowed worse for less. Adjusting his posture slightly and gathering his thoughts, Blackwell leaned forward and started in a calm tone. "Well... first, let me clarify something. I don't really know this current Leeds United side all that well. I've been away from the club for quite a while now. Sure, we faced them last season when I was at West Brom, but this version of Leeds is a different beast. For one, I never saw Torres or Podolski in that lineup before." Lineker nodded along, his expression neutral but slightly puzzled. It seemed odd that Blackwell was emphasizing his distance from the club—every viewer already knew he hadn't been there for a while. Still, he pressed on, "Right, well, we all know you've been away from Leeds for some time. And yes, you did face them last season—though you lost 6–0 at home to Arthur's side, if I recall correctly." Blackwell's eye twitched. Oh, you smug little... You just had to bring that up again, didn't you? He fought the urge to snarl or roll his eyes. Lineker smiled innocently and continued, "But the question I asked was about today's lineup. What do you make of Arthur's choices?" You really want to go there again? You've made your point, mate. Six goals, we get it. No need to rub it in like salt on an open wound. If the mic in front of Blackwell had been a handheld, it might've been flung across the studio at that moment. He cursed Lineker silently, but held his tongue. No point in digging the hole deeper. He exhaled slowly, finding whatever professionalism he had left, and answered with a slightly weary tone, "Look, I think today's lineup from Arthur is meant to be a bit of a bluff. He's showing weakness deliberately. I think he wants to lure Manchester United in and hit them on the break with counterattacks." Lineker arched a brow, intrigued. Blackwell, now that he'd started, began laying out his thoughts with a bit more confidence. "If you look at Leeds' setup throughout the season, Modric and Xabi Alonso are usually nailed-on starters when they're fit. But today? Arthur's gone with Mascherano and Yaya Toure as his midfield pivot. That's a big shift. Those two aren't about finesse—they're about muscle, ground coverage, pressing. It tells me Arthur wants to crowd the middle and deny Scholes any sort of time or space to operate." He paused briefly, letting the point land. "And then up front—Podolski gets the nod over someone like Berbatov or even Torres in the middle. That's no accident. Podolski's got pace, acceleration. Clearly, Arthur wants speed in transition. He's not here to play pretty football. He's here to frustrate United and hit them hard on the counter." Lineker gave an impressed nod. "Interesting. So it sounds like you rate Arthur's tactical thinking, then?" Blackwell didn't catch the subtle trap in Lineker's tone. With a touch of new-found energy, he leaned back and shook his head firmly. "Actually, I'm still backing Manchester United to win this one." Lineker blinked. "Oh? That's unexpected. Mind explaining?" Blackwell gave a dry laugh. "Sure. Look, I'll give Arthur credit—he's got ideas. But having ideas isn't enough. You've got to use them properly. If Arthur's done his homework on United this season, he'll know that Ferguson has shifted the team's emphasis to the wings. Cristiano Ronaldo's been electric this year. He's not playing as selfishly as before, either. A lot of United's forward play is built around him now." Blackwell leaned forward again, tapping a finger on the desk. "So even if you shut down the midfield with Mascherano and Toure, it won't matter if Ronaldo's tearing down the flanks. If Arthur's only plan is to compress the middle, then he's left the wings vulnerable—and that's where United will punish them." Lineker nodded slowly. "You might be onto something there. Ladies and gentlemen, we've just had an interesting breakdown from Kevin Blackwell—though he's placing his bets on United despite giving Arthur some tactical credit." He turned back toward the broadcast camera with a grin. "And right now, the players are making their way onto the pitch. We're just moments away from kickoff. Stay tuned, as we take you live to this thrilling clash—Leeds United versus Manchester United—coming up next!" The screen began fading to the live feed of the stadium, where the roars from the crowd surged louder. Flags waved, chants echoed, and the two teams stepped onto the pitch under the stadium lights—ready for battle. **** The match had barely kicked off before Kevin Blackwell found himself metaphorically slapped across the face. From the first touch—Podolski knocking the ball back to Torres—everything that followed completely contradicted his confident pre-match analysis. The players quickly dropped into their positions, and almost immediately, something looked off. Or rather—different. Lineker spotted it right away. "Kevin, Leeds United's shape doesn't match anything you predicted," he said with a slight smirk, his eyes fixed on the formation developing on the pitch. "Toure isn't sitting deep alongside Mascherano. He's moved up... central midfield role, just behind the striker. This looks like a diamond midfield—just like Manchester United." Blackwell blinked. "Wait, what?" "You said Arthur was setting up defensively. But this?" Lineker gestured at the screen. "This looks like he's going toe-to-toe with United's midfield. Are Leeds United really planning to attack against Manchester United?" Blackwell didn't respond at first. He squinted at the screen, watching the positioning again, confusion flashing across his face. He wasn't sure what rattled him more—being wrong, or being wrong on live television. "Well..." he finally muttered, scratching his cheek, "this... isn't what I expected." If Arthur had been able to hear the exchange in the studio, he would've laughed in Blackwell's face. Yes, I want to attack Manchester United. What, is that a crime? Blackwell had gotten one thing right in his earlier commentary—Manchester United had become more reliant on wing play this season, particularly through Cristiano Ronaldo. But if even he knew that, then surely Arthur—now a seasoned coach with a knack for big-game tactical surprises—had planned for it well in advance. He had no intention of sitting back and inviting pressure. Today, Leeds United were playing their own game. Rewind to ten minutes before kick-off, in the home dressing room at Elland Road. The air was thick with adrenaline and focus. Arthur stood at the front, animated and sharp, gesturing at the tactical board. The morale cards were all used up. Today, he was the morale card. He pointed directly at Frank Lampard. "Frank," he began firmly, "your main job today is to protect Michael. Do not—do not—let Ronaldo cut inside. Push him to the byline all day long if you have to, but don't give him even an inch to cut in and shoot. Force him wide. He'll get frustrated. That's when we pounce." Frank nodded with quiet resolve. Arthur turned to the other flank. "Gareth," he said, locking eyes with Bale, "you've got a massive role today. The left wing's on you. Half of our attack comes through your boots. When you get the ball, go. Whether you sprint to the byline or cut inside, doesn't matter. Just take it to him. You're faster, stronger—he's got nothing on you today. Keep your Welsh cousin pinned in their own half and don't let him breathe." Bale grinned and gave a nod. He was ready. Arthur moved again, now facing Yaya Touré. "And Yaya," he said, "don't look at me like that—I know what I'm asking." Touré looked skeptical, but curious. "You've got the other half of our offensive burden," Arthur continued. "Carrick will be in your zone. Physically, technically, even your movement—he's not on your level. I want you to dominate him. Whether you pass, dribble, or shoot—it's your call. But blow that midfield open. You've got this." Yaya's serious expression cracked slightly into a confident smirk. Arthur stepped back, now addressing the entire team. The energy in the room was rising, the noise of the crowd beyond the tunnel rumbling louder and louder, like distant thunder. "Alright, lads," he shouted, clapping his hands together, "now listen to me. Can you hear that? That's over fifty thousand of our people out there! You feel that? That heat in your chest, that roar in your ears? That's Elland Road! That's ourground!" The players leaned forward, their eyes fixed on him. "Last time we played them here, we lost. And I've had to live with that. But not today. Today we take it back. Today, we keep all three points right here in Leeds." Arthur raised a finger and held it up. "I have just three expectations for today's match," he said. The dressing room went still. "Win." Another finger. "Win." Then a third. "And win!" The players burst into cheers, slapping hands and shouting as they moved to the tunnel. The game plan was clear. There would be no sitting back, no fear. Today, they'd fight fire with fire. And now, just minutes into the game, it was clear to everyone—including a very sheepish Blackwell—that Arthur had thrown the script out the window. Leeds were playing a bold, aggressive diamond. Mascherano anchored it, Modric and Lampard roamed on either side, and Yaya Touré was unleashed at the tip. On the wings, Bale and Podolski bombed forward whenever they had the ball, testing United's fullbacks with pace and sharp runs. Torres played on the shoulder of the last defender, always ready to dart in behind. Manchester United weren't having it their way at all. And Lineker, unable to hide his surprise, glanced again at the silent Blackwell and chuckled. "Well, Kevin," he said, leaning back in his chair, "I guess Arthur had a few tricks up his sleeve after all." Blackwell didn't answer. He was too busy recalculating everything. The match was just beginning—but one thing was already clear: Arthur wasn't here to survive. He was here to win.