Chapter 3: First match

In the heart of London's Knightsbridge, where old wealth met old habits, the curtains were drawn back just enough to let the morning light spill into a classic English study. Walnut shelves lined with aged books and football trophies. A whiff of old leather and ink. And there, sitting in a high-back armchair, was Ken Bates—ex-owner of Chelsea, current owner of West Bromwich Albion, and proud wearer of the roundest glasses in football. With a silver mane that seemed combed by the Queen's own valet and a cardigan that hadn't changed since Thatcher was in office, Bates was a relic in many ways—but a very cunning one. In one hand, he held a cup of Yorkshire tea (ironically brewed in London). In the other, the fresh print of the Yorkshire Post. His gaze locked on the headline. "Leeds United Chairman Signs Controversial Goalkeeper Without Coach Approval" His lips curled into a smile, then a chuckle, and finally, a full-bellied laugh. "Hahahaha! This Arthur fellow—he really is a brave little clown, isn't he?" He slapped the paper against his knee, nearly spilling his tea. "A butter-hand keeper as your grand signing? And you promise him the starting spot? That's not management, that's madness!" To anyone unfamiliar with the backstory, it might've seemed like the rambling of an eccentric retiree. But Ken Bates was far from irrelevant. Just a few years ago, he'd sold Chelsea for a tidy sum. The Abramovich era had kicked off, and while everyone else got swept up in blue flags and expensive Brazilians, Bates simply moved on—like a proper businessman who'd cashed out on one horse and now had his eyes on another. He'd acquired West Bromwich Albion and was quietly operating it with enough investment to keep them afloat in the Premier League, but not enough to stir attention. It was a means to an end. Bates wasn't in love with the game; he was in love with the numbers behind it. And Leeds United? That was supposed to be his next masterpiece. He'd seen it from a mile away—big fanbase, passionate local support, historical clout—and more importantly, financial chaos. That's the real gem for someone like him. Leeds was perfect. All it needed was one bad season to make it ripe for a cheap takeover. Originally, negotiations had started with Arthur's father. The man may have been a dreamer, but at least he'd been pragmatic. They were already in the stages of serious talks. But then—bam—like an unexpected red card, Arthur's father died suddenly. The entire operation was shelved. That alone had frustrated Bates. But now? This new chairman, this Arthur, was a gift from the football gods. No sense, no experience, and apparently no control over his own dressing room. He folded the newspaper neatly, set it down, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin. "Let him burn through his little piggy bank," Bates muttered, "by midseason, he'll be begging to sell." And that was the plan. Bates would wait. No need to swoop in early. Leeds were still scrambling, trying to patch holes with butter-gloved goalkeepers and mystery signings. Let them crash a few matches, rile up the fans, lose confidence. Then, once the price dipped low enough—he'd strike. Take the club at a discount, hold it for two years, and resell to the next football tycoon looking for history and heritage. He lifted his teacup and toasted the Yorkshire Post. "To Arthur, long may your confusion continue." — Back in Leeds, inside a cluttered office at Elland Road, Arthur sat at his desk staring at the glowing interface of the system. Player stats, transfer offers, skill templates—it all buzzed across the screen like an advanced Football Manager game. He was still adapting to the idea that this thing was real and not some side effect of his insomnia and endless cans of Irn-Bru. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back. The office was quiet. Not the calm kind of quiet—more like the "everyone's gossiping about you behind your back" kind of quiet. Ever since the Howard deal got leaked to the press, things had been tense. Blackwell wasn't speaking much. The coaching staff were eyeing him like he'd just stolen a scone from the club cafeteria. Still, he pressed on. Just as he was about to check on another scouting report, his phone buzzed on the desk. Caller ID: Allen (Assistant) Arthur answered immediately. "Talk to me." Allen's voice came through, crisp and surprisingly upbeat. "Boss, good news. The offers you approved last week—all accepted. Every club's agreed. I'll start arranging for personal contract negotiations today." Arthur let out a long breath, as if he'd been holding it in since the Yorkshire Post ambush. "That's a relief," he said. "Make sure we move fast. I don't want any second thoughts from the clubs or the players. The season starts next weekend." "Understood," Allen said. "We're already lining up the meetings." Arthur hung up and leaned forward again. The press hated him. The fans doubted him. Blackwell definitely wanted to strangle him. But the plan was in motion. Howard was just the first domino. If the rest of the signings went through, and if he used the right templates on the right players—Leeds would look nothing like the team they were predicting for relegation. His eyes glanced at the system again. The Buffon template still shimmered on standby, ready to be deployed. He hadn't used it on Howard yet. That moment needed to be timed perfectly—just before the season opener, ideally. "Let them laugh," Arthur muttered. He opened his laptop and clicked over to the largest football fan forum in Leeds. The top post read: "Arthur OUT? Who takes over when we hit 18th?" Another one: "We sold our souls for butter hands." Arthur chuckled. At least they were being creative. He didn't reply. Didn't comment. Just bookmarked the page. He had plans. He had a system. And soon, he'd have results. Let Bates gloat in London. Let Blackwell sulk on the training ground. Let the newspapers call him mad. If everything went to plan, they'd all be singing a different tune by Christmas. And if not? Well, he'd still have one thing going for him. He had nothing left to lose. *** Promotion to the Premier League required more than a makeshift defense and one shaky goalkeeper; it demanded a squad stacked with talent and depth. So, on the drive back from Elland Road to Manchester headquarters, Arthur had already spread a crisp sheet of paper across his lap and begun to tick off names. His list was simple: Adebayo, Chiellini, Tevez, Sneijder. Four future superstars who, in 2004, still carried modest price tags. Arthur knew their trajectories: each of them would light up the biggest stages in world football, their market values skyrocketing in the seasons ahead. If he could secure their signatures now—before anyone realized their true worth—he could flip them for a fortune in the next transfer window. That, more than anything, would lift Leeds United out of its €80 million debt hole. *** August 7, 2004. Elland Road Stadium was buzzing, but not with excitement. It was more like a simmering pot of soup about to boil over. The first match of the new Championship season was about to kick off, and Leeds United were set to face Derby County in front of their home crowd. For Arthur, this day had come far too quickly. In the chairman's suite, Arthur sat stiffly, hands resting on the arms of his seat like he was about to be strapped into a rollercoaster. He glanced around the half-packed VIP box—only a couple of local business sponsors, some bored-looking club staff, and a frowning local councillor sipping a flat Coke. Down on the pitch, the players were warming up. And at the heart of the pre-match storm stood Tim Howard. Yes, that Howard. The one everyone on the Leeds forum was calling "Butter Hands." Despite the goalkeeper's solid showing during training, fans weren't having it. As the match announcer, Eddie Gray, began reading out the starting eleven, the boos started rolling in like a heavy Yorkshire fog. "And in goal, number 1... Tim Howard!" BOOOOOOOOOOOO! The crowd didn't hold back. A tidal wave of jeers rolled through the stadium like a stampede. It was so loud even the pigeons on the roof flapped off in a panic. One man in the East Stand shouted, "We don't need a butter-fingered Yank in goal!" Another added, "Why not just play with no keeper at all?" A third, clearly well-connected (or just good at making things up), shouted, "My cousin's mate's dog walker knows someone at the club. It wasn't even Blackwell's choice! The new owner guaranteed him a starting place!" In the press area, reporters were already preparing their headlines. "Chaos at Leeds." "American Nightmare Begins." "Butter-Fingers Howard Starts Despite Boos." Take your pick. Meanwhile, in London, Ken Bates was watching the whole circus unfold from a leather armchair in his private study. Dressed in a navy robe, sipping brandy that smelled like it had been aged since the Crusades, he watched the boos pour down on Howard like rain on Blackpool beach. He chuckled, swirled the drink in his glass, and muttered, "This kid Arthur's digging his own grave. Perfect. Just let Leeds lose the first few matches, and the club's value will plummet. I'll pick it up cheaper than a Sunday roast." Back in the Leeds dressing room, Howard sat silently, fiddling with the Velcro strap on his gloves. He wasn't new to criticism—Old Trafford fans had grumbled enough when he was dropped—but this was something else. This felt personal. Around him, his teammates were awkwardly pretending not to notice. Alan Smith sat with his boots off, staring at the floor. The normally talkative Danny Pugh was suddenly very interested in re-tying his laces for the tenth time. Even veteran defender Paul Butler, who usually made bad jokes to lighten the mood, was oddly quiet. In the coaching area, Kevin Blackwell stood by the tactics board, clearing his throat like he was about to give a wedding toast. He looked at the eleven men starting the game, then back at Arthur, who had popped into the dressing room unannounced. Arthur stood there in his club suit, trying to appear calm, but his hand was shaking slightly as he held his coffee. He knew Blackwell hated him. He knew the fans were after his neck. But he also knew something they didn't—Howard had the Buffon template. If this system worked like it promised, then Howard was about to play like one of the greatest goalkeepers in history. If it didn't? Well... then he'd probably be selling the club to Ken Bates by October. Blackwell spoke. "Alright lads, listen. First games are tricky. Derby's not going to be easy. Keep it tight, keep it simple." He hesitated, his eyes flicking to Howard. "And... Tim. Just do your best." Arthur's brow twitched. He wanted to say something encouraging, something visionary like "Today is the beginning of a new era," or "Believe in the future!" But the words caught in his throat. So instead, he gave Howard a thumbs up. A stiff, awkward, slightly pathetic thumbs up. The players nodded, some with grim determination, others with the energy of men walking into a dentist's office. Moments later, they lined up in the tunnel. From inside the tunnel, the boos from the stands were now clearly audible. Howard exhaled slowly. The noise outside made it sound like he'd just kicked a puppy on national TV. "Welcome to Elland Road," he muttered under his breath. The referee blew his whistle. The players jogged onto the pitch. The match was about to begin. Arthur sat back down in his seat in the stands. He could feel dozens of eyes on him, especially from the rows of season ticket holders behind the dugout. Some were already muttering insults. One older gentleman shouted, "Where's your refund policy, son?" Arthur didn't flinch. Because deep down, he wasn't scared. Nervous? Sure. But not scared. He believed in Howard. He believed in the Buffon template. And more importantly, he believed in the long game. He checked his watch. 90 minutes to change everything—or crash harder than a pub drunk on a rainy Saturday night. Howard stood at the edge of the penalty box, slowly stretching his arms. The boos hadn't stopped since warm-up. If anything, they'd gotten louder. It was like every fan in Elland Road had made it their personal mission to remind him of every fumble he'd ever made—real or imagined. He kept his head down and took a deep breath. Calm down, Tim. No mistakes. Just focus. Don't drop anything. Especially not the ball. The noise felt like it was pressing down on him. But deep inside, he told himself—this was his chance. Maybe his last one. High above the pitch, in the sleek glass-fronted VIP box at Elland Road, Arthur stood with a hand resting lightly against the window. From up here, everything looked smaller. The players. The fans. Even the chaos. But the atmosphere was thick—he could almost hear the tension humming through the glass. He watched his players carefully. The body language was obvious. Shoulders slumped. Heads down. The jeers from the crowd weren't just hurting Howard. They were dragging the whole team's spirit into the mud. Arthur narrowed his eyes as the camera feed on the stadium screen zoomed in on Howard. The moment his face appeared, the boos somehow got louder again. They're eating him alive, Arthur thought grimly. No more waiting. With a flick of his mind, Arthur called up the system interface. It shimmered into existence like a video game HUD only he could see. "Use Peak Buffon Template Experience Card (Duration: 4 months)." "Please select the applicable object." Arthur didn't hesitate. "Applicable object: Timothy Matthew Howard." Two seconds passed. Three. Then—ping—a light blue font flickered to life across the system screen: "Template startup completed!" And right on cue, a new stat window popped open, replacing the plain Howard profile with something far more impressive: [Timothy Matthew Howard] (Peak Buffon Template Active — 4 months remaining) Age: 24 Offensive Threat: 37 (Hey, he's a keeper—not Messi.) Defensive Strength: 97 Body Balance: 93 Long Pass Accuracy: 90 Short Pass Accuracy: 91 Goal Line Technique: 98 Bounce: 92 Reaction: 97 Agility: 87 Injury Tolerance: A Transfer Value: €54.1 million Talent: S+ Game Status: HOT Special Skills: Excellent at saving penalty kicks Excellent at saving free kicks Comprehensive Assessment: S+ Arthur grinned. Now that's more like it. (insert solo leveling evil grin ????) On paper, Howard had gone from league punching bag to Champions League finalist in the space of a few seconds. He was now a one-man wall with the instincts of a cat and the hands of a world-class shot stopper. Of course, no one else could see that. To the crowd, he was still the "butter-handed American" who'd somehow been gifted a starting spot by the rookie chairman. Let them think that for now. Arthur backed away from the glass and returned to his seat. Outside, the players were lining up. The referee was checking his watch. The whistle was about to blow. Leeds United was about to kick off the new season—and Howard was about to prove the entire stadium wrong. If everything went to plan, by the end of 90 minutes, the same fans calling for Arthur's head might just be chanting his name. And if it didn't? Well... at least the Buffon template lasted four months.