Chapter 32: Last round of championship

After storming out of the meeting room like a villain in a bad soap opera, Bates finally made it back to his office. He slammed the door shut, plopped into his chair, and let out a long, angry sigh. For a few minutes, he just sat there, glaring at nothing in particular and puffing furiously on a cigar like a grumpy dragon. Slowly, very slowly, the rage started to drain out of him. He realized throwing a fit wasn't going to fix anything. He had a real problem: Arthur. Bates knew Arthur too well. The man was stubborn. Ruthless. The kind of guy who would happily watch you drown just to sell you a life jacket afterwards — at double the price. If Bates went back to argue with Arthur again, it'd be a waste of time. Worse, while he was busy arguing, Ferguson might swoop in and grab Tevez right from under his nose. That would be a disaster. The only smart move left was to get the money together, trigger the buyout clause, and snatch Tevez before anyone else could. Bates lit another cigar, leaned back in his chair, and started crunching numbers like his life depended on it. First question: How much money did he actually need? Arthur had made it crystal clear in his email — Tevez's release clause was €29 million. Bates had some money, but he was still short about €11 million to close the deal. Now came the fun part: figuring out how to magically conjure up €11 million without causing a riot. Step one was obvious. Sell players. Lots of players. Honestly, after the disaster of a season West Brom had, nobody would even miss most of them. The team's defense was a running joke. When they lost, they lost by four or five goals. When they won, it was usually by a pitiful one-goal margin that made everyone nervous until the final whistle. In fact, their goal difference was a national embarrassment — sitting at a depressing minus 34, second-worst in the entire Premier League. Bates grabbed a pen, scribbled down a few names, and did some rough math. If he was lucky — and that was a big if — selling off the dead weight could bring in about €9 million. Not bad. Plus, promoting a few kids from the youth academy would plug the gaps without costing much. They might lose more games, sure, but hey, at least they'd save on wages. That still left Bates short by around €2 million. He leaned back in his chair, puffing on his cigar like a man plotting a bank heist. How else could he scrape together the last bit? Rob a bank? Sell a kidney? Stage a raffle where first prize was "Dinner with Bates, Second Prize: Two Dinners with Bates"? No. He needed something smarter. Five minutes and one very chewed-up cigar later, inspiration struck. His shares. Bates owned 23% of West Bromwich Albion — a nice, chunky slice of the club worth about €12 million. If he could mortgage that chunk for a short-term loan, he'd have just enough money to pull this off. Sure, it was risky. If things went south, he could lose his shares and end up looking like a complete idiot. But on the flip side, if Tevez came in, started banging in goals, and West Brom climbed the table next season, Bates would look like a genius. It was the classic Bates move: High risk, high reward, no brakes. The decision was made. Bates crushed the remains of his cigar in the ashtray with a dramatic flourish, stood up, and immediately pulled open his laptop. First, he needed to keep Arthur from selling Tevez to anyone else. He couldn't afford to waste time. He cracked his knuckles, opened a blank email, and started typing. The message was simple: He would buy. He was ready to meet the buyout clause. No haggling, no nonsense. Full price, straight deal. Bates figured that even though he and Arthur had butted heads before — and probably fantasized about strangling each other at least once or twice — business was business. Money talked. Arthur wasn't the sentimental type. If Bates showed up with a fat enough check, Arthur wasn't going to say no just to be petty. That wasn't how you ran a club — and Arthur, for all his faults, was no fool. Satisfied with the email, Bates hit "send" and leaned back in his chair, a smug smile spreading across his face. It was a gamble. A massive one. But it was better than sitting around waiting for Ferguson to snatch Tevez and leave West Brom looking like clowns. For the first time in days, Bates felt a tiny sliver of hope. Now, all he had to do was convince a bank to lend him a mountain of money based on shares in a club that was one bad month away from another relegation scrap. Easy. Probably. Maybe. He puffed on another cigar and muttered under his breath, "What could possibly go wrong?" ···· At exactly 7 PM, the Stadium of Light in Sunderland was already packed to the rafters. More than 60,000 fans crammed into every available seat, buzzing with excitement like a swarm of caffeinated bees. Down on the pitch, Leeds United players were going through their final warm-ups. Arthur, standing at the edge of the tunnel, was busy throwing compliments around like candy at a parade. "Hey, Emmanuel, nice shooting today! You're actually hitting the goal instead of the parking lot. Good work!" "Great pass, Wesley! Almost looked professional!" "James, remember, when fighting for the ball, use that big body of yours. Pretend it owes you money!" Players grinned, nodded, and jogged past him, disappearing one after another into the tunnel. The warm-up was over. Game time was coming fast. Arthur high-fived every single player on their way in, clapping palms and tossing out a few last-second words of encouragement. Then, he followed them into the locker room. Inside, the atmosphere was thick — a cocktail of nerves, excitement, and enough sweat to fill a small pond. But today, Arthur didn't do what he usually did. There was no frantic scribbling on the whiteboard. No last-minute tactical lectures. No wild hand gestures that made him look like he was trying to land a plane. Instead, he stood quietly in the middle of the locker room, arms folded, just watching his players getting ready. The players looked confused. James Milner, their captain and unofficial translator of Arthur's weird behavior, kept glancing over like, "Uhh, boss? You okay?" Arthur just smiled. When everyone was finally suited up, shin guards in, boots tied, faces serious, Arthur clapped his hands sharply, breaking the silence. Then, without a word, he lowered his right hand, palm down. The players looked at each other. Was this some weird new tactic? A group yoga exercise? A magic spell? Thankfully, Milner was smart enough to catch on. He marched forward and slapped his hand down on top of Arthur's. One by one, the others followed, stacking their hands in the center like they were about to summon Captain Planet. Finally, with everyone huddled together, Arthur shouted: "Leeds United!" And every player roared back: "CHAMPIONS!" The sound bounced off the walls, shook the lockers, and probably terrified a few poor Sunderland fans in the hallway. It was official: they were ready for war. Twenty minutes later, the teams lined up at the mouth of the tunnel. The referee, doing his best impression of a grumpy schoolteacher, led them onto the field. The Stadium of Light exploded. The cheers for Sunderland were deafening — like standing next to a jet engine. Meanwhile, every time a Leeds player was announced over the loudspeaker, the crowd booed like someone had insulted their grandmothers. Arthur stood calmly on the sidelines, watching his players take their positions. Calm on the outside, anyway. Inside, it was chaos. His heart was pounding so loud he was pretty sure the fourth official could hear it. Ten months ago, Arthur had been a regular guy. Just another football fan with a closet full of old jerseys and a head full of ridiculous dreams. He wasn't a coach. He wasn't famous. He wasn't even allowed near professional players without buying a ticket. The Championship? It might as well have been the moon. And now here he was: on the sidelines, suit and all, getting ready to lead Leeds United into a title-deciding match. All because of one stupid, drunken night and a system that had dumped a truckload of football knowledge into his brain. Arthur shook his head in disbelief. He had no right to be here, and yet, here he was. He had an actual shot at holding a trophy tonight. A real one. Not one of those cheap plastic things you win at a pub quiz. The thought sent a thrill up his spine. He tried to stay cool, but inside he was bouncing around like a toddler on a sugar rush. Every football fan has dreamed about it: standing on a real pitch, in front of a sea of roaring fans, lifting a trophy high above their head while confetti rains down. Most fans wake up, sigh, and go back to their regular lives. Arthur was living it. And if things went well tonight, this would just be the beginning. After tonight, he wasn't stopping. No way. He had plans: build Leeds United into a monster, smash their way back into the Premier League, win the Champions League, the FA Cup, heck, even the Community Shield for good measure. He wasn't here just to participate. He was here to make Leeds United a legend. As he stood there, full of secret excitement, a little voice inside him screamed: "Arthur and Leeds United are going to rule the world!" A shrill whistle pierced the air, snapping him out of his daydream. The referee had blown to start the match. Showtime. Adebayor nudged the ball back to Milner, and just like that, the biggest game of their season — Sunderland vs. Leeds United, the penultimate round of the 2004–2005 Championship — was underway. Arthur stuffed his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and grinned. One way or another, it was going to be a night to remember.