Chapter 54: Against Manchester United 1

*** Join my Patreon for Advance Chapters ( about 30 or so) and my other 2 stories Link is Below. Remove space after http. https:// www.patreon.com/c/Virtuosso777?redirect=true Leave some comments, stones and review if you like it so far *** (I replaced the Chinese commentary with Spanish. Someone please explain the damn logic that a bunch of Chinese commentators would be doing a Premier League commentary and beating their meat cz the MC is Chinese in every sentence! At least until 10 more chapters, this shit goes on, so my suffering continues as well. ) The match had been going for just fifteen minutes, but for Leeds United, it might as well have been fifteen years in a haunted house. The ball just refused to cross the halfway line. Every time they tried, Manchester United's players closed in like overly enthusiastic bouncers at a nightclub. The roar of Old Trafford grew louder with each intercepted pass, each misplaced touch, and Arthur, arms folded on the sideline, looked like he was trying very hard not to chew through his clipboard. "Welcome back, everyone! We're live from Old Trafford where Manchester United is making Leeds United look like they've brought spoons to a sword fight," laughed Javier, the Spanish commentator. His partner Carlos added, "I'm not sure Leeds has seen the other half of the pitch yet. I heard there's grass over there, but I can't confirm it." On the field, Ferguson's high press was squeezing the life out of Leeds. It was as if Ferguson had read Arthur's tactics like the morning newspaper. Modric, Leeds' midfield maestro, was trapped every time he touched the ball. Like clockwork, Scholes and Rooney pounced on him, giving him about as much breathing room as a sardine in a can. Modric looked up for options, saw nothing but red shirts, and had to hurriedly offload the ball—straight to Keane, who was waiting like a hawk circling a wounded rabbit. Arthur threw his hands up on the sideline, shouting instructions that probably made sense to him, but to anyone watching, it just looked like he was having a mild breakdown. "Luka! You need to release it faster! Faster! This isn't a picnic!" Arthur bellowed. Modric gave him a thumbs up that looked more like a cry for help. Meanwhile, Deisler wasn't having any more luck. Keane shadowed him like a bad decision, stepping into every passing lane and stealing possession with ease. The Leeds players were beginning to look shell-shocked, as if they'd just wandered into a trap and the door had slammed shut behind them. "Oh, intercepted again! At this rate, Leeds will have to buy a ticket just to get into Manchester United's half," joked Javier. Carlos snorted. "Maybe Ferguson's charging rent. Modric hasn't gotten a touch without paying a fee." Sure enough, Keane intercepted another panicked pass from Modric and immediately launched a counterattack. He played a sharp pass out wide to Giggs, who controlled it smoothly on the left flank. Milner and Mascherano tried to converge, but Giggs slipped between them with the grace of a ballroom dancer. "Look at that! Giggs just danced right through them!" Carlos exclaimed. "I didn't know you could salsa in football boots!" Giggs saw a clear path to the penalty area and took off like he'd just stolen something. Silva rushed over to stop him, but Giggs, as experienced as they come, didn't even hesitate. He nudged the ball into the middle of the box where Van Nistelrooy was lurking. Kompany was draped all over the Dutchman, trying to make his life as miserable as possible, while Chiellini hovered around Rooney, nudging and shoving with that classic Italian flair. But Van Nistelrooy, ever the fox in the box, let the ball slip right through his legs with a delicate dummy. It was as if time slowed down. Everyone froze—except Cristiano Ronaldo, who was ghosting in unmarked at the back post. One bounce, and Ronaldo smashed the ball on the volley past Schmeichel, who barely saw it flash by. The scoreboard flickered: 1-0 to Manchester United. Arthur, pacing the sideline like someone looking for their lost car keys, exploded. "Frank! FRANK!" he shouted, gesturing wildly at Ribery, who was still jogging back like it was Sunday in the park. "Do you know who Ronaldo is? Because he just introduced himself to the back of our net! You can't just let him float around back there like it's a bloody picnic!" Ribery looked back with the expression of a man who had just realized his house was on fire. He nodded furiously, more out of desperation than understanding. Things only got worse. Ten minutes later, Ronaldo once again found himself sprinting down the right flank. Ribery tried to keep up, but it was like chasing a sports car on a bicycle. In a moment of pure desperation, Ribery clipped Ronaldo's ankle. The referee's whistle blew, and Ribery's name went straight into the book. Carlos chuckled. "Well, at least Ribery finally stopped him. Unfortunately, he had to break the law to do it." Javier laughed. "I don't think Ribery minds right now. He looks like he's aged ten years in this first half." Manchester United was awarded a free kick, about 23 meters from goal. Ronaldo stood over the ball, adjusting his stance like he was measuring up a golf shot. Arthur stood on the sidelines, hands on his hips, muttering to himself. "Oh great, it's the posing again. Does he have to do that every time?" The whistle blew. Ronaldo took his famous stance, did his trademark deep breath, and fired. The ball dipped and swerved with the grace of a paper plane in a wind tunnel, smashing into the back of the net before Schmeichel could even blink. 2-0 to Manchester United. Arthur's shoulders slumped, and he rubbed his eyes. "Fantastic. Maybe next he'll do a backflip just to rub it in," he muttered sarcastically. Meanwhile, in the studio, Ere Gedi had both hands on his head like he'd just seen a ghost. "This is a disaster! Ribery's having a nightmare! Leeds can't even organize a proper attack. If Arthur doesn't make some changes, they're going to need search parties to find the ball!" Javier nodded grimly. "I don't think Arthur planned for this. Let's see if he can dig them out of this hole...if he can even find a shovel." The stadium buzzed with energy, Manchester United fans in full voice after Ronaldo's second goal. Old Trafford was rocking, and Arthur stood on the sideline, hands on his hips, squinting at the scoreboard as if it had personally insulted him. His mind wasn't on the scoreboard, though—it was on the flashing red marker on his system panel, where Ribery's status had plummeted from "normal" to "poor." Two glaring mistakes in twenty-five minutes, both punished ruthlessly by Ronaldo. Confidence shredded. Arthur rubbed his chin, deep in thought. Should he pull Ribery off? Cut the bleeding before it got worse? But Arthur knew the damage that could do. Yanking Ribery off this early would be like handing him a shovel and telling him to dig his own confidence's grave. Arthur could almost see the headlines: "Ribery Hauled Off After Nightmare First Half!" No, that wasn't the way. Replacing him would make things worse. Besides, who was he going to throw in there? Ferguson's United were like sharks in the water right now, and Ronaldo? The guy was running around like he had rocket boosters strapped to his legs. Even with a sub, Arthur wasn't convinced anyone could keep up with him. Arthur clapped his hands sharply and whistled. "Milner! Get over here!" Milner jogged over, breathing heavily, sweat pouring off him. "Gaffer?" Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. "James, next 25 minutes, I want you and Frank to sit back. Forget pressing high. You're practically inviting Ronaldo to run at you. Retreat to the back line, both of you. Vardy drops back to midfield, he's not going to see the ball up front anyway. We're parking the bus. Clear it upfield whenever you get it, hoof it to Falcao and let him fight for it. I don't care if it's pretty. We just need to stop the bleeding." Milner blinked, taken aback. "We're parking the bus? Already? It's only 25 minutes in." Arthur nodded firmly. "We're not playing pretty, we're playing smart. You ever seen a man try to fistfight a bear? No, because they're not stupid enough to try. Right now, United's the bear. We need to run out the clock till halftime, then we'll figure it out. Got it?" Milner paused for a moment, then gave a sharp nod. "Got it." He jogged back onto the field, shouting instructions. Arthur watched him go, arms folded, head shaking. "Twenty-five minutes in and I'm already pulling a Mourinho," he muttered under his breath. Up in the commentary box, Javier and Carlos watched the change in shape unfold. "Look at that! Leeds United is parking the bus! Arthur's not even pretending anymore!" Javier chuckled. Carlos laughed, "I think he just handed Ribery a sleeping bag and told him to camp out in front of goal. Bold move, but maybe smart." Meanwhile, on social media, fans weren't as charitable."I told you! Leeds are getting battered!""Ronaldo's eating Ribery for breakfast. Arthur might as well hand him a napkin.""Is Leeds United playing football or just hide and seek?" Back on the pitch, Manchester United continued to probe, but it wasn't as easy anymore. With Milner and Ribery pulled back, Ronaldo found the space around him shrinking. He still tried, of course—cutting inside, skipping past tackles—but every time he blinked, there were two more white shirts clogging his path. Up front, Falcao looked like he'd been abandoned on a desert island, waving his arms in frustration as long balls were hoofed his way with all the subtlety of a firework show. He battled for possession, winning a few headers, but without support, it was mostly an exercise in solo frustration. Still, Arthur didn't care. The game was slowing down, and that was all he wanted. The last 20 minutes of the half were a slog, and he could hear the Manchester United fans groaning in frustration as each attack fizzled out against Leeds' wall of bodies. The halftime whistle blew, and Arthur turned swiftly on his heel, heading towards the tunnel. He was already planning the adjustments. Before he even got three steps in, he heard a familiar Scottish accent behind him. "Arthur!" Ferguson called out, a wide grin on his face. Arthur paused, turning back. Ferguson, arms crossed, smiled as if he'd just won a friendly wager. "Didn't think you'd come here to play hide-and-seek, lad," Ferguson chuckled. Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Hide-and-seek? I call it strategic napping. Figured Ronaldo needed a break after all that running," he shot back, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ferguson laughed, shaking his head. "Fair enough. But I hope you've got more than that up your sleeve for the second half." Arthur just grinned. "Well, Alex, the ball is round, and we've got 45 minutes to make things interesting." Ferguson chuckled again, giving him a nod. "I'll be watching, lad." Arthur turned back and strode into the tunnel, his mind already racing through options. He knew Ferguson would be preparing for the counter-punch. He had to be clever. He had to be bold. *** Meanwhile, in Barcelona, Shakira was lounging on her friend's couch, the match playing on the TV in front of them. She took a sip of her drink, eyes flicking back to the screen as Arthur disappeared down the tunnel. "He looks motivated, maybe he'll make a comeback?" she remarked casually. Her friend glanced over, eyebrows raised. "Arthur? The Leeds coach? You do know he's down 2-0, right?" Shakira shrugged. "I know...but there's something about him. He doesn't seem rattled at all. It's like he's still planning something." Her friend snorted. "Please, you're just crushing on him because he's young and handsome." Shakira smirked. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like an underdog." Her friend shook her head. "Just wait for the second half. I'm telling you, if he operates differently. He might make a comeback. But that doesn't seem likely." Shakira raised an eyebrow. "If he does, I'll buy you dinner," she said, laughing. Her friend grinned. "And if he doesn't?" Shakira's smile widened. "Then I'll just have to send him my condolences...personally."