Chapter 66: West Brom's misery

Before the game even kicked off, Arthur was absolutely convinced of one thing: Blackwell was going to park the bus. Not just any bus, but a double-decker with reinforced windows and a trailer hitched to the back for good measure. The man had built his entire coaching reputation on setting up walls thicker than the ones at Fort Knox, and Arthur knew he wasn't going to change his ways now—not when his job was hanging by a thread. But Arthur wasn't worried. In fact, he was grinning like a man who had already cracked the code to the vault. If Blackwell wanted to play turtle football, Arthur was more than happy to bring the sledgehammer. That's why he ditched his usual 4-2-3-1 for something a bit more, as he called it, "unapologetically aggressive." He set up in a 4-4-2, packed the midfield, and loaded the front line with height and muscle. "If they wanna build a wall," he smirked before kickoff, "we'll just send in the wrecking ball." His wrecking ball of choice? Edin Džeko—Leeds United's new towering striker at 1.93 meters, making him about as subtle as a freight train. It was his first league start since signing, and Arthur paired him up front with Falcao. "Height and hunger," Arthur said during the team talk, "I want you two to make their defenders regret ever learning to jump." Behind them, the ever-reliable Deisler was set to pull the strings, fully rested and ready to torment West Brom's midfield like it was his personal playground. On the flanks, he went with Ribery on the left and Bale on the right, both given explicit instructions: "Run at them until their fullbacks cry." In defensive midfield, Arthur planted Yaya Touré—not just for his physicality but for that bazooka of a right foot. "If they won't let us in through the door," Arthur grinned, patting Yaya on the back, "feel free to blast a hole through the wall." The match kicked off, and as expected, West Brom slunk back like they'd been ordered to defend the last Pringle in the can. Their back line was practically glued to the penalty box, leaving Leeds United to play patient passes around the edge. Every time Deisler or Falcao got the ball in that narrow space between the lines, two or three West Brom players pounced on them like they were guarding the crown jewels. It was like watching a pack of dogs chase after the mailman—lots of energy, but not a lot of grace. When they couldn't turn or find a path forward, Deisler and Falcao just coolly passed it back to Touré or one of the defenders, who started the slow, almost hypnotic cycle again. Pass. Pass. Back. Pass. Pass. Back. It was football's version of a metronome. Leeds kept possession, dancing around the outside of West Brom's fortress, waiting for just the right moment to swing the wrecking ball. It wasn't the most thrilling football, though. After ten minutes of watching Leeds United keep the ball like stingy misers, the West Brom fans started getting restless. Boos began to rain down from the stands, along with a few choice words that Arthur was pretty sure weren't compliments. "Oi! You still think you're gonna score three? From your own half?" one West Brom fan shouted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Another yelled, "This is the team that beat Chelsea? What did Chelsea do? Take the week off?" The loudest of them all bellowed, "Even Ferguson couldn't beat this lot? He must've been watching with his eyes closed!" Arthur just smirked, folding his arms and watching the passes tick by. He didn't care about the jeers. In fact, he kind of loved it. If West Brom's fans wanted to throw insults, it just meant they were nervous. And nervous meant they were already losing. But the best heckle of the day came when a particularly frustrated fan shouted, "Hey, at least we're not passing backwards! We're always moving forward!" His mate next to him, with the comic timing of a seasoned stand-up, shot back, "Mate, our forwards are so far back they're practically in the car park! Who are they gonna pass back to? The hot dog vendor?" Arthur couldn't help but chuckle. Even in frustration, West Brom's fans had some comedy in them. But the jeers did nothing to change his strategy. Leeds United continued to control possession, moving the ball side to side, probing, stretching the defense inch by inch. Touré and Deisler orchestrated the tempo masterfully, switching the ball from one flank to the other, forcing West Brom's deep defensive line to shuffle and adjust constantly. It was like watching a chess player slowly set up the perfect checkmate, only with more shouting and fewer grandmasters. Arthur leaned back on the bench, crossed his legs, and smiled. "Let them boo," he muttered under his breath, eyes still fixed on the field. "We'll let them run themselves ragged. Then, we break." He just hoped Blackwell was comfortable in that parked bus, because it was only a matter of time before Leeds United came crashing through. The game had been stuck in the mud for the better part of fifteen minutes—West Brom's back line was practically lounging inside their own penalty area, playing footsie with caution. Leeds United poked and prodded, passing sideways and back, like someone trying to figure out which part of the wall was the weakest. The West Brom fans, spurred on by a bit of hopeful desperation, began to cheer louder, and it didn't take long for that energy to leak onto the pitch. Arthur, watching from the sideline with his arms crossed, couldn't help but smirk as he noticed it: West Brom's players—who had spent the first quarter of an hour playing hide-and-seek in their own half—were now creeping forward, bit by bit, like they'd just remembered that football could also be played on the other side of the halfway line. He shot a glance over at Blackwell, who was barking orders with the enthusiasm of a man who'd just been handed a lottery ticket. Arthur shook his head. "Does he really not see it?" he mumbled, half-amused. With the ball out of play for a throw-in, Arthur called Deisler over, cupping his hands around his mouth to block out the noise. "They're getting bold," Arthur said, his grin widening. "We're gonna let them keep thinking it's working. Tell the lads to drop back a bit. Lure them out. Let them think they've got us on the ropes." Deisler nodded, a sly smile spreading across his face. "You want us to rope-a-dope them?" Arthur chuckled. "Something like that. And when they get too comfortable, we hit 'em where it hurts." Moments after the throw-in, it began. Leeds United subtly dropped their formation just a touch, like they were getting bullied into their own half. But the players knew better. Deisler and Yaya Touré played it perfectly, feeding little back passes and nudging possession deeper, just to get West Brom a little more adventurous. And it worked. Blackwell, oblivious as ever, didn't even seem to notice. West Brom's defenders began stepping up, the midfield pressed higher, and before long, West Brom fans were actually cheering. Cheering! At Hawthorns! It was like seeing a rare bird in the wild. Arthur just leaned back, hands in his pockets, and whistled casually. "Come on, come on... a little bit further," he muttered to himself. In the 17th minute, the opening came. Bale lost the ball on the left flank—well, more like he "accidentally" dribbled it into a pair of West Brom defenders. Immediately, West Brom burst forward, pinging the ball out of their half like it was on fire. The fans were practically levitating out of their seats. It was the loudest they'd been since...well, Arthur wasn't sure they'd ever been that loud. The ball zipped around midfield and was quickly fed to the edge of Leeds United's penalty area. Schmeichel, who had been napping for the past quarter of an hour, sprang to life. He charged out like he'd just remembered he was a goalkeeper and smothered the ball before West Brom's striker could even take a breath. The home fans groaned as one, collapsing back into their seats like someone had just turned off their Wi-Fi. But that was only half the fun. Schmeichel, still cradling the ball like it was made of gold, sprang to his feet and unleashed a punt that seemed to defy physics. The ball soared over the halfway line, and there, right on cue, was Džeko, all 1.93 meters of him, standing like a skyscraper in the middle of the field. Džeko leapt into the air with the grace of a man whose head was specifically designed for headers. He nodded the ball perfectly into the path of Deisler, who, unlike West Brom's midfielders, actually seemed to know where he was going. Deisler barely took a touch before flicking his eyes upfield, his brain already two steps ahead. With a smooth, effortless motion, he threaded a perfect ground pass through what could only be described as West Brom's defensive Bermuda Triangle. The ball zipped forward, skipping off the grass like it was late for a meeting. And who was waiting on the other end? Ribéry, sprinting down the right flank like he'd been shot out of a cannon. West Brom's defense? Nowhere to be seen. They were still admiring their "successful" counterattack. The crowd collectively inhaled, their cheers dying in their throats as they watched Ribéry, unmarked and absolutely flying, charge toward goal. Leeds United had gone from their own penalty area to West Brom's in less than five seconds. It was the football equivalent of getting pickpocketed and mugged at the same time. The commentator nearly choked on his words:"Beautiful!!! Deadly through pass!!! Ribéry's clear through! It's just him and the keeper! For him, scoring these is like drinking water!" West Brom's fans let out a collective groan of despair, with some even slumping back into their seats before Ribéry reached the box. They knew. Everyone knew. Ribéry, calm as a monk on holiday, didn't even break stride. As the keeper came lunging out, Ribéry casually feinted to shoot, sending the poor man flopping to the ground like a fish out of water. A simple tap with his left foot, and the ball rolled into the empty net. Arthur didn't even flinch. He just turned to his assistant, raising an eyebrow."Rope-a-dope," he said, chuckling. "They fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker." Ribéry slid across the grass, knees cutting through the turf as he spread his arms wide, basking in the roar of the traveling Leeds United fans. His teammates piled on him like kids on Christmas morning, and even Arthur allowed himself a slow, satisfied clap from the sideline. The West Brom fans who had been gleefully mocking Arthur's pre-match confidence now sat in stunned silence. The laughter? Gone. The smug chants? Vanished. The only sounds coming from the stands were groans and the occasional muttered curse. It was as if someone had hit the mute button on the entire stadium. In the dugout, Blackwell looked like he'd just bitten into a lemon. His face flushed a peculiar shade of crimson—somewhere between beetroot and complete existential crisis. He stood there, arms crossed so tightly it looked like he was trying to strangle his own ribs. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of digging trenches and building walls, only to watch it all crumble like a sandcastle under a wave. And to make matters worse, it wasn't even Leeds United's patient build-up that cracked them open. No, it was a counterattack—the exact same strategy he had planned to use against Arthur. He stared at his players on the pitch, most of whom now looked like they'd just been told Christmas was canceled. Heads were down, shoulders slumped, and there was a sense of disbelief lingering in the air, as if they hadn't quite processed how they'd gone from hopeful to hopeless in the blink of an eye. Blackwell rubbed his temples and let out a sigh that could probably be heard back in Birmingham. If he wanted to get back into this game, they'd have to attack now—there was no hiding from it. The defensive shell was cracked, and sitting back any longer would be nothing short of surrender. But that thought only made his mood worse. Attack? With this lot? He glanced over at his squad, a ragtag group of mostly inexperienced players, patched together like someone had built a team out of leftover parts. Then there was Bates. The lad had been promoted from the youth team during the summer—more out of necessity than merit, really. The club had slashed the budget like it was on a diet, and old Den, the youth coach, had basically thrown Bates onto the first team just to fill out the numbers. So far, his biggest contribution had been not tripping over his own shoelaces. And now, Blackwell was supposed to rely on him to equalize against Leeds United—a team that had just sliced them open like they were a training dummy. He let out a long, weary sigh, running his hands through what little hair he had left. Arthur, meanwhile, couldn't have looked more relaxed if he'd been sitting on a beach chair with a piña colada. He turned to his assistant with a grin. "Think they're regretting laughing now?" His assistant chuckled. "I'd say they're reconsidering a lot of life choices right about now." Arthur just smirked, folding his arms and watching as the West Brom players shuffled back to the center circle, heads down and spirits sagging. He didn't even need to say anything—one look at Blackwell's face told him everything. The man was already dreading the next seventy minutes.