Chapter 67: Blackwell gets sacked!

*** 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 *** Ribéry's opener had shattered the fragile balance that West Brom had clung to for the first 20 minutes. Arthur watched from the touchline with a grin that could only be described as smug satisfaction. West Brom's grand plan of parking the bus had been derailed, and now, with the crowd growing restless, they had no choice but to come out of their shell and chase the game. Of course, this was exactly what Arthur wanted. Like a spider watching a fly wander into its web, he had his team stretch the pitch wide, spreading West Brom's defenders so thin you could practically see the desperation leaking out of them. Every time Leeds United had possession, the ball zipped from left to right, side to side, like it was taunting the home side. Ribéry to Bale, Bale back to Toure, Toure to Deisler. West Brom's players shuffled back and forth, huffing and puffing like they were chasing ghosts. By the 31st minute, the frustration boiled over. The Hawthorns crowd, desperate for something—anything—to cheer for, began to roar as West Brom's midfield suddenly sprang to life. Arthur raised an eyebrow as three West Brom players charged at Toure like they were storming a castle. "Ah," Arthur chuckled to his assistant. "They finally got bored of jogging around." Toure, for his part, barely looked fazed. The three-man cavalry closed in, arms pumping, faces red with determination. But Toure, with the calmness of a man picking out vegetables at the market, simply took one step back, leaned slightly, and pinged the ball forward with the elegance of a golfer teeing off. No sideways pass. No safety ball back to the defense. He sent it straight down the middle, a line-breaking missile that carved West Brom's midfield in half. The ball zipped across the grass like it had somewhere very important to be, and its final destination? Falcao's feet. The Colombian forward was off like a greyhound, and for a split second, the entire stadium seemed to freeze. Was he offside? The linesman kept his flag down. Falcao, evidently not one for overthinking, didn't wait around for second opinions. He took one touch, glancing up at the goal like it had just insulted his mother, and drove forward with ruthless intent. West Brom's defenders scrambled, legs flailing and arms waving, but they might as well have been chasing shadows. Falcao reached the edge of the penalty area, took one final look, and swung his boot with the kind of confidence that could only come from a man utterly convinced the net was about to ripple. And ripple it did. The ball rocketed into the top left corner, just out of the goalkeeper's desperate reach. He flung himself like he was auditioning for a superhero movie, but all he managed to do was get a good view of the ball crashing into the net. Arthur punched the air, the away fans erupted, and Falcao wheeled away with that trademark grin of his, arms stretched out wide as if he'd just solved world hunger. Ribéry sprinted over to jump on his back, and the rest of the team piled in, forming a chaotic mess of white shirts and wide smiles. Up in the commentary box, Ere Geddy practically burst a lung. "Oh! The Colombian rushed into West Brom's penalty area like a bulldozer at full power! West Brom was completely unable to stop Leeds United's attack! 2–0! Falcao gets his goal, and Leeds United's warriors are gradually fulfilling their head coach's pre-match predictions!" Arthur grinned from the touchline, hands casually stuffed into his pockets like he'd just watched someone put his groceries away for him. His assistant leaned in. "Not bad for a guy who was supposed to eat his words, huh?" Arthur shrugged. "Hey, it's only two. I said three." Behind them, Blackwell looked like he'd aged a decade in thirty minutes, staring at his clipboard as if it had just insulted him. Arthur gave him a polite wave. Blackwell, predictably, did not wave back. Falcao's goal didn't just deflate West Brom—it popped their spirit entirely, like a balloon at a porcupine convention. When the game restarted, it was painfully obvious that the home side's morale had been shattered. Their pressing? Half-hearted at best. Their attacks? Disorganized messes of wayward passes and frantic sprints that led nowhere. The players scampered around the pitch like headless chickens, chasing shadows and tripping over their own feet. If you squinted, you might have mistaken it for a charity match where one team was trying to make the other feel better. Meanwhile, Arthur leaned back in his chair, arms crossed and legs stretched out as if he were lounging on a beach instead of managing a Premier League match. His grin was so wide it was practically a landmark. Every time Leeds United got the ball, they stroked it around the pitch with ease, passing it casually from side to side as if toying with their opponents. The rhythm was controlled, deliberate. It was like watching someone juggle eggs—they weren't just playing football; they were showing off. Every now and then, just to keep things interesting, Leeds would suddenly burst forward with a flurry of quick passes, sending West Brom's defenders scrambling back like they'd just remembered they were supposed to be playing a sport. Arthur watched with casual interest, occasionally glancing over at Blackwell, who was pacing the technical area with the energy of a man who just realized he'd locked his keys in the car. Arthur chuckled and leaned back in his seat. "He knows it's done," he muttered to his assistant, who just nodded in agreement. Arthur stretched his arms behind his head. "We could probably play with ten men right now, and they still wouldn't get near our goal." It turned out, Arthur was absolutely right. West Brom was so disorganized, it was like they had collectively forgotten what their positions were. Their back line was stretched thin, their midfield wandered aimlessly, and the forwards looked like they were searching for a bus stop rather than a goal. Arthur casually watched as Leeds United strolled up and down the pitch, passing at will, barely breaking a sweat. But then came the cherry on top. Just before halftime, Falcao decided he wasn't quite done terrorizing West Brom. Picking up the ball near the edge of the box, he shimmied past two defenders with a bit of flair—like he was dancing through a crowd at a party—and darted into the penalty area. The West Brom goalkeeper came flying out with all the grace of a runaway shopping cart. He lunged, legs flailing, and wiped Falcao out before he could even take the shot. The referee didn't even hesitate—his whistle shrieked, and he jabbed his finger to the spot. Penalty. West Brom's players swarmed around the referee like bees that just had their hive kicked, hands waving and voices raised. But the ref wasn't having it. He flashed the red card, sending the goalkeeper for an early shower, much to the dismay of the already miserable home fans. Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's one way to handle it," he chuckled, leaning back in his chair as if he'd just seen someone trip over their own shoelaces. Blackwell's expression went from despair to disbelief. His substitute bench was a sorry sight—he only had one backup keeper, Howard, who hadn't played a proper game in ages. Muttering a string of words that would make a sailor blush, Blackwell was forced to pull off one of his strikers to bring on Howard. Arthur gave a little wave to Howard as he jogged on. The keeper did not wave back. Falcao stepped up to the penalty spot, looking like a man who'd just been handed the keys to a sports car. Howard, nervously bouncing on his toes, looked more like he was trying to remember where he'd left his gloves. The referee blew the whistle, and with the composure of someone ordering breakfast, Falcao slotted it into the bottom corner. Howard guessed the wrong way—of course, he did. He probably would have guessed wrong if there were five different directions to pick from. As the ball nestled into the net, the referee blew for halftime, mercifully ending West Brom's suffering for the time being. Leeds United jogged off the field with a 3-0 lead, while Arthur strolled back to the tunnel with his hands in his pockets, grinning like he'd just won a free holiday. Meanwhile, Blackwell trudged off, head down and hands clenched. Arthur couldn't resist. He gave him a friendly pat on the back as they passed. "Chin up, mate," Arthur said with a grin. "There's always the second half... for more of this." Blackwell's glare could've melted steel, but Arthur just chuckled, disappearing down the tunnel as the crowd booed furiously. If West Brom had any dreams of a comeback, they were about as realistic as a unicorn sighting. Fifteen minutes after the break, West Brom trudged back onto the field looking like they'd just come back from a group therapy session gone wrong. Down to ten men and with their morale absolutely flattened, they looked more like a disorganized pack of Sunday league amateurs than a Premier League side. Arthur, watching from the sidelines with his hands comfortably tucked in his pockets, couldn't have been more relaxed if he'd brought out a deck chair and sunglasses. Leeds United wasted no time asserting dominance. From the very first whistle of the second half, they pinned West Brom back into their own half like they were reenacting a tactical drill. The ball zipped around effortlessly between Leeds' players, stretching West Brom's already brittle defense to its breaking point. In the 54th minute, the pressure finally told. Bale received the ball out wide, took one casual glance up, and swung in a cross with the kind of elegance that made it look effortless. The ball hung in the air, curving towards the penalty spot. Dzeko, who had been lurking in the box like a lion stalking its prey, rose up majestically—well, as majestically as a 6'4" target man can—and powered a header past Howard. The poor substitute keeper barely had time to flinch. 0-4. It was Dzeko's first goal since joining Leeds United, and he celebrated like a man who'd just found out his lottery ticket finally paid off. He ran to the corner flag, arms spread wide, while Arthur clapped politely from the technical area, looking more like he was watching a decent episode of Match of the Day than witnessing a thrashing. West Brom's spirit—if it hadn't already packed its bags—was now officially on vacation. Their backline sagged, their midfield shuffled around aimlessly, and their forwards might as well have been sitting in the stands for all the good they were doing. Leeds, on the other hand, played like they were in a training session. Just six minutes later, in the 60th minute, Leeds struck again. This time it was Falcao. Picking up the ball at the top of the penalty area, he barely glanced at the goal before letting loose a low, venomous strike. It skidded across the grass and nestled perfectly into the bottom corner before Howard even had a chance to react. 0-5. The Colombian threw his hands up, grinning like he'd just been told Christmas was coming early. The hat trick was complete, and West Brom's defense looked like it was considering early retirement. At this point, Arthur leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs, looking as if he might ask for a cup of tea. West Brom's fans, however, were nowhere near as relaxed. Their initial groans of frustration had turned into full-blown mutiny. Boos cascaded down from the stands, followed by more than a few fans heading for the exits. Some paused just long enough to hurl abuse at their own players before storming out in disgust. Others simply shook their heads and walked away, as if they couldn't believe what they were watching. But Leeds wasn't quite done. In the 83rd minute, West Brom committed a foul about 22 yards out from their goal. The referee barely finished blowing his whistle before Deisler stepped up, cracking his knuckles like he was about to solve a complex math problem. He lined up the shot, took a breath, and curled it beautifully over the wall. Howard stretched, flailed, and ultimately failed. The ball smacked the back of the net with a satisfying thud. 0-6. By now, the Hawthorns was practically a ghost town. The few remaining West Brom fans either sat in stunned silence or voiced their fury loud enough to be heard from the car park. The Leeds supporters, on the other hand, were singing Arthur's name with the enthusiasm of a rock concert crowd. Arthur, arms still crossed and grin still plastered on his face, glanced over at Blackwell, who was now slumped in his seat like he was waiting for the floor to swallow him up. A few fans lingered, glaring daggers at Arthur, clearly wanting to throw some choice words his way. But what could they say? Leeds hadn't just won; they'd obliterated West Brom. Arthur had swaggered into the Hawthorns, predicted a beating, and delivered it with interest. He didn't just slap them in the face—he brought the whole orchestra. Arthur, seeing the job was well and truly done, made three quick substitutions. Off came Deisler, Chiellini, and Yaya Toure, replaced by Juanfran and Javi Garcia, who hadn't even touched grass yet this season. Arthur was basically giving them a light jog to stretch their legs. West Brom didn't muster so much as a whisper of a comeback. Even the fourth official looked like he wanted to call it early just to put them out of their misery. When Falcao's last shot missed, Arthur barely flinched. The clock ticked down, and the referee finally blew the whistle to end the one-sided affair. Leeds United had absolutely demolished West Brom 6-0 away from home. Arthur strode out to shake hands, only to find that Blackwell had vanished—disappeared from the technical area like a magician's assistant. "Well, that's one way to avoid it," Arthur smirked, shrugging and heading back down the tunnel. The next morning, as Arthur casually flipped through the newspaper back in Leeds, he found exactly what he expected: Blackwell had been sacked. Apparently, the West Brom board didn't even wait for him to get home. They called him as he was driving away from the stadium, telling him his services were no longer required. Arthur chuckled, folded the paper, and leaned back with a smile. "Well," he murmured, "looks like the universe handles its own business sometimes."