Chapter 78: This is Leeds United!

Before Arsenal could even kick off after Henry's penalty, Arthur was already waving his hands around like he was trying to land a plane. His assistant jogged over, slightly out of breath, and Arthur wasted no time. "Triple change. All in," he said, like he was putting his chips on red at a casino. The assistant blinked. "Triple? At once?" "Yes, all three. It's like ripping off a Band-Aid. Quick and painful," Arthur replied, clapping his hands together with the enthusiasm of a man who'd just discovered free Wi-Fi. The fourth official raised the board, and the crowd squinted at the numbers lighting up. Berbatov was coming on for Mascherano. Yaya Toure for Ribery. And then, with a bit of a gasp from the crowd, Vardy for Milner. The commentator's voice crackled through the stadium speakers and television sets across England. "Well, this is... bold, to say the least! Arthur's decided that the best way to solve a defensive crisis is... to completely ignore it! No defenders coming on, just more firepower up top. This is either absolute genius or complete madness. I'm not sure there's any middle ground here!" His co-commentator chuckled. "It's almost like Arthur just spun a roulette wheel in his head and landed on 'Attack like there's no tomorrow.' But you have to admire the guts! He's going for it. I mean, with ten men, you'd think he'd patch up the defense... but no, he's doubled down!" On the pitch, the formation looked like something straight out of a fever dream. Chiellini had shuffled out to the right-back spot, probably wondering how he'd ended up covering both wings and half of Yorkshire. Modric and Deisler sat in midfield like two guys who had been handed a fire hose and told to put out a wildfire. Yaya Toure looked like he was single-handedly responsible for patrolling the rest of the midfield, his stride long and deliberate, as if he were thinking, If I take bigger steps, maybe it'll feel like I'm covering more ground. Further up the pitch, Berbatov strolled around like he was out for a Sunday walk, hands practically in his pockets, while Falcao and Vardy were practically foaming at the mouth with excitement. Vardy, in particular, was bouncing on his toes, nudging Falcao. "I heard Arsenal's defense is slower than a broken-down bus, mate," he grinned. Falcao nodded, cracking his knuckles. "I'm going to enjoy this." Arthur, meanwhile, was barking orders from the touchline, pointing and gesturing like a conductor with absolutely no musical training. "Chiellini! I don't care if you have to grow another leg, you cover that right side! Yaya, I need you to be everywhere. If I see grass without you on it, you're doing it wrong!" Yaya just raised a thumb up, as if to say, Sure, why not? I'll also make coffee while I'm at it. The commentator was beside himself. "Arthur's really going for it here. He's practically playing three at the back with Chiellini running around like he's got six lungs. And upfront? It's like a cavalry charge! Falcao, Vardy, and Berbatov... this is absolute chaos!" His partner laughed. "Yeah, chaos for Leeds or chaos for Arsenal? That's the real question. If Arsenal break through, there's only thin air and Schmeichel to deal with!" Arthur didn't seem to care about the risk. He clapped his hands again and shouted, "We're not here to draw! We're not here to lose! We're here to ruin someone's weekend, and I want it to be theirs!" The fans, after a moment of stunned silence, started cheering. They didn't know if Arthur had just gone mad or if they were witnessing some kind of tactical genius. But one thing was for sure—it wasn't going to be boring. The referee blew the whistle, and Arsenal kicked off. Arthur crossed his arms, a grin spreading across his face. "Alright, Wenger," he muttered under his breath. "Let's see if you can handle this insanity." And with that, Leeds United, a man down and three attackers up, threw everything forward like a battering ram with no reverse gear. In the commentary box, the two Spanish commentators were practically leaning over the desk, eyebrows raised as if they were witnessing Arthur prepare to storm a castle with nothing but a toothpick. "¡Madre mía! What is Arthur doing? He's a goal down, a man down, and his idea is to... add more attackers?!" The first commentator laughed, throwing his hands in the air. "Yaya Touré at defensive mid, but we all know he's more offensive than my uncle's cooking! It's pure madness! Pure madness, I tell you!" His partner chuckled. "It's bold, no doubt. Most managers would be pulling out the sandbags and building trenches right now, not loading up the cannons! But here we are. Arthur seems determined to crash through Arsenal's defense, even if it means driving a car with three wheels." Meanwhile, on the sidelines, Arthur stood with his hands on his hips, nodding to himself like a man who'd just figured out how to assemble IKEA furniture without the manual. He watched as Berbatov, Yaya Touré, and Vardy jogged onto the pitch, and his grin widened. He clapped his hands loudly, calling out to his players. "All right, lads! We're going for it! Berba, I want you lurking like you're waiting for a bus. Vardy, you chase everything that moves, even if it's just a bit of litter blowing by. And Yaya... just... do Yaya things, alright?" The three subs nodded, slightly confused, but fired up by Arthur's sheer enthusiasm. On the pitch, Leeds had lined up in what could only be described as "organized chaos." Chiellini had somehow drifted out wide to right-back, looking around as if he'd woken up in the wrong city. Modric and Deisler huddled together in midfield, exchanging glances like two kids left alone with a birthday cake. Up front, Vardy was practically vibrating with excitement, smacking Falcao on the back. "Mate, I don't know what he's planning, but I love it!" Falcao just shrugged and cracked his knuckles. "Boss wants a goal? Let's get him a goal." The commentators couldn't help but laugh. "This is either going to be the comeback of the season or a crash so loud they'll hear it in Madrid!" Just as the chaos was settling in, the fourth official held up the board again. Arsenal was making changes of their own. "Oh, here we go! Wenger responds immediately! Van Persie and Kolo Touré coming off... and in come Sol Campbell and Alexander Song! Wenger is not messing around; he's shoring up that midfield, going back to the 4-4-2 setup from the first half. Looks like he wants Song and Gilberto Silva to lock down the middle. A very clear response to Arthur's madness!" The camera panned over to Wenger, who sat back down on the bench with a small smirk, arms folded, as if saying, Your move, Arthur. Arthur, seeing the changes, scratched his head for a moment. "So, he wants to box up the midfield, does he?" He turned to his assistant, still holding a clipboard like it might contain the secrets of the universe. "He's playing checkers. We're playing... well, I'm not sure what we're playing, but I know it's not checkers!" His assistant just nodded, blinking rapidly. "Right...right. So, uh... what's the plan then?" Arthur grinned. "Width. We go wide. I don't care if you have to launch the ball to the corner flag; stretch them out. Modric, Deisler—they don't take more than two touches. One if you can. Get it wide, get it in, and let Berbatov, Vardy, and Falcao have a feast." The assistant scribbled on the clipboard as if any of that actually made sense. Arthur clapped his hands again, turning to the players. "You hear me? Wide! I want to see you hugging that line like it's your long-lost mum!" The players nodded, mostly out of fear or confusion—it was hard to tell. But the message was clear: Arthur wasn't backing down. He had made his choice, and it was full throttle or bust. In the commentary box, the Spanish announcer was shaking his head. "This is... well, it's not safe, but it's definitely entertaining! Arthur is throwing everything at Arsenal, and now with Song on, it's going to be a midfield war. Either Leeds cracks them open, or they get picked apart on the counter. There's no middle ground!" His partner nodded, a grin spreading across his face. "And I wouldn't want it any other way." As Arsenal lined up to take the kick-off, Arthur rubbed his hands together, eyes locked on the pitch. He didn't just want a comeback. He wanted a bloody show. And if Leeds was going down, it was going to be with fireworks. The referee's whistle pierced through the crisp evening air, signaling the restart of the match. Arsenal had just made their substitutions—Campbell and Song now on the pitch, big, sturdy pillars reinforcing their lines. Meanwhile, the Leeds United faithful, packed tightly into Elland Road, roared with defiant energy. They didn't care about the red card, the penalty, or even the scoreline. Their team had been fighting tooth and nail, and that alone was enough to ignite their passion. Arthur stood on the touchline, clapping his hands like he was trying to start a campfire. "Come on, lads! Quick passes! One touch! And for the love of football, keep it moving!" he hollered, his voice barely audible over the thunderous chanting. He looked like a man attempting to conduct an orchestra during an earthquake. Leeds United, still reeling from the loss of Maicon and the goal, began to follow Arthur's frantic instructions. Deisler and Modric, now practically glued to each other in the middle, moved the ball with a kind of desperate elegance. One-touch passes zipped back and forth, pinging between their feet and slipping just past the outstretched legs of Arsenal's midfielders. The Spanish commentator couldn't hold back his amusement. "Arthur's not sitting back! Even with one less player, Leeds United are going forward with more optimism than a lottery winner on payday! Modric and Deisler are playing like they're in a game of hot potato—no one wants to hold the ball for more than a second!" His co-commentator chuckled. "It's a bit of madness, but I have to say, it's effective! Arsenal looks slightly uncomfortable with this sudden flurry of passes. But the problem is, Leeds can't throw too many forward... it's like trying to storm a castle with three guys and a very enthusiastic dog." The fans sensed the urgency. Every time Leeds managed to string three passes together, the volume inside the stadium cranked up a notch. It was like someone was twisting the dial on a massive amplifier. Falcao tried to slip behind Senderos, Vardy buzzed around like he was late for his own wedding, and Berbatov—well, he mostly just jogged thoughtfully, but there was menace in his stride. In the 89th minute, the fourth official raised the LED board, the bright red lights reading 4 minutes. The crowd erupted, clinging to that glimmer of hope like it was a life raft. Arthur squinted at the board, then clapped his hands again, louder this time. "Four minutes! That's a whole lifetime, lads! Let's make it count!" On the pitch, Arsenal began to press forward, sensing the need to kill off the game. It was a careful, calculated buildup, the kind Wenger practically trademarked. Only Campbell and Senderos remained in their own half, like sentries guarding a gate. The full-backs, who had been so reserved for much of the match, now edged forward. And right at the heart of it, Ashley Cole found himself with the ball at his feet. The Spanish commentator perked up. "Look at this! Ashley Cole pressing forward! Wenger told him at halftime not to cross the halfway line, but it seems Cole has developed a very selective memory!" His partner laughed. "Selective? That man has amnesia! He's pushing up like he's just been released from house arrest!" Cole, perhaps emboldened by the scoreline or maybe just bored of watching from the back, surged forward with a touch of swagger. His boots slapped against the grass with a sharp rhythm as he dribbled forward, completely ignoring whatever sense of caution Wenger had drilled into him. He was tired of watching; he wanted to taste the action. Arthur watched from the sideline, his hands on his head. "Is he... is he serious right now?" he muttered, blinking in disbelief. "What, did he forget he's a left-back?" He turned to his assistant, who just shrugged. "Guess he's got somewhere to be," the assistant replied, barely concealing his grin. The Spanish commentators were in stitches. "Ashley Cole is bombing forward like he's Thierry Henry! Someone better remind him his job description includes defending! Wenger must be losing his mind on the touchline right now." But Cole didn't care. The ball was at his feet, and he was going. With every stride, Leeds United's defense tightened, and Arthur's hands dropped from his head to his hips. "Right then," he said, nodding to himself. "If he wants to come party up here, we'll be happy to show him the door." Leeds United braced themselves, Arthur barking out instructions with the urgency of a fire drill. They knew what was coming. They just had to hold on. Four minutes, Arthur thought. Four minutes to steal back what was theirs. Ashley Cole had that look in his eye—the kind that screams, I'm about to do something very questionable. He raised his hand, signaling for the ball, and young Alex Song, fresh off the bench and still smelling like warm-up cones, didn't even hesitate. With all the enthusiasm of a kid playing FIFA, Song zipped the ball straight to Cole. Cole received it confidently, flicking it forward with a touch that suggested he might've forgotten his primary job description. Standing in his way was Philipp Lahm, who looked like someone who'd just caught his dog eating off the dinner table—disappointed, yet unsurprised. The Spanish commentator practically gasped. "Well, well! Ashley Cole is asking for the ball in the final third! What's he planning to do? He's a left-back, not Ronaldinho!" His co-commentator chuckled. "Maybe he's just trying to get Wenger to notice him. If he pulls off a dribble here, I bet he's asking for a raise." As Lahm stepped forward, tightening the space, Fabregas spotted the opportunity and darted into the gap left behind. It was so clear that even the fans in the back row of Elland Road could see it, waving their arms and shouting as if they were trying to direct traffic. The correct play, the only logical play, was to pass the ball to Fabregas. Simple, clean, smart. But Ashley Cole did not get the memo. Instead of slipping it through to Fabregas, his eyes locked onto Lahm's left side. Arthur, standing just a few feet away on the touchline, squinted, then his eyes went wide. "No... no, don't you dare..." he muttered under his breath. Wenger, sensing the madness from his technical area, cupped his hands around his mouth. "Ashley! Pass the ball!" But Cole wasn't listening. No, he was locked into a hero's journey, and there was no turning back. He took a heavy touch forward, clearly signaling his intention to take on Lahm. Arthur saw it, Lahm saw it, Wenger saw it—hell, the hot dog vendor on the third tier probably saw it. But Cole was undeterred, barreling forward with all the grace of a shopping cart with a broken wheel. Lahm, never one to pass up a gift, pounced with surgical precision. The ball had barely left Cole's feet before it was snatched away, Lahm poking it free with the elegance of someone swiping a credit card. Cole stumbled forward, arms flailing, his dreams of dribbling glory evaporating in an instant. Arthur reacted instantly, waving his arms like he was directing planes on a runway. "Forward! Go! GO!" he shouted, his voice almost cracking with urgency. Lahm didn't need to be told twice. He lifted his head, saw three white shirts already tearing through the middle, and swung his foot back like he was teeing off at St. Andrews. The ball flew, curving beautifully over the halfway line, arcing with just enough spin to nestle right into Vardy's path. The Spanish commentator was practically screaming. "No offside! It's clean! Leeds United with a golden opportunity!" Vardy, all pace and chaos, stormed forward, the ball glued to his feet. Lehmann came charging out like a man who had just realized his car was rolling downhill without him. Campbell rushed to close down, but Vardy, as casual as you like, slipped it sideways to Falcao. But Falcao, under pressure from Senderos, couldn't quite get it under control. The ball bobbled loose, rolling invitingly towards the edge of the box where Deisler came steaming in like a train without brakes. He didn't hesitate. One touch. One swing. And the net rippled with the sweetest of strikes. "GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAL!!!" the Spanish commentator exploded. "Leeds United have done it! 3–3! This game is absolute madness!" Arthur nearly dislocated his shoulder from the celebration, swinging his fists in the air as if he'd just won the lottery. On the sidelines, Wenger looked like he'd swallowed a wasp. Arthur turned to his assistant, grinning wildly. "I told you Lahm would nick it off him!" His assistant just shook his head, laughing. "Yeah, but I didn't think Ashley Cole would serve it to him on a silver platter." The Elland Road fans were in raptures, bouncing and singing, the stands shaking from the roar. 3–3, and Arthur finally relaxed, although it wasn't a win, it's still better than a loss.