Chapter 99: FA Cup ends (2in 1)

In the days that followed, the football world could not shut up about one thing: Arthur had signed Rivaldo. And Camoranesi. Not some unknown 18-year-old from a Belgian reserve team. Not a bargain-bin winger from Turkey. Actual, real-life, full-fat, World Cup-attending legends. The Leeds United fanbase was split right down the middle. Half of them were dancing in the streets like it was 1999, shouting "WE'VE GOT RIVALDO!" with tears in their eyes. The other half sat in quiet horror, sipping lukewarm tea and whispering, "He's... thirty-four..." This signing shook Arthur's reputation to its core. For nearly two years, he had built an image as the transfer window's version of Robin Hood: finding undervalued gems, developing talent, turning rough stones into Premier League diamonds. If there was a 20-year-old with questionable first touch and a weird haircut, Arthur probably had him on a shortlist. But now? Suddenly, he was buying Champions League scrapbook photos in human form. And people were confused. Camoranesi at least made sense to most of the football-savvy crowd. Leeds had been paper-thin on the wings for months. Bringing in a hardworking, experienced wide midfielder—especially one who was still in good shape—was seen as logical, even clever. Camoranesi still had the engine, the vision, the hair that made fans feel safe. And more importantly, he didn't come from a Greek league team where half the pitches looked like overgrown farms. But Rivaldo? That was another story. While some fans clung to the hope that Arthur had uncovered another genius move, the rest of the football media had already set up camp in the "What is he doing?" camp. The biggest shock came when Norman Hunter—Leeds legend, Arthur supporter since day one, and long-time columnist—finally broke ranks. In his weekly column, Hunter didn't hold back: "When Arthur first took over Leeds United, a lot of us questioned his transfer policy. Back then, it seemed like he was just signing cheap youngsters or cast-offs from other clubs, and I'll be honest—I was skeptical. Then he brought in Howard. That deal made me raise my eyebrows. And the performances of Sneijder, Adebayor, and others? They turned doubters like me into believers. But this... Rivaldo? A 34-year-old who's been floating around the Greek league? I respect what he's done in the past, but times have changed. This is the Premier League, not a testimonial match. I just don't see what Arthur's thinking." Of course, Arthur knew exactly what people were saying. He wasn't living under a rock. He didn't need a press assistant to read him forum posts with headlines like "Arthur Has Officially Lost It" or "We Signing Zidane Next, Boss?" But Arthur also didn't care. Because Arthur didn't believe in gossip, or headlines, or ageism disguised as football analysis. He believed in two things: data and what he saw with his own eyes. And Rivaldo, even at thirty-four, still had the vision, the control, and the instincts to make things happen. Arthur wasn't signing a mascot. He was signing a weapon. Whether the world understood it or not—that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was what happened on the pitch. On a chilly Wednesday morning in Leeds, as the kettle whistled in the club's medical room and someone down the hallway complained about the vending machine eating their change again, Rivaldo and Camoranesi were busy finishing their physical examinations. The medical staff buzzed around them like they were handling two pieces of fine china. After all, these weren't random signings from the Championship. This was Rivaldo, a former Ballon d'Or winner, and Camoranesi, a World Cup champion. Even the club doctor stood straighter than usual and pretended not to be starstruck. By the afternoon, the results were on Arthur's desk. Not that he needed them. The man had already seen their data on the system long before. But for the sake of appearances, Arthur gave the report a squint, nodded as if he understood all the numbers, and casually tossed it aside like it was a Tesco receipt. For Arthur, paperwork was just theatre. What truly mattered was how they played. And in training over the past few days, he had seen enough to start forming a picture. Camoranesi was exactly what he expected: tidy, efficient, and annoyingly consistent. A true pragmatist on the pitch—he didn't do flashy stuff, but what he did do, he did well. Arthur liked that. The guy wasn't there to start a samba party on the wings. He was there to plug the gaps and deliver. But Rivaldo? Now that was interesting. Arthur had been worried. The man was thirty-four, had been playing in Greece where the defenders looked like they'd just finished their night shift at a kebab shop, and there were old stories about his... let's say "free-spirited" attitude toward tactics. Everyone remembered the falling out with Van Gaal back at Barcelona. Rivaldo wanted the ball, wanted the spotlight, and wasn't too keen on being told what to do. So when Arthur signed him, he fully expected a bit of ball-hogging. Maybe some reluctant tracking back. Possibly a few "I don't do running" shrugs during intense drills. Instead, what he got was... well, a total surprise. Yes, the years had taken some toll. Rivaldo's top speed now ranked somewhere between a bicycle with a flat tire and a postman with sore knees. His stamina wasn't what it used to be, and he wasn't exactly winning any shoulder-to-shoulder duels. But technically? Mentally? He was still sharp. And the big twist? He wasn't selfish at all. Arthur's tactical philosophy relied heavily on rapid transitions and quick counterattacks. He didn't want anyone dawdling on the ball like they were auditioning for a Nike ad. So he braced himself for a clash. But Rivaldo—this new, mature, slightly creaky version—seemed to have evolved. He didn't dribble for the sake of it. He didn't throw in unnecessary stepovers like he was trying to get scouted by YouTube. Instead, he passed. Moved. Connected. At one point in training, he received the ball at the edge of the box, immediately drew Silva and Garcia toward him—two hungry midfielders who smelled blood—and then, with one calm sideways pass, he split the defense like it was a loaf of bread. Arthur, standing on the touchline, let out an audible, "Yes!" and clapped like someone had just delivered his Amazon parcel ten minutes early. It wasn't just the pass—it was the timing. The patience. The fact that Rivaldo hadn't tried to fight through two defenders like a nostalgic gladiator. He had simply read the game. Let the others move. Played the ball. And created the space. In that moment, Arthur didn't see an aging star clinging to relevance. He saw something better. He saw Rivaldo, Modric, and Alonso, all on the same pitch. He saw them turning chaos into geometry, spinning triangles around the Premier League's muscle-bound midfielders. He saw his vision taking shape. He smiled to himself. This might just work. *** Saturday arrived with the grace and subtlety of a sledgehammer, and Elland Road buzzed with anticipation. Leeds United were set to face West Bromwich Albion, a team they had utterly demolished just a few months ago. The last time these two met, it was a public execution—Leeds ran riot and stuffed six past West Brom like they were practicing penalty drills at a kids' birthday party. But this time, things were different. Very different. West Brom had cleaned house after that embarrassment. Manager Blackwell? Gone. Fired so fast his mug was still hanging in the staff room while his desk was being cleared. The new man in charge? Brian Robson. A no-nonsense football fossil with a passion for parking the bus and possibly knitting defensive scarves in his spare time. Howard, one of Arthur's old acquaintances and a player who once held promise, was also having a rough time. The poor lad had been put up for sale like an old bicycle on eBay. But since no one wanted to buy him, he'd been demoted to the second team. There he was now—training in the cold, like a ghost haunting the reserves. Under Robson's leadership, West Brom had improved slightly. Just slightly. They weren't drowning anymore, just treading water furiously while sharks circled nearby. After the last round of matches, they were clinging to fourth-from-bottom in the league—barely floating above the relegation zone thanks to goal difference and, presumably, a minor miracle. Still, no one at West Brom was under any illusion. Coming to Elland Road to play Leeds—this high-flying, hyper-pressing, Arthur-powered juggernaut—was not going to be a holiday. Robson's plan was simple: survive. Get a point. Maybe two if Leeds accidentally scored an own goal and spontaneously combusted. So from the first whistle, West Brom did what could only be described as constructing a brick wall in their own half. One striker stayed up top for decoration. Everyone else? They were parked deeper than a mole hiding from an owl. Even when they got the ball, they didn't bother trying to pass it properly. They just booted it up the field like they were allergic to possession. No build-up. No ideas. Just "kick it and pray." Arthur, standing on the sidelines with arms folded, looked like a man trying to solve a Rubik's Cube with his eyes closed. The man had lined up three strikers—yes, three! Berbatov, Falcao, and Džeko all started. It was like bringing three chainsaws to cut through a stack of paper. But even with that much firepower, they couldn't make a dent. For nearly thirty minutes, Leeds hammered away. They passed, they crossed, they shot, they dribbled, they even tried shouting at the ball. Nothing worked. The West Brom goalmouth looked like a crowded elevator—there was simply no space, and nobody was moving. The fans were not amused. As the ball pinged around outside West Brom's box for the 47th time, the crowd grew restless. Boos started to echo around Elland Road. Not at Leeds—but at West Brom's blatant anti-football. One fan yelled, "OI, THIS AIN'T A PARKING LOT, YOU COWARDS!" Another chimed in, "SOMEONE TELL 'EM IT'S CALLED FOOTBALL, NOT STATUE COLLECTING!" Arthur, meanwhile, rubbed his temple like a man who had just realized he left his car keys in the fridge. His tactics weren't wrong—the plan was sound. But how do you break down a team that has no interest in attacking? Who saw possession as a burden and the halfway line as a foreign border? Berbatov floated like a ballet dancer, flicking passes with a smug grin. Falcao darted into pockets, muscles rippling, hair perfect. Džeko huffed and puffed like a man desperate to prove he belonged in this trio. But no matter how many through balls were attempted or one-twos exchanged, West Brom's defensive blob stood firm. For now. And as the clock ticked past the 30-minute mark, Arthur muttered under his breath, "Great. We're playing chess, and they've just put all their pieces in one square." The siege continued. The match trudged along like two sloths in a staring contest—until the 35th minute, when Leeds United finally cracked open West Brom's concrete bunker of a defense. It all started with Yaya Touré standing on the right flank, looking bored and slightly annoyed, as if wondering why he wasn't sipping espresso in Milan instead. Then, without warning, he pinged a diagonal pass across the pitch that made the crowd collectively gasp. The ball flew past every West Brom defender like they were traffic cones at a driving school. It dropped right into the path of Falcao, who bolted out of nowhere like someone had told him the bar was closing early. Falcao took the ball in stride, charged into the penalty area, and for a brief moment, it looked like something beautiful was about to happen. Unfortunately, West Brom's centre-back Davis also decided that "beautiful" wasn't in his job description. Realizing he had no chance of catching up with Falcao through legal means—or cardio—Davis launched into what could only be described as a mid-air scissor kick that would've gotten him a round of applause at a karate tournament. The only problem? This wasn't a dojo. This was Elland Road. And he had just two-footed one of the most valuable players on the pitch. Arthur exploded from the dugout like a dad hearing someone touch his car. "REF! REF! That's criminal assault!" he bellowed, storming toward the fourth official with his hands flailing in disbelief. Nearby, Milner saw Falcao on the ground and immediately morphed into an older brother whose little sibling just got shoved. He sprinted over to Davis and grabbed him by the collar like he was about to drag him outside for a proper conversation. "What the hell was that?!" Milner shouted, clearly ready to square up if needed. The referee, who had just about seen enough chaos for one half, marched into the fray and whipped out a red card like he was drawing Excalibur. Davis was sent off on the spot, trudging off the pitch to a chorus of boos and some less-than-kind words from the Leeds bench. Meanwhile, Falcao lay on the grass in obvious pain. The medical staff rushed on, and after a quick assessment—and probably a whispered "nope"—Arthur was forced to make the change. Jamie Vardy came on to replace the injured Colombian, cracking his knuckles like he'd just been summoned from the pub. Milner, for his passionate outburst, was shown a yellow card. He didn't care. He just nodded like, "Yeah, fair enough." With all the drama out of the way, Leeds were awarded a free kick just outside the box. Modrić stepped up, adjusting his socks like a man who meant business. The Croatian maestro glanced at the wall, then at the goal, then curled the ball with that magical right foot of his. It dipped and bent over the wall, grazing the underside of the bar and pinging into the top corner. The crowd erupted. Even Arthur, still slightly red-faced from his earlier rant, managed a satisfied fist pump. 1–0 Leeds. The goal calmed things down—for a bit. Both sides played out the remaining minutes cautiously, with West Brom trying not to lose another player and Leeds trying not to lose another ligament. Halftime came and the teams headed into the dressing rooms, with Arthur feeling cautiously optimistic. He figured West Brom, now trailing and down to ten men, would have no choice but to attack in the second half. During the break, he gave a fiery talk, urging his players to stay sharp, break fast, and finish the job with surgical precision. Fast, fierce, accurate—like ninja assassins, he said, probably. But when Arthur returned to the pitch fifteen minutes later, he was greeted by the most absurd tactical decision he'd ever witnessed. Brian Robson had apparently looked at his situation—1-0 down, a man short—and thought, "Let's make this worse." Robson pulled off his only striker. Yes, his only striker. And brought on a defender. Now, all ten remaining West Brom players were lined up in their own half like soldiers preparing for a siege. None of them dared cross the halfway line. Not even by accident. At one point, their goalkeeper shouted at a defender who'd wandered too close to midfield like he was about to fall off a cliff. Arthur just stood there, dumbfounded. "Are we... are we playing against a formation or a traffic jam?" he muttered. Leeds tried everything. One-twos, long shots, fancy flicks. But West Brom had turned into a human wall. And not even a stylish one—this was ugly, desperate, dig-a-trench football. In the end, the score didn't change. Leeds 1, West Brom 0. The final whistle blew, and the Elland Road crowd gave a cheer that was equal parts relief and disbelief. Arthur trudged down the tunnel muttering, "I've seen parking lots with more ambition." *** After a brief three-day breather, Leeds United were back in action—this time in the FA Cup, and it wasn't exactly the welcome party Arthur had hoped for. The opponent? Manchester City. Yes, that Manchester City. Not some sleepy League Two minnow with a pitch half-covered in pigeons. Although they are not the future powerhouse yet. Fate (or possibly someone with a very twisted sense of humor at the FA) had decided to pair two Premier League sides together in the third round. Arthur stood by the touchline pre-match, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at the draw list like it had personally offended him. "There were literally eight lower-league teams we could've drawn," he grumbled. "But no, we get them again." The FA Cup, bless it, was open to all ten tiers of English football, which meant a lucky draw could've landed Arthur's team a scenic trip to a fourth-division ground with no working toilets and a dog mascot named Phil. Instead, they were heading to the City of Manchester Stadium to face a team with a budget large enough to buy everyone in Yorkshire a coffee machine. To make things worse, Manchester City were still fuming after Leeds had handed them a proper slap in the league just a few weeks prior. Arthur could practically see the smoke rising off Stuart Pearce's head during the warm-up. City had revenge on their mind. And apparently, they'd also been taking notes. Pearce, that sly fox, had clearly watched Leeds' last match against West Brom. And what had he learned from it? That if you couldn't beat Leeds in open play, you could just put the team bus in reverse, drive it onto the pitch, and leave it parked there for ninety minutes. Right from kickoff, City bunkered down like they were preparing for an air raid. One striker up top, everyone else digging trenches behind him. It was trench warfare. Arthur stared in disbelief from the dugout. "They're playing ten defenders and one guy who occasionally waves his arms," he muttered. Leeds tried everything. Berbatov dropped deep. Džeko camped in the box like he was on a fishing trip. Bale ran up and down the flank like a man possessed, but every cross found either a City boot, City head, or some invisible force field that Pearce had possibly installed in secret. Arthur sighed and glanced at the scoreboard. 0–0. 60 minutes gone. He started mentally preparing for a replay. Maybe at Elland Road, with their fans behind them, things would be different. The players looked frustrated. Even Touré, who usually radiated calm, was visibly annoyed, swatting away tackles like flies. Then came the 87th minute. Arthur was just about to instruct someone to start warming up the bus for the trip back when disaster struck. Bale, once again charging down the left like a man with a purpose and a very tight schedule, tried to cut inside. But just as he shifted gears, Sun Jihai appeared out of nowhere—like a defender summoned by black magic. He stuck a leg out, snatched the ball clean, and without missing a beat, hoofed it upfield. Arthur blinked. "No... no no no—" The ball arched through the air like a missile and dropped straight to Robbie Fowler. Just Fowler. No defender. Just him and Schmeichel. Arthur's heart sank. Kasper rushed out, arms wide, trying to make himself big. But Fowler, the seasoned finisher, didn't blink. One cool touch, one calmer finish, and the net rippled. 0–1. Arthur stared in horror. "We're not... we're not going out like that, are we?" He looked at the bench. Everyone was stunned. Even Vardy, who usually had something sarcastic to say, just sat there blinking like he'd been hit with a shovel. The referee blew the final whistle a few minutes later, and that was that. Leeds United, dreams and all, were booted from the FA Cup in the 87th minute by a single, soul-crushing goal. As the players walked off, Arthur trudged behind them like a man who'd just watched his dog run away, get arrested, and then sell his house. He had been dreaming of lifting the FA Cup—not for the trophy itself, but for what it meant: the legendary diamond treasure chest. But now? Gone. Just like that. Chelsea were 21 points clear in the league. There was no chance of catching them unless they collectively forgot how football worked. The FA Cup had been the only realistic shot at glory this season. And now, thanks to Sun Jihai, one long ball, and Robbie bloody Fowler, that dream was dead. **** I can tolerate the chinese dude assisting and beating mc , but I had to cut off half the chapter where he and mc go eat chinese and beat their meat to the motherland and how it's so much better in everything. If you love it so much, go play for a bloody chinese team, Don't waste a foreign quota ! Oh, he will buy him alright, but that plot will be used by me to screw the motherland without lube ????****