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***
The 2005–06 Premier League season was finally here.
On Saturday, August 13, 2005, English football was back in full swing. Manchester United, always quick to make a statement, kicked off the season with a 2-0 away win against Everton.
Ferguson, in a move that had many talking, decided not to include his big summer signing, Carlos Tevez, in the match. The press immediately speculated whether Tevez wasn't ready or if Ferguson was saving him for bigger battles.
Then came Sunday, and with it, the first shock of the season. Liverpool, fresh off their Champions League triumph, failed to break down Middlesbrough and had to settle for a frustrating 0-0 draw. It was a result that had Liverpool fans groaning—this was not how they wanted to start their title challenge.
Meanwhile, over in North London, Arsenal got off to a flying start, brushing aside Newcastle United 2-0 at Highbury.
The new Henry–Adebayor partnership immediately paid dividends, both strikers getting on the scoresheet. In just one game, Adebayor had already won over the Arsenal fans, who chanted his name as he celebrated his debut goal.
But none of those matches could compare to the real main event of Matchweek 1:
Leeds United vs. Chelsea.
The defending champions Chelsea had arrived in Leeds the night before, fully prepared to silence the newly promoted club. Their manager, José Mourinho, known for his mind games, wasted no time taking shots at Arthur.
In his morning press conference, Mourinho addressed Arthur's earlier criticism of his tactical approach.
"I heard what he said about me," Mourinho smirked, leaning forward with that signature arrogance. "He said I only play defensive counterattacks? Fine. Tonight, I will show him what I mean by football. We don't need to play defensive football against Leeds. We will beat them because our players are simply stronger. We will crush them."
That was all the press needed. Mourinho had thrown down the gauntlet, and now it was Arthur's turn to respond.
Within minutes, reporters swarmed Thorp Arch, eager to get Arthur's reaction.
Seated comfortably in his office, Arthur barely glanced up from his tactical notes when Allen relayed Mourinho's comments to him.
He let out a small chuckle before replying, "Nonsense. If Mourinho really believes Chelsea are that much better than us, then he clearly doesn't watch enough football. In some positions, my players are stronger than his. If he underestimates us, he's in for a surprise."
That one comment was all it took. Within hours, the internet was on fire.
Chelsea fans mocked Arthur's confidence, calling him delusional. Leeds fans rallied behind their young manager, hyping up their team like gladiators preparing for battle. Neutral fans? They just grabbed their popcorn and watched the chaos unfold.
But all the talk would soon mean nothing.
The real battle would be settled on the pitch.
***
At exactly 7:25 p.m., the two teams were lined up in the tunnel at Elland Road. It was finally time.
The noise outside was already deafening, but the moment Ere Geddy's voice boomed through the stadium speakers, the place exploded.
"Ladies and gentlemen… welcome to Elland Road!!!" he yelled, his voice full of energy like he'd just downed three cans of Red Bull.
The fans roared in response.
"Today, after one full year, our young lads are back in the Premier League! And right now, they are about to face none other than the defending champions — Chelsea! So let's give them the support they need!! Let's make some noise!!"
The South Stand practically lost its mind. Flags waving. Drums banging. A man near the front was already shirtless and spinning his scarf like a helicopter.
Then came the lineups, and Ere Geddy wasn't done shouting.
"First, your Leeds United!"
He paused dramatically — a trick he'd used for years — then continued.
"Formation today is 4-2-3-1! Leading the line, we have… Radamel Falcao!"
Huge cheer.
"Behind him — on the left, the speed demon Gareth Bale! In the middle, cool as you like — Berbatov! And on the right — making his return from injury — Sebastian Deisler!"
Louder cheers.
"Double pivot in midfield — our young captain, Mr. All-Energy himself — James Milner! And next to him, our powerhouse new signing — Yaya Toure!"
Fans were now stomping the stands.
"The backline, from left to right: Lahm, Kompany, Chiellini, Maicon. And in goal — the ever-dependable — Kasper Schmeichel!"
At this point, some fans in the South Stand looked like they were trying to summon lightning with how hard they were yelling.
Despite all the criticism and second-guessing over Arthur's transfer moves, this was still their team. And if Arthur was confident, the die-hards were too — or at least willing to pretend they were.
Once the cheers finally died down, Ere Geddy switched to the visitors.
"And now for Chelsea — today playing a 4-3-3!"
A few polite claps — and a whole lot of boos.
"Up top — Drogba in the center, Duff on the left, Robben on the right. In midfield — Joe Cole sitting just ahead of Makelele and Lampard. The back four — Ferreira, Carvalho, Terry, and Gallas. In goal — Petr Cech."
Leeds fans responded with classic Elland Road banter. "WHO ARE YA?" chants flew toward the tunnel, along with a helpful reminder that "Cech wears a helmet because he's afraid of our attack."
Back in the technical area, Arthur smirked.
He'd already seen the Chelsea lineup. Mourinho — for whatever reason — had gone with a much more attacking setup than usual. 4-3-3 instead of his typical compact 4-2-3-1. It looked like Mourinho either thought he'd win comfortably… or maybe Arthur's earlier comments had rattled him a bit.
Arthur leaned back, arms crossed, smug expression fully engaged.
"So, he's gone all in, huh?" he muttered to himself. "Joe Cole and Robben on the wings… not much defensive tracking there. Bale and Deisler are going to have fun."
He could already picture it: Chelsea's full-backs getting overwhelmed, their midfield chasing shadows, Mourinho trying not to frown on the touchline.
In the locker room earlier, Arthur had already activated two special cards.
The first was used on Deisler, bringing him back to full fitness and sharpness. He looked lively, his touches crisp, his body language confident. The right flank would be his playground.
The second card was used on Falcao, and this one was something else entirely.
It wasn't just a boost — it was Drogba Mode.
Falcao's attributes jumped to ridiculous levels. Strength? Maxed. Shooting power? Maxed. Accuracy? Maxed. The lad could probably hit the top corner blindfolded from the car park.
Arthur stared at the stats earlier that day and just chuckled. "If this is what peak Drogba looks like, no wonder Bayern still has nightmares about 2012."
Everything was now in place.
Chelsea had overcommitted.
Arthur had baited them into doing exactly what he wanted — opening up space down the flanks, isolating their slow full-backs, and underestimating the sheer aggression of a newly rebuilt Leeds United side.
It wasn't just about tactics either. The Elland Road crowd was at full volume now, and Arthur knew they'd be the twelfth man tonight.
As the teams finally walked out onto the pitch, the tension rose again. Players were focused. Some looked around in awe at the noise. Others locked eyes with their opposite number, already sizing them up.
The referee blew his whistle. The Premier League was officially back — and Leeds United were here to ruin Chelsea's opening night.
***
Arthur was still admiring Drogba's absurd strength—like someone had glued a tank turret onto a sprinter—when the sudden roar of the crowd snapped him back to reality.
The match had kicked off. The referee's whistle was long gone, and Chelsea had already taken the first touch.
Arthur muttered under his breath. "Brilliant. Daydreaming at kickoff. Strong start, genius."
Chelsea wasted no time showing that they weren't here to mess about. Instead of their usual slow, calculated buildup, they went full throttle from the first minute. It was like Mourinho had thrown his defensive manual into the bin and told the lads to run like their bonuses depended on it.
The first warning shot came within two minutes: Robben picked up the ball on the left, did a quick shimmy past Lahm, and fired a curling shot just over the bar. Lahm gave a polite clap to the air in frustration, as if to say, "Nice shot, please don't do that again."
Arthur winced. "He's not listening."
Chelsea's tactic was crystal clear. Robben and Duff would hug the touchlines, stretch the defense, then dart inside like caffeinated mosquitoes. Drogba stood in the middle like a mountain with attitude, ready to pounce on anything.
By the 15th minute, Robben had officially turned Lahm into a traffic cone. The poor full-back kept getting spun around so often he looked like he was doing ballet.
Even Milner, who was supposed to hold midfield, had started drifting left to double up on Robben. Arthur could see it happening in real time — Milner sprinting over, waving frantically, probably shouting something like, "Tag me in! I'll distract him, you go for the legs!"
Chelsea's whole attack was flowing through Robben. If he wasn't cutting inside to shoot, he was zipping down the line and sending crosses toward Drogba like a ball machine set to "pain mode."
In 15 minutes, Robben had already fired off three solid shots. One barely missed. Another forced Schmeichel into a diving save. The third was blocked by Chiellini, who immediately yelled at Lahm in Italian — probably something along the lines of "please get it together."
Whenever Robben couldn't shoot, he'd float in a cross. And every time the ball floated into the box, Drogba looked ready to break someone's rib cage. But Leeds weren't asleep.
Arthur had predicted this exact start in the locker room. He warned everyone: "Chelsea are going to come at us hard for 25 minutes. They'll try to blitz us early, then settle in. So don't panic. Hold your shape. Stay focused. And please, for the love of football, someone watch Robben."
To their credit, the players actually listened.
Yaya Toure, especially, looked like he had memorized Drogba's every move. Twice already, he'd thrown himself into aerial duels with Drogba and somehow came out standing. In one case, not only did Toure win the header, he turned and immediately fired a laser pass up to Bale on the left.
It was Leeds' best chance at a counter so far.
Bale burst forward, sprinting like he had rockets strapped to his calves. He had green grass in front of him, and for a moment, Elland Road held its breath.
But then John Terry, whose face looked like it had already seen three wars and didn't care for a fourth, came sliding in with a perfectly timed tackle right at the byline. The ball bobbled out for a throw-in, and Bale sighed, possibly questioning every decision he'd made in life that led him to be 19 and facing this nonsense.
Arthur didn't shout. He just folded his arms and nodded. His plan wasn't to dominate the first 20 minutes. It was to survive them, absorb the punches, and wait for Chelsea to get tired or overconfident — or both.
So far, things were going according to script. Robben was terrifying. Drogba was terrifying. But Leeds hadn't cracked.
And as long as the defense held, Arthur knew… the chaos would come.
By the 29th minute, it looked like Chelsea were going to score any second. The Leeds players were stuck in defensive mode, clinging on like a group of students trying to wing a group project. Robben had already turned Lahm into a human traffic cone, and Drogba was throwing his weight around in the box like he owned the place.
Arthur stood on the sidelines with his arms folded, quietly chewing his gum like it owed him money. He was tense, but not panicking. He had warned them this would happen. "They'll throw everything at us early. Just stay sharp," he had told the players before kickoff. And to be fair, they had — barely.
But then, right when it looked like Chelsea were gearing up for another wave of pressure, everything flipped.
Suddenly, Leeds scored.
It happened so fast that even Arthur's assistant, Allen, dropped his clipboard and said, "Wait, we scored?!"
Let's rewind 30 seconds.
Chelsea were building yet another attack. Frank Lampard, jogging casually near the center circle, received a short pass and immediately picked out Robben wide on the left. Robben was already licking his lips — he'd been treating Lahm like a warm-up dummy all match.
Lahm came to press. Milner drifted over too, trying to create a two-on-one. Meanwhile, Joe Cole, completely unmarked, was waving his arms like he was hailing a taxi. "Ball, Robben! Pass! Hello?"
Robben saw him. But Robben also saw Lahm — the same Lahm he'd roasted repeatedly for the last half hour. Confidence overflowing, Robben decided to go for the glory play. He dragged the ball wide to the left, setting up for another trademark cut inside.
Big mistake.
Bale had been lurking behind him the whole time, like a patient hawk. He'd assumed Robben would pass, so he had started slowing down. But the moment Robben kept the ball and took that extra touch, Bale's brain yelled, GO.
And he did. Like a rocket.
Robben didn't even register the threat until Bale poked the ball away from behind him and it zipped straight to Lahm, who was already halfway turning before the ball reached his feet.
On the sideline, Arthur's eyes went wide. This was it. The opening. He cupped his hands into an O shape and bellowed toward midfield: "SEBASTIAN! RUN!"
Deisler, hanging out in the middle of the pitch, turned his head like a dog hearing his name mid-nap. The second he spotted Arthur flailing and shouting like a man trying to catch a bus, he bolted forward without hesitation.
Back on the pitch, Lahm played the ball short to Milner, who barely needed to think — he turned and knocked it inside to Yaya Touré. And Yaya, calm as a man doing yoga in a thunderstorm, took one touch and played a perfect pass into the path of Deisler, who was now sprinting full tilt past the halfway line.
Everything had shifted in three seconds. Chelsea went from calmly attacking to "oh no, the house is on fire."
Terry and Carvalho were already backpedaling like dads reversing out of a narrow parking spot. Makelele charged across from midfield, and Lampard started hoofing it back toward his own box like he was late for a dentist appointment.
But Deisler was flying.
Gallas, who had the unfortunate job of marking him, tried to keep up. But Deisler blew past him like he was jogging through an airport terminal. Makelele was closing from the side, but not fast enough.
As Deisler approached the penalty area, he lifted his head and spotted movement — Falcao, already dancing between Terry and Carvalho, making space for himself.
Deisler didn't waste time. One quick swing of his right foot and he whipped in a low, driven cross.
Inside the box, John Terry saw it coming. He shuffled forward, ready to use his size and elbows to bully Falcao off the ball. "Easy," he probably thought. "I've got this."
But then Falcao leaned in.
And suddenly, Terry didn't have this.
Despite being shorter, Falcao didn't just hold his ground — he moved Terry. Not by much, but enough. Enough to shift the center of gravity, enough to get under the ball first, enough to make Terry look like he'd just lost a shoulder contest to a brick wall with a haircut.
Cech rushed out, trying to close the angle, but it was too late.
Falcao took one touch to control, then calmly rolled the ball around the goalkeeper and into the empty net.
Elland Road exploded.
"GOAL!!! FALCAO!!!" shouted Ere Geddy from the commentary booth, voice cracking like a teenager. "The young South American scores his first goal for Leeds United!!!"
The crowd followed with their own chaos:
"LET'S GO, FALCAO!!"
"BEAUTIFUL BALL, SEBASTIAN!"
"WE'RE ACTUALLY WINNING?!"
Arthur just stood frozen for a second, jaw slightly open.
Then, without warning, he burst into a sprint along the touchline, nearly tripping over a water bottle as he high-fived Allen. The two of them bounced in place like school kids during recess. Arthur wasn't even trying to look professional anymore. He was just thrilled.
On the big screen above the stands, the camera zoomed in on Arthur, fists raised, tie flapping like it was trying to escape. For once, even the pundits couldn't criticize him. Whatever he said before the match — it worked.
Eventually, Falcao and Deisler made their way to the touchline. Deisler looked like he'd just run a marathon in jeans, and Falcao was grinning like he'd just been told school was cancelled.
Arthur opened his arms. They didn't hesitate. The three of them hugged near the bench like it was the end of a movie. Allen tried to join the group hug, but got elbowed in the ribs by Falcao and awkwardly patted someone's back instead.
"Beautiful," Arthur said, still a little breathless. "That's how you punish overconfidence."
Falcao nodded. "Told you I was stronger than I looked."
Deisler was just gasping for air. "Can we not do that again for at least ten minutes?"
The referee eventually motioned for everyone to settle down and restart the match, but the mood had already shifted.
Chelsea, the reigning champions, were now trailing. Leeds United — the underdogs with half a team of teenagers and last-minute transfers — had struck first.
And Arthur, finally sitting down with a smirk, whispered to himself, "Alright. Let's see what Mourinho does now."
***
Over on the Chelsea bench, Mourinho looked like he was about to explode. His jaw was clenched so tight you could've used his face to crack walnuts. A half-squashed water bottle lay just outside the touchline — he'd kicked it in frustration after Falcao's goal. Now, with Arthur and Falcao celebrating like they'd just won the lottery, Mourinho was pacing in small, angry circles, muttering under his breath.
"What the hell was that?" he grumbled, pointing vaguely at the pitch as if the grass itself had betrayed him.
He kept glaring at Terry, who still looked stunned on the field. The Chelsea captain was staring into space, probably replaying the moment Falcao outmuscled him — a memory that would haunt him like a bad haircut.
Mourinho couldn't understand it. How did his big centre-back get bodied by a guy who looked like he needed help opening jam jars?
Eventually, the referee jogged over and politely waved for Leeds United's players to stop hugging each other like long-lost cousins. Arthur clapped his hands and shouted, "Alright, save it for full-time! Back to work!" The players jogged back to their positions with big stupid grins on their faces.
Meanwhile, on the Chelsea sideline, Mourinho was still venting. He called Robben over and gave him an earful that could've melted paint. "What were you thinking? Why didn't you pass?! Joe Cole was so wide open he could've started a lemonade stand!"
Robben nodded awkwardly, not daring to argue. For the rest of the half, he played like a man terrified of making another mistake. He barely touched the ball unless he absolutely had to. Lahm, who had spent most of the first half running backwards in panic, now found himself with actual breathing space. He looked visibly relieved, like someone had turned off the gas leak in his kitchen.
As both sides started to tire, the pace slowed down. The wild intensity of the first half gave way to cautious midfield passing and hopeful long balls. Neither side managed another real chance before halftime, and the referee blew his whistle with the score still 1–0 to Leeds United.
In the home dressing room, Arthur walked in looking oddly calm, which was suspicious. The players looked at him, waiting for instructions.
He didn't waste time. "We're parking the bus," he said flatly, pulling a magnetic board off the wall and sticking five red dots across the backline.
Thiago Silva was coming on for Lahm, who was wiped out after dealing with Robben. Bale dropped back into a full-back role. Arthur swapped out Berbatov, leaving Falcao alone up top like a hopeful stray dog chasing long balls. Deisler slid into the No. 10 role, with Milner and Yaya Toure flanking him. Modrić came on as the lone holding midfielder to control the tempo and, ideally, stop Chelsea from tearing them apart.
Arthur nodded to himself, satisfied. "Alright. We've got one sub left in case someone dies. Get some water. Stretch. Enjoy the silence. We're going to suffer."
The players groaned but obeyed. It wasn't going to be pretty, but a 1–0 lead against Chelsea? Nobody was complaining.
Over in the away dressing room, it was a completely different atmosphere.
Mourinho was going off like a volcano with a coaching license.
He pointed at Robben. "Arjen. Look me in the eyes. Tell me what you saw. Did you see Joe Cole waving like a maniac? Or are you saving your vision for Barcelona next week?!"
Robben mumbled something inaudible, possibly Dutch for "please make this stop."
Then Mourinho turned to Terry. "And you! What was that? You got bullied by a guy shorter than my nephew! Did someone drain your legs last night? Did the women of Leeds steal your soul?"
Terry opened his mouth, then closed it again. Drogba patted him on the back like, "Better not, mate."
The players sat in silence while Mourinho spent three straight minutes roasting half the squad. When he finally paused for breath, he slapped a tactics board and growled, "We're fixing this. Now listen."
The second half started, and Mourinho stomped back to the touchline like a man determined to fix a broken fridge with duct tape and anger. He glanced over at Arthur's side of the pitch — and stopped dead in his tracks.
He squinted. Rubbed his eyes.
Then exploded.
"FIVE at the back?!" he shouted, pointing. "You shameless fraud! You're stealing my moves!"
Leeds were lined up like a medieval wall. Three centre-backs, two wing-backs, Modrić as a broom sweeping up messes, and Falcao up front like a lonely pigeon waiting for crumbs.
Arthur just smiled. He didn't even look at Mourinho, just stood there with his arms folded and a smug little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he'd just microwaved fish in an office breakroom.
Mourinho threw up his arms. "This is betrayal! You were an attacking coach! What is this?! You're me! You're playing like me!"
Arthur gave him a sideways glance and muttered, "Worked for you, didn't it?"
Mourinho nearly choked on his own rage.
As the second half kicked off, Arthur leaned toward Allen on the bench. "Let's see how he likes a taste of his own bus."
Allen grinned. "He's going to lose his mind."
"I hope so," Arthur said. "I've still got one sub left. Might bring on a sixth defender."
Allen looked horrified. "You wouldn't."
Arthur didn't answer.
He just kept smiling.