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***
As the halftime whistle blew, Old Trafford erupted in cheers. Manchester United fans were roaring with satisfaction, waving their scarves and chanting as if they'd already wrapped up the three points.
In the commentator's booth, a local pundit named Michael leaned back in his chair with a smug grin. "To be honest," he began, his voice dripping with confidence, "I don't see how Leeds United are turning this around. From the manager to the players, they still look a bit…well, let's say, raw."
His colleague, a former player named Rob, chuckled and nodded. "Last week, I reckon Mourinho just underestimated them, gave them a bit too much respect.
Leeds took advantage, sure, but this is Ferguson's United. They've been brought right back down to Earth," he added, tapping his pen against the desk for emphasis.
"Exactly," Michael continued, warming up to his own analysis. "You look at the first 45 minutes—Leeds couldn't string three passes together without Keane or Scholes breathing down their necks. Ferguson's got them figured out."
The broadcast cut to the tunnel as players from both teams headed off the pitch. The camera zoomed in on United's squad first, grinning and laughing, patting each other on the back as if they'd just wrapped up a light training session. Giggs and Scholes were chatting away like they were on a Sunday stroll, while Ronaldo strutted with the swagger of someone who already knew his highlight reel was getting clipped for the evening news.
Then the camera panned to Leeds United. The difference was stark. Faces were grim, eyes downcast. Modric shook his head as he walked, muttering something under his breath.
Ribery, clearly rattled, stared straight ahead like he was seeing ghosts. Even Milner, usually full of energy, just trudged off with a thousand-yard stare.
In a small TV studio back in Leeds, Ere Geddy, a lifelong Leeds fan and part-time football analyst, was staring at the screen with a look of pure exasperation. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as if the display of football had personally offended him.
"Well," he sighed, looking into the camera, "it wasn't pretty, was it? Down two-nil, and Arthur didn't make a single change. I'll give him credit for sticking to his guns, but the boys are clearly struggling out there."
His co-host, a bald, barrel-chested former defender named Terry, raised an eyebrow. "Sticking to his guns? He parked the bus in the first half, mate! If he'd stuck to his guns any more, he'd be calling in artillery strikes," Terry scoffed.
Eddie chuckled, though it was more out of pain than humor. "Fair enough. But at least they didn't concede again. You saw it in the last twenty minutes—they were holding their shape, crowding out space, not giving Ronaldo and Giggs the same room to run. Small victories, I guess."
"Small victories?" Terry laughed. "That's like saying you're proud you only got two black eyes in a bar fight. Still got clobbered, mate."
Eddie leaned forward, his tone growing a bit more optimistic. "Look, even if we lose today, I just want the boys to keep their heads up in the second half. Get a goal, maybe. Show some fight. You know, something to build on.
Arthur's got a way of turning things around, but he's got to give them a reason to believe."
Terry scoffed but didn't argue. "He better. Because right now, it looks like Ferguson's got his number."
The screen flashed back to the stadium, the halftime analysis wrapping up. The fans were still singing, United's fans already celebrating as if it were a done deal.
Arthur stood near the tunnel entrance, hands in his pockets, staring at the field with a look that was half-contemplative, half-murderous. He wasn't pacing. He wasn't shouting. He just watched, calm as a still lake.
In the distance, the Manchester United players were already warming up, stretching out and exchanging laughs. Arthur didn't seem to care. His gaze was fixed firmly on his own squad, who were gathering their breath, their heads still hanging a bit too low.
Ere Geddy's voice came back on the broadcast as the halftime analysis wrapped up. "Well, let's see what Arthur's got in store for the second half. Leeds United is going to need more than just grit to pull this off…they're going to need a miracle."
Terry chuckled one last time. "Or maybe a prayer," he added with a smirk.
***
The Leeds United locker room was dead silent. The players shuffled back in like a group of kids returning from a disastrous school field trip—heads down, avoiding eye contact, and desperately pretending the last 45 minutes hadn't just happened.
Ribery sat furthest in the back, fidgeting so much it looked like his legs were auditioning for Riverdance. He kept glancing around like he was expecting Arthur to walk over and personally escort him off the premises.
The only sound was the squeaky scribbling of Arthur's whiteboard marker. He'd been back in the room first, and for the last two minutes, he'd been drawing and writing with the kind of focus that suggested he was either planning a tactical masterstroke or designing the world's most complicated crossword puzzle.
Milner, bless his soul, was the only one actually looking at Arthur. The captain sat upright, hands clasped together like he was attending a sermon.
Everyone else looked like they were mourning their football careers. Mascherano was chewing his fingernails like they were the main course, while Chiellini stared at his boots as if they'd personally betrayed him.
Ribery, of course, was the picture of misery. His head was hung so low it might've been permanently attached to his chest.
His feet tapped nervously against the floor, and his hands were knotted together like he was expecting to be led to the guillotine at any moment. In his mind, he was already halfway out of the squad—probably imagining his next gig playing five-a-side with the local pub team.
Suddenly, Arthur capped the marker with a dramatic click, then spun around to face the room. He surveyed the faces before him, most of which looked like they'd just found out Santa wasn't real. He sighed, clapped his hands loudly—clap clap clap clap—and spoke up, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence.
"Right, heads up, lads," Arthur called out, his tone firm but not harsh. He locked eyes with each of them before settling on Ribery, who looked like he'd just been caught stealing biscuits from the pantry. "Especially you, Frank. Stop looking like a deflated chicken. You've still got 45 minutes to sort it out, so quit the sulking."
Ribery blinked, his mouth slightly open as if Arthur had just told him he'd won the lottery. He'd been fully expecting to be benched. In fact, he'd mentally packed his things and was already on his way to the showers. Now, instead of dread, a flicker of hope sparked in his eyes.
Arthur glanced around the room again, nodding. "Alright, listen up," he continued, pacing a little now, hands on his hips. "We can all agree that first half was...well, it was a bit rubbish, wasn't it? We didn't play like we trained. That's on you, and that's on me."
A few players nodded sheepishly. Arthur caught Milner's eye, and the captain gave him a small nod of solidarity.
Arthur went on, "But here's the thing: we've still got 45 minutes to change it. Forty-five minutes at Old Trafford, against United, where we can show that we're not just here to make up the numbers.
They think it's over. Their fans are already ordering drinks. But me? I'm not done yet. And I don't think you lot are, either."
Mascherano finally looked up, chewing his lip instead of his fingernails. Kompany cracked his neck and straightened in his seat, while Vardy nodded like he'd just been promised a steak dinner.
Arthur smirked. "Look, I know it's hard to picture a comeback right now, but you know what I expect? I expect you to go out there and fight. I don't care if we've got to park the bus and then drive it right up Ferguson's front lawn—I want us to give them hell.
If we go down, we go down kicking and screaming, not rolling over like we're waiting for our bellies to be scratched."
There were a few chuckles, even from Ribery, whose hands finally stopped shaking. The room felt lighter, the tension breaking up like clouds after a storm.
Arthur grabbed the marker again and started pointing at the board. "Alright, here's the plan. Ribery, you're staying on. But you're dropping a bit deeper. No more solo hero stuff—stick to the basics.
Milner, you're going to be his shadow. When he moves, you move. I want their right side locked down, got it?"
Milner nodded firmly. Ribery gave a thumbs-up, still looking a bit shell-shocked but definitely more alive.
"Vardy," Arthur continued, slapping the board, "you're coming back into midfield more. I want you snapping at their heels. Falcao, if you get that ball, I want it sticking to you like glue. Hold it up, give the lads time to join the attack."
The players nodded, more confidently now. Arthur stepped back, arms folded. "And for heaven's sake, let's not make Ronaldo look like he's playing FIFA on beginner mode, yeah?"
The room broke out in genuine laughter, the nerves visibly shaking off. Ribery even managed a grin. Arthur looked around, nodding approvingly.
"Right then. We've got 45 minutes to make them remember us. Get your boots on and your heads straight. Let's go ruin their afternoon."
The players stood up, the clatter of boots and claps on the back filling the room. Milner gave Ribery a pat on the shoulder, and for the first time since he'd stepped off the pitch, Ribery straightened his back.
Arthur watched them head for the tunnel, a grin spreading across his face. Ferguson might think this match was already in the bag, but Arthur had other plans.
***
The camera panned back to the pitch as the second half was about to kick off, and the commentators' voices buzzed back into life with the energy of people who'd just had their fourth cup of coffee.
"Welcome back, folks! The second half of Manchester United versus Leeds United is about to begin, and it looks like Arthur's been busy with the whiteboard at halftime," the commentator announced with a bit too much enthusiasm, like he was trying to convince himself Leeds still had a shot.
"We've got some notable changes in Leeds United's lineup. Vardy and Silva are out, replaced by young Gareth Bale and Philipp Lahm. Interesting choices there!"
"Judging by the setup, it seems Leeds have shifted into a 4-2-3-1 formation," his co-commentator chimed in. "Bale and Lahm are occupying the full-back positions, with Milner and Ribery playing much higher up the pitch. And of course, Falcao remains the lone striker up front."
The main commentator chuckled. "I have to say, Arthur's really rolling the dice here. He's kept Ribery on the field after that shaky first half. Interesting decision, wouldn't you say, Coach Wang?"
The camera flicked to the studio, where Coach Dick looked like someone had just asked him to explain quantum physics. He scratched his head and leaned into the mic.
"I have to admit," Dick began hesitantly, "I expected Leeds to push for more attacking firepower being two goals down, but...Arthur's gone the other way.
He's pulled Vardy, added two defenders, and kept Ribery out there on the left. I don't know if Arthur's playing chess while we're all playing checkers, or if he's just flipped the board entirely."
The commentators weren't the only ones baffled. Social media was lighting up with hot takes:
"What is this? Leeds is down by two and he's putting on defenders? Did Arthur go to the Mourinho School of Park the Bus?"
"I swear, Ribery must have dirt on Arthur. How is he still out there???"
"Mate, I put a tenner on Leeds scoring in the first five minutes of the second half...looks like I might as well have set it on fire."
"Two defenders coming on? I'm convinced Arthur's playing for the 2-0 loss at this point."
"Hey, new here...is it just me or is Leeds' coach kinda hot?"
That last comment got its fair share of likes.
Back on the pitch, Bale and Lahm were stretching out, looking surprisingly relaxed for two players being thrown into the fire at Old Trafford. Milner clapped his hands and shouted something encouraging, which Bale ignored because he was busy trying to fix his hair.
Lahm, on the other hand, gave Milner a thumbs-up with the kind of enthusiasm you only get from someone who hasn't been run ragged by Ronaldo yet.
Arthur stood on the touchline, arms crossed, nodding like he'd just figured out how to solve world hunger. Ferguson was on the opposite side, arms folded and eyebrows raised as if Leeds United had just sent out their mascot to play right-back.
The whistle blew, and the second half was underway. Leeds United immediately dropped deep, almost inviting Manchester United to press forward. "Looks like Arthur's going for a more compact defense," Javier noted. "He's trusting Ribery to make something happen on the counter. Bold move."
"Bold is one word for it," the Amarillo replied. "Another word might be...insane."
But Arthur didn't seem fazed. He was yelling instructions from the sideline, pointing wildly as if trying to direct traffic during rush hour.
Ribery even looked up once, caught his manager's eye, and gave a nod, his confidence seemingly trickling back into his veins.
The fans, however, weren't buying it just yet. "What are we even doing!?" one shouted from the stands. "Did Arthur forget which side he's managing?"
Another fan was already heading for the concourse, muttering something about "the worst ten quid he ever spent."
But Arthur just smiled. If he was feeling the pressure, he wasn't showing it. Hands in his pockets, he watched as his new back line settled in, Ribery stretched his legs down the left, and Bale and Lahm prepared to prove why they were there.
Ferguson kept glancing over, brow furrowed, as if trying to decipher what exactly Arthur had up his sleeve. Arthur, noticing this, flashed him a cheeky grin and a thumbs-up, which only made Ferguson shake his head and mumble something to his assistant.
It was clear: Arthur wasn't playing it safe. He was playing it his way. And in about 45 minutes, everyone was going to find out if that way was madness...or a miracle.
***
Arthur had no idea what the Spanish commentators were saying about him—and honestly, he couldn't care less. He was too busy making sure his plan didn't blow up in his face.
He'd seen the look on Ribery's face in the dressing room: the hunched shoulders, the distant stare, like someone who just realized they left the stove on back home.
But when Arthur finished his halftime pep talk, he'd caught a flicker of fire in Ribery's eyes. It wasn't much—more like a candle in a windstorm—but it was there.
And Arthur, for all his madness, knew one thing: if there's even a spark, you don't put it out. You fan the flames.
His eyes flicked to the system panel for confirmation. Ribery's status bar hadn't moved much, still sitting stubbornly on "Below Average," like it was mocking him.
But Arthur wasn't having it. Not today. Not at Old Trafford. He decided right then and there that Ribery would stay on the pitch. Bale's introduction would lighten Ribery's defensive duties, freeing him up to torment O'Shea. At least, that was the plan.
As for Bale and Lahm, Arthur had kept it simple in his instructions. "Stick to Ronaldo and Giggs like your lives depend on it," he had told them. "I don't want heroics. No risky tackles, no wild clearances. Just push them to the sideline. If they try to cross, fine—my big lads at the back can deal with that all day. Just don't let them waltz through the middle like it's a Sunday stroll, yeah?"
Bale had nodded confidently, stretching his legs like a sprinter before a race. Lahm, ever the professional, just gave a curt nod and adjusted his socks like he was about to pop out for groceries instead of marking Cristiano Ronaldo.
Arthur clapped his hands loudly, jolting a few of the subs on the bench. "Right then, let's get out there and make 'em sweat!"
As if on cue, the referee's whistle shrieked across the stadium. The crowd roared back to life, and Arthur clapped his hands once more, the sound swallowed by the noise. "Here we go!" he shouted to no one in particular.
The second half had officially begun.