The new season had brought winds of change sweeping through North London. Arsenal, once the invincible juggernaut of the Premier League, had shuffled the deck a bit.
It wasn't quite a full-blown rebuild, more like Wenger had rearranged the furniture and slapped a fresh coat of paint on the walls. But there were differences—some subtle, some not so much.
Up front, the famously cool-headed Dennis Bergkamp, lovingly dubbed the "Ice Prince," had taken a step back. At 35, his role had shifted from menacing defences to occasionally jogging around and reminding everyone of his brilliance in small bursts. Wenger had turned to youth for the future, pairing the electric Thierry Henry with the fresh-faced Dutchman, Robin van Persie. If Bergkamp was ice, Van Persie was a firecracker—sometimes explosive, sometimes just fizzling out. But together with Henry, they'd managed to bag nine of Arsenal's 16 goals in the first 12 league games. Wenger, always the romantic, believed the two had started to develop some real chemistry. Arthur, however, had watched enough of their matches to note that sometimes that "chemistry" looked more like a bad first date.
Then there was Adebayor, the lanky striker Arsenal had pinched from Leeds United over the summer. Arthur remembered the deal vividly—mainly because Adebayor had been a right pain during negotiations.
Tall, unorthodox, and somehow always offside, he had still managed to squeeze in three goals despite limited minutes. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at the memory of him trying to argue that his hair should count as "onside."
In the middle of the park, Wenger's boldness—or recklessness, depending on who you asked—was on full display. Gone was the seasoned Patrick Vieira, who had stomped around the midfield like he owned the place. In his stead, Wenger had installed an 18-year-old named Cesc Fàbregas, a kid who looked like he should still be worrying about his math homework rather than dictating play in the Premier League.
Yet, despite his baby face, the Spaniard had started bossing the midfield with a surprising amount of swagger. Arthur had to admit, the kid could pass a ball through the eye of a needle.
As for the muscle, Gilberto Silva had slid seamlessly into the role of defensive enforcer. The Brazilian wasn't flashy, but he got the job done. He wasn't going to ping 40-yard screamers into the top corner, but if you needed someone to quietly dismantle the opposition's attack and then hand the ball over like it was a library book, Gilberto was your man.
Despite all these changes, Arsenal's form in the league hadn't been great. The media had been quick to pounce, churning out headlines like "Wenger's Youth Gamble Backfires" and "Arsenal's Glory Days are Over."
Some pundits were practically dancing on Arsenal's grave already. Arthur didn't buy a word of it. He'd seen this before—Wenger didn't just stumble into success; he built it brick by brick, pass by pass. And Arthur wasn't about to be fooled by a few shaky performances.
Starting that Monday, Arthur set himself a strict routine: two Arsenal game videos every evening after dinner. He watched with the patience of a man searching for a loose thread on a finely knit sweater.
What he found didn't surprise him. Arsenal might have had some fresh faces, but their game was still pure Wenger—quick passing, tight triangles, and always looking to slice teams open with one perfect ball. And if the rest of the league wanted to write them off, that was fine by Arthur. He knew better.
If anything, Arsenal was still a lion—perhaps just stretching its claws before the real hunt began. And Arthur intended to be ready when they came prowling to Elland Road.
****
The buildup to the Leeds United vs. Arsenal clash might not have had the glitz and drama of Manchester United vs. Chelsea, but in England, it still had fans buzzing. Arsenal against Leeds was not just a battle of two clubs; it was a showdown between two managers hailed as the best at discovering young talent: Arsène Wenger, the master architect of youth development, and Arthur, the mad scientist of teenage wonderkids.
The debate reached a fever pitch on The Times' football forum, where an article titled "Wenger vs. Arthur: Who is the Best Coach in England for Discovering Young Talent?" set off a civil war in the comments section. Arsenal fans and Leeds loyalists went at it like it was a pub brawl, except with slightly better spelling.
"I think there's no debate here," the first commenter declared confidently. "Just look at Arsenal's lineup. Adebayor, Fabregas, Van Persie, Hleb, Senderos, and even Henry! All these young stars blossomed under Wenger!"
The very first reply came in like a slap to the face. "Uh... mate, you do realize Adebayor was kicked out by Arthur, right? How's that a win for Wenger? That's like bragging about finding a fiver on the ground after someone else dropped it!"
"I swear, the first comment nearly killed me," another chimed in, "If you don't know much about football, maybe... don't type?"
It was like tossing a match into a pile of kindling. The comments exploded. Arsenal fans roared back, Leeds fans piled on, and neutrals just sat back with popcorn, watching the digital bloodbath unfold.
One particularly well-spoken commenter dropped a mini-essay that derailed the whole thread:
"I have to disagree with the first guy. Wenger used to be the best at finding young talent, no question. But have you seen Leeds United's squad under Arthur? Their average age is 22.4! The oldest is Deisler at 25, and the youngest is Bale at just 16! Pure kids! If we're talking purely about discovering talent, I think Arthur's got Wenger beat."
That sparked an immediate rebuttal. "Hold on there! Wenger's kids don't just play; they perform. Look at them in the Champions League. Leeds aren't even there this season. You can't just wave that away."
The Leeds fan fired back: "I said from the perspective of finding talent, not Champions League performance. Anyway, Leeds can't play in the Champions League if they're not in it. What kind of logic is that?"
Then things took a wild turn. One fan, who clearly had way too much time on their hands, posted a detailed breakdown of Arthur's transfer record:
"Look, Arthur has sold six players since he took over at Leeds. Want to know what happened to them? Five of them are now benchwarmers. Howard and Tevez? Collecting splinters. Sneijder? Rotating at Madrid because he doesn't fit their system. McLean and Caldwell? Struggling to get minutes. The only one actually playing well is Adebayor... and that's with Wenger, not Arthur. Isn't that strange? All these main players for Leeds suddenly become ghosts when they leave? Makes you wonder…"
The comment section went nuclear. Conspiracy theories flooded in like a dam had burst. Some suggested Arthur was doping his players with some secret formula. Others joked he must have some "voodoo curse" that made them fall apart the second they left Elland Road. Someone even suggested that the English FA should run a full-scale investigation and re-do the urine tests on the entire Leeds United squad.
And, of course, Arthur caught wind of it. He always did. His daily routine of surfing football forums with his morning coffee was a tradition as old as his managerial career. When he finally saw the post, he nearly spat out his drink.
He didn't need any conspiracy theories to figure it out. He knew exactly why those players flopped after leaving. It wasn't magic or doping; it was simply the system. His system. At Leeds, everything was tailored, optimized to bring out the best in each player. Like ingredients in a recipe, they worked perfectly together—but take one out, put it somewhere else, and suddenly it didn't taste the same.
Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. If only they knew. If only they knew how fine-tuned everything had to be for that little miracle to happen week after week. But he wasn't about to tell them. Let the conspiracy theories run wild. It was good entertainment, at least.
He refreshed the page and watched as the comments continued to flood in. Some of them were outrageously funny. Someone had even Photoshopped Arthur's face onto Dr. Frankenstein's body with the caption: "He creates monsters... but only for himself."
Arthur saved the image. He had to admit, it was pretty good.
At the pre-match press conference, the room was buzzing with the usual hum of chatter and clicking keyboards. Reporters were packed in tightly, elbows jostling for space, eyes locked on Arthur, who sat at the podium with his usual smug grin and a cup of coffee that smelled like it had been brewed from pure caffeine and stubbornness.
One reporter, clearly feeling bold—or just reckless—stood up and fired off the question that had been floating around the forums: "Arthur, what do you make of the rumors that players who leave Leeds seem to struggle elsewhere? Some say it's like... I don't know, you've put a spell on them or drugs or something."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee, and then leaned forward with a look that could've melted concrete. "Look," he began, voice dripping with sarcasm, "anyone asking that kind of question probably needs to get their own head checked. I'll only say this once, so listen carefully. If a player looks like a world-beater here and then turns into a training cone somewhere else, maybe—and this is just a wild thought—maybe the problem isn't with me or Leeds. Maybe it's your team. Maybe it's your coach. I don't know, try looking there instead of waving around conspiracy theories like it's a magic show."
The room went dead silent. Arthur wasn't finished. He leaned back, arms crossed, and continued, "And let me clear this up once and for all: when I sell a player, it's not like I'm running some shop down the road. There's no three-month warranty, no 'satisfaction guaranteed' stamped on their foreheads. If they break after leaving, don't come knocking on my door asking for a refund. I'm not Amazon."
The reporter who asked the question sat down, his cheeks burning red. He tried to shrink back into his seat, like he wanted to disappear into the upholstery. Even he had to admit, it was a ridiculous question. He'd thrown it out there just to see if it would stick, but Arthur had swatted it back with a verbal sledgehammer.
The rest of the journalists quickly took the hint. No one wanted to be the next one flattened by Arthur's sarcasm. The questions swiftly shifted to the upcoming Arsenal game, leaving the reporter to stew in his own regret, probably wondering if he should've just asked about the weather instead.
****
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am your old friend Ere Geddy. Let us welcome the two teams with the warmest cheers!!!!"
Then, accompanied by the cheers of the whole audience, the two teams entered the Elland Road Stadium under the leadership of the referee.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Elland Road for today's massive Premier League clash between Leeds United and Arsenal!" boomed the unmistakable voice of Martin Tyler, the veteran commentator who could make reading the phone book sound dramatic. Next to him, Alan Smith adjusted his headset, ready for another afternoon of sharp analysis and the occasional sigh of disbelief.
The roar of the crowd grew louder as the two teams emerged from the tunnel, the Elland Road faithful belting out chants that echoed through the chilly afternoon air. Leeds United, dressed in their iconic white, lined up with confident strides, while Arsenal, donning their classic red and white kits, moved with the swagger of a team used to ruling English football.
"Here come the teams, led out by the referee. And listen to that reception, Alan! You'd think it was a cup final," Martin Tyler chuckled.
"It's always like that at Elland Road, Martin. Arthur's got them believing again," Alan Smith replied with a grin.
The camera panned to Arthur on the touchline, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, looking like he was deciding whether to mastermind a victory or just start an argument with Wenger for sport.
"Right, let's take a look at the starting lineups," Martin continued as the graphics flashed onto the screen. "Leeds United lining up in their familiar 4-2-3-1. Up top, it's Radamel Falcao, who's been in red-hot form—some might say he's practically scoring for fun this season."
"Yeah, if fun means making Premier League defenders miserable," Alan chuckled.
"Deisler slots in just behind him, pulling the strings as usual. With Bale still out injured, Ribery steps into that left-midfield role. On the right, it's Captain Milner—playing out wide today. Modric anchors the midfield with Mascherano stepping in for Yaya Touré. Solid choice, wouldn't you say, Alan?"
"Absolutely. Mascherano's a bulldog in that midfield. If you drop your sandwich near him, you'd probably lose it in the tackle," Alan replied with a laugh.
"Defensively, it's the familiar quartet: Lahm on the left, Chiellini and Kompany in the center, and Maicon on the right. Schmeichel starts in goal, and he'll be looking to keep a clean sheet against one of the most dangerous attacks in the league."
The camera cut to Schmeichel, smacking his gloves together like they'd personally offended him.
"And now, for Arsenal," Martin continued, "a classic 4-4-2 from Wenger. Up front, the lethal duo of Henry and Van Persie—two players that can ruin your weekend in a heartbeat."
"Or your whole month if you're not careful," Alan added.
"Midfield four of Fabregas, Ljungberg, Pires, and Gilberto Silva. That's creativity, pace, and steel all wrapped up in one tidy package," Martin said, nodding approvingly. "And in defense, Ashley Cole and Eboué on the flanks, with Kolo Touré partnering the young Senderos in the center. Lehmann, of course, between the sticks."
"Lehmann's the kind of keeper that'll pull off a world-class save one minute and then try to fight his own defender the next. You never know what you're gonna get," Alan smirked.
Martin chuckled, "That's part of the charm, isn't it? Well, as much charm as you can find in a goalkeeper trying to wrestle his own teammate."
The lineups were set, the players were warming up, and the atmosphere at Elland Road was bubbling with anticipation. Arthur stood at the edge of his technical area, arms folded, already barking instructions at anyone who dared look in his direction. Wenger, ever the professor, stood calmly with his trademark coat zipped up to his chin, arms crossed like he was grading a particularly stubborn essay.
"Well, it's all set up, Alan. Leeds versus Arsenal. Arthur versus Wenger. Youth development against...well, slightly different youth development," Martin chuckled.
Alan laughed, "Let's just hope Arthur doesn't start auctioning off players at halftime. You know how he loves a good sale."
The whistle was just moments away, and Elland Road was a cauldron of noise and excitement. Leeds United versus Arsenal. Arthur versus Wenger. The stage was set.