Arthur never expected the game-winner to come like that. He had envisioned many scenarios for Leeds United's return to the Champions League stage, but not even in his boldest tactical plans had he imagined Zlatan Ibrahimovic scoring a 30-yard bicycle kick in stoppage time.
It was a goal for the ages—eerily similar to the one that would win the Puskás Award years later, except tonight, the victim was not England's Joe Hart but PSV Eindhoven's goalkeeper, Carlos. The background had changed, the stakes were different, but the brilliance was the same.
Unfortunately, the Puskás Award didn't exist yet. Still, no trophy or title could diminish what the world had just witnessed. Ibrahimovic had lit up the Philips Stadion with a strike so outrageous, so technically perfect, that even the home fans stood stunned. There was no debate—he was named Man of the Match without hesitation.
After the game, Arthur stepped into the press room with Ibrahimovic by his side. The pair looked relaxed but confident. Arthur wore his usual calm expression, while Ibrahimovic looked like a man who had just rewritten the definition of swagger.
The first to speak was Lind from the Yorkshire Post, who had followed Leeds to the Netherlands to cover the match. He leaned forward and spoke into the mic:
"Mr. Morgan, congratulations on the win. This is Leeds United's first Champions League victory in five years. Before the game, not many gave your team a chance. But despite the pressure, you won. Do you have anything to say about the performance under such circumstances?"
Arthur nodded politely but replied in his usual straightforward tone. "Thank you, but I'll have to correct something there. Neither I nor the players felt any pressure tonight. Honestly, I don't even understand why we were seen as underdogs. This was just a group-stage match—one of six. We've got five more to play."
He paused slightly, then added, "The media created the pressure. We never felt it."
His words were measured, but the message was clear: don't tell us we're the little guys—we don't buy into your narrative.
Before Lind could respond, a Dutch journalist stood up, clearly irked by Arthur's dismissive tone.
"Mr. Morgan," he began, his voice sharp, "from your comments, it sounds like you think Leeds United had an easy win. But what about the second half? PSV pressed you hard. Leeds barely got out of their own half. How do you explain that?"
Arthur turned toward the journalist, noting the unfamiliar logo on his press badge—clearly local. He didn't flinch.
"I didn't say we won easily. I said we didn't feel pressure," Arthur clarified, eyes locked on the reporter. "Look, we dominated the first half, pressed aggressively, and got our goal. After that, we made a choice—to conserve energy and manage the game."
The Dutch reporter tried to cut in, "But it wasn't just a slowdown. Leeds looked—"
Before he could finish, Ibrahimovic leaned forward, grabbed the mic, and casually interrupted.
"That's because it was all part of the plan," Zlatan said, shrugging. "Our coach knew what he was doing. He let them push forward, thinking they had a chance. And in the end, boom—I shut down your stadium with a single kick."
The room broke into stifled laughter. Ibrahimovic wasn't done.
"You all heard it, right? I turned the Philips Stadion into a library."
The line landed like a punchline at a stand-up gig. Even the neutral journalists in the room struggled to contain themselves. Shoulders shook, hands went over mouths. A few reporters scribbled the quote down instantly, knowing it would be the headline across half of Europe.
The Dutch reporter, red-faced and visibly frustrated, opened his mouth—but had no retort. Leeds had won. Ibrahimovic had decided it. And no amount of local pride could rewrite the scoreboard.
Arthur stayed quiet, letting Zlatan enjoy the moment. There was nothing more to say, really. They'd come to Eindhoven, faced a team many predicted would outplay them, and walked away with three points—and a highlight reel goal that would be replayed for years.
Leeds United were not back. They were here—and they had arrived on their own terms.
Most of the journalists in the room already knew what to expect from Ibrahimovic. The man was never one to sugarcoat anything. Bold statements, outrageous confidence—it was all standard fare. If he managed to offend half the press conference while praising himself, well, that was just Zlatan being Zlatan.
But this version of Ibrahimovic wasn't born in Turin. Back at Juventus, he'd been a much quieter figure. Under Fabio Capello, discipline ruled the dressing room like military doctrine. No antics, no noise, no headlines unless they came from goals. Capello ran a tight ship, and young Zlatan had to fall in line.
But at Leeds United? It was like someone had opened the cage and let the lion roam free.
Arthur, the manager who had brought him in, ran the team with a completely different energy. He was calm in the dressing room, positive even when the team was behind, and rarely raised his voice. Encouragement flowed more than rebuke. Confidence was built from trust, not fear.
And that freedom showed.
On the pitch, Ibrahimovic played like a man with nothing to prove but everything to enjoy. Off it, he spoke like a man who knew his manager had his back. Because he did.
Arthur was a wall between his players and the outside world. He could be calm and kind within the team, but the moment someone outside took a swing—whether it was the media or an opposing coach—he changed. Sharp, fierce, and unapologetically blunt, Arthur didn't hesitate to clap back. And above all, he never let a journalist lay blame at his players' feet.
That's what made this team different. The players felt safe, even when the world was watching. As long as they were giving their all, Arthur didn't care what they said to the media. You could slam the press. You could mock the opposition. Hell, you could probably take a jab at Sepp Blatter himself—and Arthur would still shield you from the fallout.
It wasn't just coaching. It was loyalty. And in a world as ruthless as football, that made all the difference.
****
The day after Arthur and Ibrahimovic's no-nonsense takedown of reporters during the post-match press conference, social media lit up like wildfire. Clips of Arthur's sharp responses and Zlatan's "silent library" jab at PSV Eindhoven's stadium were being shared, remixed, and quoted across Twitter and football forums. Fans couldn't get enough.
But as amusing as the drama was, attention quickly turned toward the next big fixture: Leeds United versus Chelsea. Anticipation buzzed in fan circles—how would Arthur handle a verbal sparring match with none other than José Mourinho?
The answer? Arthur didn't have time to care.
The very next day, Leeds United boarded a bus headed northwest toward Liverpool. Their destination: Goodison Park. Opponent: Everton.
Everton were flying high this season. Four games in, they were unbeaten with three wins and one draw. Their midfield was fluid, their attack efficient, and they defended with real grit. A tricky opponent, especially for a Leeds side that—despite a huge win in the Champions League—was still limping along with half a squad.
Arthur wasn't one to admit defeat, though. He saw the trip to Merseyside as a challenge, not an obstacle. With his team short on legs and fresh off an intense European clash, he took a gamble—activating the morale boost from his mysterious "system" once again.
But not even that was enough for all three points.
The match against Everton was a tug-of-war. Twice the Toffees took the lead, and twice Leeds clawed back with grit, determination, and clever play. The 2-2 draw felt more like a moral victory for Leeds than a setback, considering the circumstances. At full-time, the players left the pitch bruised but proud.
Still, this wasn't the headline match of the weekend. Not even close.
The media's attention had already drifted toward two blockbuster fixtures set for the following day: Chelsea vs. Liverpool at Stamford Bridge, and Manchester United vs. Arsenal at Old Trafford. The Premier League spotlight had moved, and Arthur was more than happy to let it.
Once back in Leeds, he wasted no time.
"Lina, I need a TV. A proper one. Big screen," Arthur said flatly as he walked into the training facility's admin office.
"For the locker room?" she asked.
"For my living room."
That evening, a new flat-screen glowed in Arthur's lounge. Two matches, one night—Arthur watched both simultaneously, a cup of tea in hand and notepad in his lap. For all his bravado in front of the press, he was a meticulous student of the game in private.
Before either match had kicked off, the build-up online was electric. Not because of player rivalries, but because of the coaches. The war of words had already started. In fact, it had been raging for days.
Mourinho, fresh off a string of wins, was in his usual theatrical form. In the pre-match presser, he casually declared Liverpool "a good team, but not in our class." He claimed they'd struggle to get out of their own half at Stamford Bridge. Typical Mourinho—cocky, calculated, entertaining.
Rafael Benítez, without his playmaker Sebastian Deisler due to injury, wasn't drawn into the drama. He stayed diplomatic. "Chelsea are the strongest team in the league right now," he admitted. "But we will fight with everything we have. If we can take something from the game, it will depend on how we respond on the pitch, not in front of cameras."
Arthur smirked at that. Benítez was clever. He refused to play Mourinho's game, and it made him look calm and in control.
But if Mourinho vs. Benítez was a chess match, Ferguson vs. Wenger was a pub brawl.
Those two had history—real, bitter history.
Ferguson had once called Wenger a "novice" who "needed to learn respect." Wenger, in return, accused Ferguson of having too much sway over the FA and manipulating United's fixture list to his benefit. The mind games between them were as much a part of their rivalry as the football itself.
In the pre-match comments, Ferguson had delivered a typically cutting remark: "Arsenal are playing beautiful football, sure. But beauty doesn't win titles. Trophies are made from results, not style."
Wenger, visibly unimpressed, fired back with: "We respect Manchester United, but we do not fear them. Let's see who's smiling at the end."
Arthur chuckled at that one. "He's still got bite," he muttered.
For Arthur, this night of football was more than entertainment. It was research. Leeds United would soon face both Chelsea and Manchester United. Studying how they lined up, how they responded under pressure, and how their managers handled the spotlight—it all mattered.
He didn't take notes for the cameras. He wasn't playing to the crowd. He was watching, learning, preparing.
The world was waiting to see what kind of fireworks would explode when Leeds United met Chelsea and Mourinho on the same pitch. But Arthur already had his eyes on a bigger prize: building a Leeds side that could beat them all.
He just needed to be ready.
****
In the charged atmosphere of a football-frenzied evening, both Stamford Bridge and Old Trafford roared to life as the clocks struck 8 p.m. The two highly anticipated fixtures—Chelsea vs. Liverpool and Manchester United vs. Arsenal—kicked off simultaneously, sending fans across the country into rapt attention.
The first half at Stamford Bridge proved to be a slow burner. Liverpool, playing away, approached the match with caution. Despite their reputation for intensity, they never looked truly threatening. Their midfield play was neat but lacked penetration, and chances were rare. Chelsea, as always under Mourinho, were compact and disciplined—leaving no easy routes to goal. The few shots Liverpool managed were weak or off-target, comfortably dealt with by Čech.
Arthur, watching from his sofa back in Leeds, was already breaking down the match with a coach's eye. He noticed Liverpool's clear hesitation. It wasn't just the occasion—they were terrified of Chelsea's counterattack. With Drogba, Robben, and Shevchenko stationed near the halfway line like predators ready to pounce, Liverpool's backline didn't dare venture too far forward. Defending against Drogba alone usually took two men, and with Robben's speed and Shevchenko's positioning, Liverpool couldn't afford to gamble. As a result, their build-up play lacked numbers, and their attacks fell flat.
It was almost inevitable.
In the final minutes of the first half, Steven Gerrard made an uncharacteristic mistake just outside Chelsea's penalty area. Lampard pounced, poked the ball free, and took two quick touches before releasing Drogba near the center circle. Drogba, powerful as ever, held off Carragher's challenge and rolled the ball wide to Robben, who tore down the right flank with his signature burst. Cutting inside and dragging the defense with him, Robben spotted Drogba sprinting into the box. The Ivorian received the return ball in stride and smashed it past Reina with a ruthless finish. 1–0 to Chelsea.
Arthur gave a small nod to himself. Classic Mourinho—suffocate the opposition, then punish one mistake.
Meanwhile, the first half at Old Trafford had been far more entertaining. Manchester United and Arsenal went at each other with high energy and crisp passing. But for all their efforts, neither side could find the breakthrough. The attacking was fluid, the movement clever, but the final ball kept letting both teams down. The match went into halftime still goalless, but it had the feel of a firework waiting for a spark.
Fifteen minutes later, all four teams returned to the pitch. And the game at Stamford Bridge took a dramatic twist.
In the 51st minute, Michael Ballack went flying into a challenge from behind—reckless, desperate, and dangerous. The referee didn't hesitate. Straight red. Chelsea were down to ten men. Mourinho immediately pulled back his lines. Chelsea retreated, parking the bus on the edge of their own box with the efficiency of a military unit. The defending was deep and ugly—but effective.
Liverpool, sensing blood, poured forward. But something was missing. Arthur noticed it too—without Deisler, their creative spark was gone. Gerrard tried to force the issue with long-range shots, but one ended up in Row Z and another sailed harmlessly over. Their possession looked good on paper, but they had no answer for Chelsea's deep block.
Arthur leaned back, arms folded, shaking his head slightly. "They've got the ball, but no ideas."
So he turned his attention to the other screen.
At Old Trafford, United and Arsenal were still locked in a stalemate, but the tempo was rising. Both sides had thrown on fresh legs, hoping for a late winner. Ronaldo was growing into the game, but Arsenal's midfield, orchestrated by Fabregas, was equally sharp. It felt like the kind of match where one set-piece, one mistake, could swing it.
And in the 84th minute, it happened.
Arsenal won a corner. Fabregas stood over it, surveyed the penalty area, and curled in a wicked delivery toward the far post. Emmanuel Adebayor, lurking behind Rio Ferdinand, leapt and connected with perfect timing. The header powered into the net. 1–0 to Arsenal.
The Emirates faithful watching from afar erupted. Ferguson, on the touchline, turned crimson with frustration.
The clock ticked down, but Arsenal held firm. The final whistle blew, sealing a vital win for Wenger's side.
Back in his living room, Arthur chuckled. Not at the result—but at the post-match moment.
As the cameras zoomed in on the touchline, Wenger marched across the pitch, hand extended, ready for a diplomatic handshake. But Ferguson? He walked right past him, stone-faced, eyes locked on the tunnel. He didn't even flinch.
Arthur burst out laughing, clapping his hands once. "Classy, Sir Alex. Real classy."
The evening had been insightful. Arthur now had a clearer picture of where his competitors stood. Chelsea were ruthless on the counter but vulnerable when down a man. Liverpool were lost without their creative core. Arsenal looked composed and dangerous, while United, though talented, still lacked consistency.
With those thoughts fresh in his mind, Arthur turned off the TV.
Up next for Leeds United—League Cup action. And he had decisions to make.
****
The next morning, Arthur sat at his desk in Thorp Arch, Leeds United's training ground, staring blankly at the screen in front of him. The system display showed a long list of players—Neuer, Piqué, Lahm, Ribéry, Ibrahimović—each with their physical reserves dipping below 40 points. It was like watching fuel gauges all flashing red at once. Arthur leaned back in his chair and let out a deep sigh.
He knew exactly what this meant.
The squad was exhausted.
Running on fumes, stretched thin across four competitions, and with injuries creeping up, Arthur was now facing the reality that Leeds simply didn't have the depth to compete on all fronts. Something had to give. He had to make a choice.
That choice came in the midweek League Cup fixture against Crewe Alexandra. A League One side on paper, but still a potential landmine if underestimated. Arthur made the call to rotate heavily. Neuer was handed a rare start in goal. Piqué and Mills came into the backline. Xavi García got a run in midfield. Tactically, Arthur shifted into a more conservative shape. No high pressing, no gung-ho attacking. The order was simple: sit back, conserve energy, don't get injured.
The irony?
Arthur practically threw the game—and yet, Crewe somehow still managed to be even worse.
For 120 minutes, Crewe hurled themselves at Leeds United, registering nearly 15 shots, but none of them found a way past Neuer, who stood tall like a wall of granite. And when the game inevitably stumbled into a penalty shootout, Neuer came alive.
One save. Then another. Then another.
Three consecutive spot-kicks denied. It was Neuer's night, and against all odds, Leeds United advanced to the next round of the League Cup—entirely by accident.
In the post-match press conference, however, there wasn't even a flicker of joy on Arthur's face. No smile. No celebration.
So when a journalist cautiously asked why he didn't seem happy after a victory, Arthur, completely out of patience, finally snapped.
"Mr. Reporter," he said, voice calm but boiling underneath, "if your team had to play four official matches in two weeks—including a Champions League fixture—would you be happy?"
The room went dead silent.
Reporters sat up straighter, sensing blood in the water.
Another journalist quickly chimed in. "Mr. Morgan, what exactly are you implying?"
Arthur leaned forward, no longer holding back. "What I'm implying is this: the scheduling from the English FA is a complete joke. Take a look at our calendar. Since the third round of the league, we haven't had a full week to rest. Not one! My players—who give their hearts out there every single game—just went through 120 minutes of extra time tonight. And in three days? They're out there again. When exactly are they supposed to recover? When are they supposed to see their families, their children? The people scheduling these matches must've been kicked in the head by a donkey."
The room erupted—not in applause, but in furious typing. Fingers clattered over keyboards. Phones buzzed. Headlines were being written in real time.
Arthur didn't care.
He knew he wouldn't change anything, but it felt good to vent. At least someone had said it.
The next morning, Arthur's quotes were splashed across every major back page in England. "Kicked in the Head by a Donkey: Leeds Boss Slams FA" screamed one. "Arthur's War on Fixture Madness" blared another. The headlines practically wrote themselves.
Of course, it wasn't long before a formal email from the FA arrived in Arthur's inbox.
Fine: €20,000.
Arthur rolled his eyes and deleted it. Worth it.
The games kept coming.
In the next nine days, Leeds were dragged through another brutal stretch of fixtures. First came Watford at Elland Road. Leeds controlled possession but lacked sharpness. The match ended 1–1—another two points dropped in the league.
Next up: Galatasaray in the Champions League.
It was a brutal, fast-paced match, but Arthur's rotated squad dug deep. A thrilling 3–2 win at home meant Leeds had now collected back-to-back victories in Europe. The fans were in dreamland, and Arthur allowed himself a small smile.
Then came Blackburn away.
The pitch at Ewood Park was rough, the crowd loud, and the legs tired. Even with the morale boost from the system, Leeds couldn't find their rhythm. They were beaten 2–1. Another league setback.
When the final whistle blew, Arthur trudged back to the dressing room, silently counting down the days until the international break.
September had been chaos: congested fixtures, a Champions League group of death, a press scandal, and FA fines. But somehow, Arthur had survived it. He knew his team wasn't perfect—far from it—but they were still standing, still fighting, and most importantly, still believing.
Now came the international break.
A rare breath.
And when they returned, it would be time for Leeds United to face their toughest test of the season yet:
Manchester United at Elland Road.
A classic. A clash of giants. And Arthur's first true high-stakes duel against the Red Devils.