"Boss, I saw Ferguson looking pretty pissed when he walked out just now. What did you do this time—poke the old bear again?"
On the bus back to the hotel, Arthur had just dropped into his seat when Simeone spun around from the row ahead and lobbed the question with that grin of his.
"Nothing," Arthur said, lifting his shoulders with the most innocent shrug in football history. "The old man had bad intentions. He gave my lads a greedy, sly look the moment we met. So, naturally, I reminded him of a certain runner-up medals he collected last season."
"Fuck!"
The second the words "Treble Runner-up" left Arthur's mouth, Simeone completely lost it. He slapped the back of the seat and broke into a wheezing laugh. "You really don't give Ferguson a single ounce of face, hahahaha!"
"Cut it out," Arthur said, waving him off with a smirk. "It's not just Ferguson—I didn't even give Florentino face last season. If you want me to respect you, the rule is simple: beat me first. Last season, we were the ones laughing last. Not him, not Ferguson, not anyone else…"
····
October 6th, 2007.
Leeds United, away to Manchester United.
This was the final stop of Leeds United's brutal run of fixtures. After this match, the players not called up by their national teams would finally get a breather during the international break—fourteen glorious days without Arthur dragging them around Europe like a herd of overworked oxen. For lads who'd been grinding nonstop, running up and down pitches across the continent for nearly half a month, this was practically heaven.
And every single one of them knew it.
A two-week break meant one very important thing: Arthur was bound to hand out a holiday. And not just a polite one-day rest, either—if they knew their boss at all, they were sniffing at least three days off, minimum.
They were right.
After the warm-up was done and the players had filtered back into the Old Trafford visitors' dressing room, Arthur strolled in last, kicked the door shut behind him, and marched straight to the center of the room.
He didn't bother with any preamble.
"After today's match," Arthur announced, his voice cutting straight through the chatter, "anyone not called up by their national team gets a four-day holiday."
The place erupted.
"Oh yeah! Long live the boss!!"
The cheer came from the far corner of the room, loud enough to rattle the benches. Everyone's heads snapped that way.
And there he was—Zlatan Ibrahimović, already on his feet, fists pumping like a kid at a rock concert. His eyes sparkled like someone had just handed him a golden goose.
But Adriano, sitting right next to him, rolled his eyes so hard they nearly hit the ceiling. "Zlatan, are you actually listening? He said players not called up by their national teams. You're off to play European qualifiers for Sweden, remember?"
The words hit Zlatan like a red card to the chest.
"Ah?" The smile fell off his face so fast it could've set a record. He turned slowly, mournfully, to Arthur, his eyes wide, his expression dripping with betrayal. Like a man whose ice cream had just been nicked by his best mate.
Arthur burst out laughing at the sight. "Come on, Zlatan, be reasonable. You've got matches on the 14th and 18th, and then we're back in the league on the 20th. If I gave holidays to all the internationals too, I wouldn't even be able to scrape together eleven players for that game."
Zlatan's shoulders sagged like a punctured balloon. He plopped back down on the bench, muttering darkly to Adriano about how UEFA scheduling was more corrupt than a dodgy referee in Sunday league.
But Arthur wasn't finished.
He let the grumbling linger for a second, then clapped his hands together and said, "Of course, that's not the only reward."
Immediately, silence. Every head in the room turned.
Arthur paused deliberately, enjoying the suspense. Then his grin spread, slow and sharp.
"For today's game, I have just one demand: we win. And if we do? Everyone's bonuses double. Winning bonus, goal bonus, assist bonus—whatever's written in your contracts, it'll all be doubled. Clear enough?"
For footballers, there are plenty of ways to get motivated—bragging rights, pride, a manager's approval. But nothing, absolutely nothing, lights a fire faster than cold, hard cash.
The room practically exploded.
The cheer this time was deafening, so loud it could've blown the roof clean off Old Trafford. Shirts flew up, fists thumped chests, the walls shook.
Faces flushed red with excitement. Eyes gleamed with pound signs.
Over by the benches, Alves had already whipped out a notebook and was scribbling furiously with Kaka leaning over his shoulder.
"Okay, if I get one assist and we win, that's—"
"Add another if I score, and you'll definitely cross it—"
They were already calculating their payday like two accountants with shin pads.
Arthur let the noise wash over him for a moment, then clapped his hands again, harder this time. The sound cracked through the chaos like a whip, and heads swiveled back toward him.
He stepped to the tactical whiteboard, picked up a marker, and said with that familiar mischievous glint:
"Now. Let's talk about how we're going to take down Manchester United."
****
In the home dressing room, the mood was all business. The chatter that usually filled the air before a big match had been shut down by Sir Alex's presence the moment he stepped in. He'd finished sketching out the tactical plan on the whiteboard, tossed the marker down like a gauntlet, and then walked to the center of the room with that measured, deliberately calm swagger of his. His face was set, his eyes cool and careful, scanning every player as though he were inspecting soldiers before a battle.
"Right, lads," he said, voice low at first but gaining force as he warmed into it. "For Leeds, this is just another league fixture—one game in a long season. For us, it's different. This is a game of revenge."
He let the words hang in the air, and you could feel them land like stones. He didn't need to shout; the players were already leaning in.
"Remember what happened a few months ago," he continued. "They beat us at the death. They nicked the title from under our noses, and it stung. Since the Champions League final, the press have been having a go at us, calling us names, poking fun. They've been repeating that whole 'King of Third Place' nonsense until they're blue in the face. There are columnists, phone-in callers, people in pubs—they all love that joke."
He paused then, letting a tiny smile fold into something sharper. "And when I bumped into Arthur at the airport? He had the gall to use that phrase right in front of me. Can you imagine? In my own house, nearly!"
A beat of silence rippled through the room. A few faces flushed at the memory. It wasn't the kind of thing Sir Alex would usually linger on, but that was precisely the point—he had brought it up on purpose.
Except for Schmeichel and Berbatov, most of the United lads showed their irritation on their faces. Cristiano Ronaldo's jaw tightened, Rooney's eyes flashed with the sort of anger that smells like intent rather than mere annoyance. These men treated Ferguson as something close to a godfather; when he talked of injustice, they took it personally.
Ferguson watched that reaction and allowed himself a small, satisfied nod. The tactic was working exactly as intended. He liked to say he'd been a manager for decades for a reason—he knew how to stoke the embers into a full blaze when required.
"There are plenty of strong teams in world football," he went on, voice steady, rising like a drumbeat. "Every season, new challengers pop up and try to knock the giants off their perch. That's the way of the game. But giants—real giants—don't panic when the challenger knocks on the door. They find ways to answer back. They adapt. They learn. They win when it matters."
He looked at each player in turn, letting the weight of his stare land on them. "We laugh last because we prepare first. Only we can beat us. The rest? They're just noise. Today we step onto Old Trafford and make those lot from Leeds remember who's boss in Manchester. Make them rue the day they thought they could nick a title off us."
The air in the room shifted. Words turned into a tangible thing—hot, electric. Two or three seconds later, the spark Sir Alex had deliberately set flamed into something fiercer.
Paul Scholes, who'd been sitting a little forward in his chair with his hands clasped, shot up as if he'd been flicked by a switch. His face was suddenly animated, eyes alight with the kind of fervor that makes teammates grin and opponents wary.
"We must win today!" Scholes barked, voice cracking with resolve. "Let them go to hell!"
"Let them go to hell!" came the chorus, rising like a tide. It wasn't just bravado. It was physical—boots shuffling, helmets of hair tossed back, fists driven into palms. The players weren't just repeating a slogan; they were imprinting the emotion into their bones.
In that charged silence before a match, Ferguson's speech did what it was meant to: turned historical grievance into immediate fuel. He'd taken a slight—Arthur's airport jibe—and turned it into a battle hymn. He'd reminded the lads who they were, who they represented, and what was at stake beyond three points.
Some of the older players—men who'd felt the pressure of title races and tasted the bitterness of defeats—exchanged looks. There was a shared memory in their eyes, the kind that says, we've been here before. The youngsters, meanwhile, drank it in like it was whiskey: sharp, warming, dangerous.
"You do the talking on the pitch," Sir Alex added, voice folding into a gentler but firm cadence now. "No daft fouls, no silly bookings. Keep your discipline. Play at our tempo. We make them chase; we make them tired. When we see the space, we hit them. Simple football. Remember who we are. Every time you walk onto that grass, you have the right to be proud to wear this shirt. Make yourselves proud today."
He didn't have to rattle off tactic after tactic; the men in that room knew the plan and their roles. The message was more primal than that: take the slight, sharpen it into focus, and use it.
Schmeichel, who had been absorbing everything quietly, let out a hearty laugh at Scholes' cry and clapped a couple of lads on the shoulder. Berbatov, laconic as ever, nodded once, the smallest motion but full of meaning. Rooney's pupils narrowed with the kind of cold focus that can unnerve defenders. Ronaldo, lit by that competitive fire, straightened up and walked to the whiteboard to point out a small detail on the chalk marks, the kind of micro-adjustment only a man obsessed with improvement would make.
Ferguson watched it all with a satisfied half-smile. He had deliberately drummed up a sense of injustice—real or imagined—to unify his squad. It was classic management theatre: take the slight out there in the world, amplify it just enough, then turn it into internal cohesion. Football thrives on rituals like this. The pre-match rant, the shared oath, the shout that becomes a chant. It all fed into what would happen on the turf.
"Right," Ferguson finished, quietly, with that air of command that made even the most vocal players fall silent. "Lads, do what you do best. Play hard. Play clever. Play together. Win for Manchester."
The room erupted again—this time with a different tone. Less sarcasm, less theatrical fury, more of a hunter's focus. Boots were tightened, shirts smoothed, gloves pulled on. The players rose as one—no longer simply a group of individuals, but a unit honed by pre-match ritual and sharpened by a leader who knew how to turn pride into performance.
As they moved toward the tunnel, the chant—raw and fierce—followed them. The message had landed. Old Trafford was ready for battle. The players were ready to walk out and make sure the lesson Ferguson had preached would be written not in headlines but in the language of the pitch: relentless pressure, clever passing, and, above all, a win.