Michael stood in the director's box, wearing his new club suit and a tie in Barnsley red. He felt strangely isolated, separated from the real fans by a pane of glass.
This wasn't like watching from his father's box at Northwood, a place of corporate comfort. This was a crucible.
Every single person in this stadium was now indirectly his employee, their Saturday happiness resting on the shoulders of the eighteen-year-old owner they'd only read about in the papers.
Down on the touchline, Arthur looked like he'd been born there.
He exuded an aura of calm, analytical authority, a stark contrast to the opposing manager, a burly, red-faced man who was already yelling at the fourth official before a ball had even been kicked.
Their opponents for the first match of the Tyke Shield friendly tournament were Rotherham Athletic.
A local rival from the same league, Rotherham had a fearsome reputation.
They were known for being a team of giants, a collection of human battering rams who played a brand of football best described as "agricultural."
The whistle blew, and the match began.
For the first ten minutes, Michael felt a surge of pride.
You could see Arthur's plan in motion. It was beautiful. Barnsley's players moved in triangles, playing short, sharp, one-touch passes.
They were trying to be a symphony of movement against Rotherham's heavy metal.
Danny Fletcher, playing as the lone striker, showed glimpses of his [PA 91] genius, his clever movement pulling Rotherham's lumbering center-backs out of position.
But the symphony was struggling to find its rhythm.
Every time a Barnsley player received the ball, a Rotherham player would arrive a split-second later, not to tackle the ball, but to tackle the man.
A crunching challenge sent their central midfielder sprawling.
An "accidental" elbow left their left-back with a bloody nose.
The referee, seemingly intimidated by the sheer physicality, kept his whistle out of his mouth.
Barnsley's players were being bullied, plain and simple.
Their confidence was visibly draining away.
The clever runs became shorter, less ambitious.
They were trying to play chess while their opponents were flipping the board over and hitting them with it.
Michael watched from his box, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrest of his chair. He could see the problem as clearly as the numbers in his head.
Arthur's system required bravery and trust, but it was hard to trust the pass when you knew a two-hundred-pound monster was about to run through the back of you.
Then came the mistake.
It was the thirty-fifth minute. The ball was worked out to the right wing, to Jamie Weston.
It was his first start, his first time wearing the Barnsley red in a real match.
He was a bundle of nervous energy, a [CA 59] kid desperate to prove his new owner right. He received the ball deep in his own half, with a Rotherham fullback charging at him like a runaway train.
The sensible play was to pass it back to the defender, to reset, to be safe.
But Jamie saw a chance to be a hero. He attempted a flashy step-over, a trick from the cage, trying to beat his man and launch a counter-attack.
He misjudged the timing. His touch was heavy.
The Rotherham fullback didn't even try to play the ball.
He simply ran through Jamie, knocking the smaller boy to the turf. He took the ball, drove to the byline, and cut a pass back across the box.
Their striker, a man who looked more like a rugby player, met the ball with an unceremonious thump, sending it crashing into the back of the net.
1-0 to Rotherham.
A collective groan went up around the stadium.
Down on the pitch, Jamie lay on the grass for a moment, head in his hands, the weight of his mistake crushing him.
The captain, Dave Bishop, hauled him to his feet, but not before shooting a furious, "I told you so" glare towards the dugout where Arthur stood, perfectly still.
The next ten minutes were agonizing. The Barnsley players were completely rattled.
Every pass was a risk, every tackle a threat. The half-time whistle came as a mercy.
As the players trudged off the pitch, their shoulders slumped, Michael saw it clearly. The older, veteran players like Bishop were looking at Arthur with open skepticism.
Their faces said everything: This fancy, clever-clogs football doesn't work. We need to fight fire with fire. The dressing room, Michael knew, was about to be a powder keg.
He made his way down from the director's box, his own heart heavy with doubt.
Had he been naive? Had he and Arthur miscalculated so badly?
He stood in the corridor outside the home changing room, hearing the low, angry muttering from within. He could feel the tension through the thick wooden door.
When Arthur walked past him, Michael just gave him a questioning look.
Michael followed him and stood by the door as Arthur entered. He braced himself for the explosion.
He expected screaming, shouting, a furious tirade about their lack of courage.
The players fell silent as Arthur entered, their faces a mixture of anger, frustration, and shame.
Jamie Weston sat in the corner, looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Captain Dave Bishop stood with his arms crossed, ready for a confrontation.
Arthur didn't scream. He didn't even raise his voice.
He walked calmly to the tactics board, picked up a magnetic marker, and tapped it gently on the board, the soft click! echoing in the tense silence.
He waited until every single eye in the room was on him.
"Right," he said, his voice level and analytical, as if he were discussing a minor logistical problem. "We've got a problem."
He looked around the room, meeting the gaze of the skeptical veterans and the rattled youngsters.
"But lucky for us," he continued, a dangerous, intelligent gleam appearing in his eyes, "I've got the fix."
He placed a few magnets on the board, representing the Rotherham players.
"And it's absolutely not what you're thinking."