The UEFA officials didn't keep the football world waiting long. By Friday, they had already gathered the football aristocracy in Switzerland, polished their fancy balls, and conducted the Champions League semi-final draw. The entire ceremony was, as usual, a mixture of suspense, formality, and an uncomfortable amount of awkward small talk from men in expensive suits.
The results? AC Milan would face Bayern Munich, and Manchester United would lock horns with Chelsea.
For English fans, it was a bittersweet draw. On one hand, two Premier League giants clashing in the semis meant one of them was guaranteed a place in the Champions League final. On the other hand, it also meant one of them would definitely get their dreams smashed before Athens. In other words, "love and kill each other," as the tabloids liked to put it.
Arthur, however, wasn't wasting much energy on the headlines. For him, these semi-finals were like gossip about neighbors—interesting, but not his problem. His focus was firmly on Leeds United's next mission: the 34th round of the Premier League, where they would host Tottenham Hotspur on Sunday.
This was no ordinary match. Everyone in Leeds knew it. A win at Elland Road would give Arthur's team the absolute upper hand in the title race. It was the kind of game where three points weren't just three points—they were a golden ticket, a hand on the trophy, a massive psychological blow to rivals.
Normally, this round would have also featured a heavyweight clash between Chelsea and Manchester United. But thanks to the FA Cup semi-finals, that particular duel had been pushed to May. Arthur almost wanted to thank the FA. One less distraction for his own team, one more scheduling headache for Ferguson and Mourinho.
Over the past few days, Arthur buried himself in studying fixtures like a scholar dissecting sacred texts. The more he looked, the more he found reasons to smile. Friday's Champions League draw had added a cherry on top.
When Arthur saw that United had drawn Chelsea, he couldn't help but chuckle. He could almost imagine Sir Alex Ferguson at home, red in the face, stabbing his finger at the TV screen while shouting words so Scottish they'd need subtitles.
Because here was the brutal reality: between April 26 and May 19, Manchester United and Chelsea would meet four times. Four titanic clashes crammed into twenty days. Every single one a must-win. The kind of run that made managers sweat, players groan, and physios consider early retirement.
The media, of course, were still singing hymns about United's brilliance. "Treble on the cards!" they shouted. "This is Ferguson's greatest side!" they wrote. But Arthur wasn't buying the hype. He knew Ferguson too well. That stubborn old Scot wasn't sleeping soundly at night. He was probably pacing his living room, muttering about fixture congestion and praying Ronaldo didn't twist an ankle tying his boots.
On paper, United were still in the hunt for everything—the Premier League, the FA Cup, and the Champions League. It looked dazzling. It looked historic. But as Arthur reminded himself with a grin, the climb to the top is often straight up a cliff face. One slip, and it's all downhill into the abyss.
The league was already a warzone. Leeds and United were neck-and-neck, neither willing to blink. Every upcoming match was a battlefield, every point a bullet. Drop points once, and you might as well kiss the trophy goodbye. Ferguson knew this as well as Arthur did. That was why he'd be tearing his hair out—or what was left of it.
Then there was the FA Cup. United and Chelsea both had their semi-finals scheduled for Sunday. Technically, the opponents weren't the scariest. United would face Watford, and Chelsea would play Blackburn. Neither Watford nor Blackburn had much of a reputation for ruining dreams. If things went as expected, both giants would stroll into the final.
But that, Arthur thought, was exactly the problem. Because if they both reached the FA Cup final, then Mourinho and Ferguson would have no choice but to treat it like life and death. Especially Mourinho. Chelsea's league hopes were already hanging by a thread. The FA Cup and Champions League were all he had left to salvage the season. The man wasn't about to give them up without throwing his coat, his tie, and maybe even a few water bottles in protest.
And then, of course, came the Champions League itself. Semi-finals. The sharp end. Milan, Bayern, Chelsea, United. No easy nights, no soft touches, just pure, bone-crunching, career-defining football.
Arthur leaned back in his chair one evening and thought about it all. He felt almost… relieved. Relieved that Leeds United had been knocked out of the Champions League by Milan. It had stung at the time, sure. But now? Now it felt like a blessing in disguise. No distractions. No exhausting continental adventures. No fixture pile-up. Leeds could pour all their blood, sweat, and footballing fury into the Premier League. Unlike Ferguson, who was juggling more balls than a circus clown, Arthur could focus on just one. And he liked those odds.
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As Arthur predicted, Sunday rolled around and the FA Cup semi-finals played out.
First up, Manchester United versus Watford. Ninety minutes later, it was exactly what everyone expected: a 4–1 demolition job. United swatted Watford aside like a big brother pushing his little sibling off the sofa. Ferguson probably didn't even loosen his tie.
Chelsea, however, had a bit more drama. Their semi-final against Blackburn was stubborn, gritty, and frustrating. Ninety minutes finished 1–1, and extra time loomed. Mourinho's face was a thundercloud. Then, early in extra time, Frank Lampard decided he'd had enough. From distance, he unleashed a thunderbolt of a shot that ripped into the net. Mourinho's frown turned into that smug little smirk he wore so well. Chelsea clung on, and after extra time, they booked their place in the FA Cup final.
Arthur heard the results and couldn't help but grin. Everything was unfolding just as he'd hoped. Manchester United and Chelsea were still alive in every competition, which meant they were about to run themselves ragged. Leeds, meanwhile, had one target, one path, one dream.
And Arthur, sitting there with the league table in hand and Tottenham Hotspur on the horizon, felt more confident than ever.
*****
Arthur walked into Elland Road that evening with the kind of spring in his step that only a football manager who had been gifted good news earlier in the day could have. He was smiling, humming to himself, maybe even thinking about treating himself to a pint after the match. Life felt good. But football, as it always does, had a way of cutting a man's joy in half like a poorly sliced loaf of bread. By the end of the ninety minutes, Arthur's grin had shrunk to something resembling a forced smile, the sort people wear in family photos when they'd rather be anywhere else.
The reason? Tottenham Hotspur. And not just any Tottenham—this was a very lame Tottenham side. How lame? Let's put it this way: after 33 rounds of Premier League football, they were languishing in eighth place with 49 points. Not terrible, but certainly not Tottenham's usual standard. They were trailing Arsenal by a whole 10 points in the fight for the Champions League spots. To add insult to injury, Liverpool, Everton, and—this one really stung—Bolton Wanderers were all ahead of them. Yes, Bolton, led by Sam Allardyce and his "hoof it long and hope for the best" style of football, had leapfrogged Spurs.
It was almost tragic. Just last season, Spurs were dining at the top-four table. But Leeds United's sudden rise under Arthur had knocked them down a peg. Then Bolton's surprise charge this season shoved them further down. Their poor manager, Martin Jol, probably didn't have much hair left to lose, and what remained was no doubt in serious danger.
Yet, despite being a shadow of their former selves, Spurs turned up at Elland Road and decided to teach Arthur and Leeds a harsh lesson.
The game had barely begun when Leeds gave their fans hope. Two minutes in, they won a corner. Luka Modric, calm as ever, trotted over to take it. He curled the ball beautifully toward the far post, where Zlatan Ibrahimović had slipped his marker with all the subtlety of a man sneaking the last biscuit from the jar. Ibrahimović made a wide arc, timed his jump to perfection, and thundered a header straight into the net.
1–0 to Leeds, and Elland Road exploded with joy. The stands shook as the fans roared, scarves twirling in the air. Zlatan puffed out his chest, strutting like a king surveying his kingdom. For Leeds supporters, this was the perfect start, a reminder that their team hadn't lost its fighting spirit despite the recent Champions League exit.
But football gods are cruel pranksters. Just four minutes later, disaster struck. Leeds lost the ball high up the pitch, and Spurs pounced. With a swift counterattack, the ball found its way to Robbie Keane. The Irish striker needed no second invitation—he sprinted through the middle like a man late for last orders at the pub. One quick glance up, one calm finish past Kasper Schmeichel into the bottom left corner, and suddenly it was 1–1.
Arthur sighed on the touchline, muttering something that was probably not suitable for broadcast television. The game was only six minutes old, and already Leeds fans were strapped into what promised to be a very wild emotional rollercoaster.
The chaos continued. In the 29th minute, Leeds regained the lead thanks to some slick play. Rivaldo, with the kind of vision only a veteran playmaker possesses, slid a perfect ball down the right channel. Fernando Torres burst onto it, skinning the defender with ease before driving to the byline. He whipped in a low, dangerous cross, and there was Ibrahimović again, those Inspector Gadget legs of his stretching out to poke the ball home.
2–1, Zlatan with a brace, and Leeds fans were bouncing again. The stadium roared like a jet engine, and Arthur clapped enthusiastically, shouting encouragement from the sideline.
But Spurs refused to play the role of whipping boys. Just five minutes later, Robbie Keane was at it again. Charging into the box, he was tripped by Dani Alves, who immediately threw his arms up in protest, swearing it wasn't a foul. The referee wasn't buying it. Yellow card for Alves, penalty to Spurs. Keane stepped up, as cool as you like, and buried it.
2–2. Leeds fans groaned. Arthur kicked the turf in frustration. At this rate, he thought, the scoreboard operator would need a lie-down at halftime.
And so it was—halftime arrived with the score tied at 2–2. In the dressing room, Arthur wasn't about to let his players off the hook. He spent five solid minutes drilling it into them: This game matters. Focus. Concentrate. No silly mistakes. His voice echoed off the walls, his gestures sharp and impatient. The players nodded along, some wide-eyed, others hiding smirks as Zlatan cracked a quiet joke under his breath.
The second half began, and it seemed Arthur's words had some effect. Leeds looked sharper, hungrier. On the hour mark, their persistence paid off. Xabi Alonso, from deep in midfield, lofted a gorgeous diagonal ball to the left flank. Lukas Podolski raced onto it, cut inside, and with the confidence of a seasoned forward, drilled a low shot into the near corner.
3–2, and Elland Road erupted once more. Podolski pumped his fists, the fans roared, and Arthur jumped into the air on the sideline, fists raised.
But Spurs… oh, Spurs. They seemed to come alive only when behind. Seven minutes later, they struck again. Another quick counterattack sliced through Leeds' midfield like a hot knife through butter. Robbie Keane, inevitable as rain in England, found himself clean through on goal. He rounded Schmeichel with ease and rolled the ball into the empty net.
Hat trick completed. 3–3. Leeds pegged back yet again. Arthur stood frozen on the touchline, his jaw clenched, his hands on his hips. He looked like a man who had just discovered his favorite pint had gone flat.
The final twenty minutes were a tense grind. Leeds pushed, probed, tried every trick in the book to break down Spurs' stubborn defense. Arthur made tactical changes, shuffled his pack, barked instructions, but nothing clicked. Spurs had clearly decided they were done being generous and parked the proverbial bus.
Four minutes of added time felt like four hours, but the breakthrough never came. The referee's whistle blew, and Elland Road groaned as one. Leeds United had to swallow the bitter pill of dropping two points at home.
Arthur shook his head as he trudged back toward the tunnel. That spring in his step from earlier? Long gone. Football, once again, had humbled him.