The day after the fierce battle between Manchester United and Chelsea, newspapers, radio shows, and every football forum across the country were buzzing with only one topic: the league title race.
Charles Walters of the Manchester Evening News was first out of the gate with a bold headline in the sports section:
"Final Sprint: United and Leeds Neck-and-Neck for the Premier League Crown!"
His article crackled with excitement, almost like a fan disguised as a journalist:
"The championship competition between Manchester United and Leeds United has officially entered its final stage. In three days, United will play at home. Not only must they win, but they must score as many goals as possible—ideally more than three—to ensure a superior chance of clinching the crown. Their morale is sky-high, given that United are still alive in three competitions: the league, the Champions League, and the FA Cup. This could be a historic season for the Red Devils, and that is why I firmly believe Manchester United will have the last laugh in this title race."
Arthur, sitting at his desk at the Leeds training ground, skimmed the article and rolled his eyes. "Ah yes, another journalist trying to turn Ferguson into some kind of wizard who never loses. Typical." He tossed the paper aside, already more concerned about keeping his players' heads clear than about what some Manchester-based hack thought.
But while Arthur dismissed the article, the storm outside was only growing louder.
On Twitter, the battleground was even fiercer. Fans, pundits, and bored teenagers with club badges in their usernames were spamming predictions and insults with the fury of armies charging into battle. Hashtags like #LeedsChampions and #UnitedTrebleDream were bouncing between the trending pages.
One particular post caught fire:
"Manchester United or Leeds United—Who Lifts the Premier League Crown This Year?"
Pushed into the hot search by Twitter itself, the post became a magnet for every kind of football fan: the hopeful, the pessimistic, the bantering, and the downright abusive. The replies read like a street fight outside a pub.
[Leeds United is stable. Against Sheffield United in the last round? Can't imagine how they'd lose that!]
[To be fair, Arthur is basically a miracle worker! Year one: wins the Championship and drags Leeds back to the Premier League. Year two: wins the League Cup and reaches the Champions League. Year three: about to win the Premier League title! Do people even realise how long it's been since Leeds lifted the top-flight trophy?]
[It's only been, what, more than a decade? Not bad. But hey—Manchester United haven't won the league in three years either! (insert smug dog emoji)]
[Oi, Leeds lot—don't crack open the champagne yet. Sheffield United are in a relegation fight. Desperate teams are dangerous. That game won't be a walk in the park!]
[United fan here: acting like West Ham aren't also fighting relegation. Worry about your own team. The title belongs to Leeds, mark my words!]
[Leeds are rubbish. Got schooled by one Brazilian and think they're champions already? Embarrassing.]
Arthur couldn't resist scrolling through the chaos. At one point, he even chuckled. "If Twitter could award trophies, Leeds would already have the league wrapped up twice over. Shame points don't count."
Still, the back-and-forth only underscored the reality: the title race was alive, and both sets of fans were chewing their fingernails to the bone.
The tension stretched like a drumskin until finally, May 13th, 2007 arrived—the day of reckoning.
The Premier League's schedule makers had saved their biggest gift for last: all ten matches of the final round would kick off simultaneously at 4 p.m. No hiding, no waiting, no second chances.
From noon, Elland Road began to transform into a sea of white. Fans in Leeds shirts spilled into the square outside the stadium, waving scarves, drinking pints, and breaking into chants that echoed down every nearby street. Vendors selling meat pies and knockoff scarves were doing roaring business, but the atmosphere wasn't just about snacks and souvenirs—it was nervous, electric anticipation.
By 1 p.m., the square was packed to bursting. The pavements were jammed with supporters, and both sides of the road leading to the players' car park were lined with bodies. Kids clutched homemade signs. Old men banged drums. Families came three generations deep, all waiting for their team to arrive.
When the Leeds United team bus finally turned the corner less than 20 minutes later, the roar was like a jet engine. It shook windows, rattled street signs, and could probably be heard halfway across Yorkshire.
Arthur, sitting near the front, felt the bus vibrating under the noise. He glanced at his players, most of whom had their earbuds in, pretending to be cool. But he could see it—their knees bouncing, their lips pressed together, the sheer pressure of the moment.
So, being Arthur, he decided to stir the pot. With a grin, he reached out and slid the bus window down.
Immediately, the tidal wave of sound crashed in.
The fans had already started singing, but now, with Arthur showing his face, they found a new gear. Their voices rolled in unison, belting out the anthem every Leeds player knew by heart:
"Marching on together,
We're gonna see you win…
We are so proud, we shout it out loud,
We love you, Leeds! Leeds! Leeds!"
The words shook the air, and one by one, the players joined in. Some sang loudly, others mouthed the lyrics under their breath, but none could resist the pull of the song. Even Arthur himself joined in, tapping the window frame like a drummer keeping time.
Inside the bus, the staff exchanged knowing looks. No motivational speech could have done what this moment was doing. The fans were carrying the team into battle on a wave of sound and love.
Arthur leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, and whispered just loud enough for the lads nearby to hear:
"Right then, boys. If you bottle it today after that welcome, I'll personally make you run laps until Christmas."
The nearest players—Jermaine Beckford and Fabian Delph—burst out laughing, the tension breaking like glass.
The chants outside kept going, louder and louder:
"Everywhere, we're gonna be there,
We love you Leeds! Leeds! Leeds!"
Arthur shook his head with a grin. "Bloody hell. They're singing like we've already won it. Let's not ruin their day, eh?"
And with that, the Leeds bus rolled into the car park, carried by a wall of noise and belief.
*****
Arthur could feel the atmosphere swelling around Elland Road like a balloon about to burst. The fans had already made the air thick with songs, chants, and the kind of blind optimism that could convince a man Leeds United were destined to conquer the world and maybe colonize Mars afterward.
Sensing the infectious energy, Arthur leaned forward in his seat on the team bus, tapped the driver's shoulder, and said casually, "Mate, pull over for a second. Let's give the lads a proper taste of this madness."
The driver, a Yorkshireman with a grin as wide as the stadium gates, happily obliged. The massive Leeds United bus squeaked to a halt in the middle of the fan-thronged street. Immediately, the noise outside doubled, as if the fans had been waiting for this very moment all along.
Arthur spun around to his players. "Windows down, boys. Don't be shy—give them something back. Stick your heads out. Just don't fall out, alright? I don't fancy explaining to the press that my star striker fell onto a hotdog stand before the biggest game of the season."
Laughter rippled through the squad, nerves easing as everyone reached for their windows. Soon, white shirts and half-torsos were poking out of the bus, players waving their arms, clapping along, and joining the chorus as the fans belted the anthem of their lives.
"🎵 Let's go with Leeds United! 🎵"
"🎵 Stand up and sing for Leeds United! 🎵"
The sound was thunderous, rolling off the buildings like a tidal wave of noise. Fans pounded drums, waved scarves, and some even jumped onto each other's shoulders to get a better view of their heroes. It wasn't just singing—it was a declaration, a war cry dressed up as a pub chant.
Inside the bus, Arthur grinned. The sound made the windows shake, and for once he didn't care that his carefully combed hair was now catching the spray of beer foam flung through the air outside. His players leaned out further, belting out verses in voices that weren't particularly in tune but were carried by sheer adrenaline.
One fan, red-faced and already tipsy, cupped his hands and bellowed at the top of his lungs:
"Arthur, you legend! Bring us the bloody trophy!"
Arthur leaned out just far enough to shout back, "Only if you promise to keep singing louder than Manchester United's lot!"
The crowd roared as though he'd just scored the winning goal himself. After two full renditions of the anthem, Arthur clapped his hands and signaled to the lads to settle down. "Alright, save some lungs for ninety minutes from now. Let's not let the fans do all the singing."
The bus, now practically vibrating with morale, rolled slowly into Elland Road, swallowed by cheers and the sight of waving flags.
By kickoff time, the stage was set.
The familiar Sky Sports jingle echoed through living rooms across the country, and millions of viewers were greeted by the legendary voice of Gary Lineker.
"Dear viewers! Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Sky Sports. Today we bring you live coverage of the 38th and final round of the 2006–2007 English Premier League season. Our focus—Leeds United versus Sheffield United at Elland Road. I'm Gary Lineker."
"And hello everyone, I'm Jon."
The camera cut to the packed stadium, a sea of white shirts rippling like a restless ocean, before zooming back to the two commentators in their booth. Lineker, with his trademark smirk, leaned forward. "Now, before we dive in, let's talk stakes. What you're about to witness isn't just a football match—it's history in the making. Leeds United, after fifteen long years, stand just ninety minutes away from potentially reclaiming the top-flight crown."
The graphics rolled across the screen, showing the league table: Leeds and Manchester United neck and neck, separated by goal difference sharper than a razor's edge.
"As it stands," Lineker continued, "if Leeds beat Sheffield United here today and keep their nose ahead on goal difference, the trophy comes back to Elland Road. But…" He paused, letting the tension hang. "If they slip up—or don't score enough—Manchester United, who are also kicking off right now at Old Trafford against West Ham, could snatch the title. This is the War of the Roses on steroids."
The camera panned to Arthur on the touchline, hands shoved into his coat pockets, eyes sharp as a hawk's.
Lineker smiled knowingly. "And let's not forget—the mastermind of Leeds' rise, Arthur. Three years ago, he dragged Leeds out of the Championship. Two years ago, he delivered a League Cup. Now, he's ninety minutes from pulling off the unthinkable: a Premier League title. It's been a remarkable story, Jon."
Jon, who had been sipping nervously from a paper cup, suddenly realized Lineker had turned the question onto him. He froze for a beat, blinking at the camera like a startled rabbit caught in the headlights.
There was a painfully awkward silence. Somewhere in the production truck, the director was no doubt throwing his headset across the room.
Finally, Jon cleared his throat and laughed sheepishly. "Ahem… well, Gary, next time, maybe give me a bit of warning before you throw me under the bus, yeah? Nearly caused a live broadcast disaster."
The tension broke as the studio chuckled, and Jon quickly composed himself. "But alright, here's what I think: Leeds have an excellent chance. Their form has bounced back quickly since that wobble against Spurs. Rumor has it Arthur gave them a right dressing-down in the locker room afterward—and judging by their response, it worked. The squad looks sharp, hungry, and rested."
He leaned forward now, warming up. "And that rest matters, Gary. Leeds have had two extra days compared to Manchester United, which is massive at this stage of the season. Fatigue plays tricks on the legs and the mind, and right now, I fancy Leeds to make quick work of Sheffield United."
Lineker raised his eyebrows theatrically. "Good heavens, Jon, that's a glowing endorsement. Almost sounds like you've joined the Leeds supporters' club. When did you start wearing white?"
The jab made Jon chuckle. He shrugged with mock seriousness. "Let's be clear—I'm not a Leeds fan. My view is purely professional, based on rational analysis."
He paused, then smirked. "That, and the small matter of Manchester United knocking Chelsea out of the Champions League semi-finals. And as a Chelsea man myself, well… let's just say I'd rather watch Leeds parade down the High Street with the trophy than see United lifting it."
Lineker's head snapped toward him, eyes wide, jaw practically unhinged. He stared at Jon as if his co-commentator had just confessed to committing arson.
Inside, Lineker cursed. Brother, this is live television! Do you really need to broadcast your biases like a neon sign outside a dodgy nightclub?
But outwardly, he could only plaster on a smile and shake his head. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, there you have it. Expert analysis… and a bit of Chelsea-flavored revenge."
And with that, the broadcast settled into its rhythm, the Elland Road crowd roaring so loud the cameras vibrated. The Premier League title, after fifteen years of wandering, was now just ninety minutes away—or heartbreakingly close to slipping through Leeds' fingers.