*** Join my Patreon for more than 20 Advance Chapters and my other stories for only 7$
Link is Below. Remove space after http.
https:// www.patreon.com/c/Virtuosso777?redirect=true
***
The match began with a whistle that could have been heard from the moon. Seriously, that whistle was loud. But it was more than just the referee's signal to start the game—it was the signal that everything was about to go absolutely wild. The first few seconds were textbook. Adebayor, the towering presence in the center circle, passed the ball back to Sneijder like a true professional. The ball zipped toward Sneijder's feet, and in one swift motion, he sent it further up the pitch to Caldwell on the right. Simple stuff. Easy peasy, right?
Well, that was the plan, but things didn't quite go as expected. Caldwell, who had advanced down the right flank like a man on a mission, suddenly found himself intercepted by a Reading defender before he could even think about crossing the ball into the box. And just like that, the first attack of the game was snuffed out faster than a candle in a hurricane.
The next 20 minutes were a bit of a nightmare for Leeds United. It was as if someone hit the pause button on their high-pressure defense and decided to let Reading have their fun. And by fun, I mean Reading absolutely pinning Leeds in their own half, creating wave after wave of relentless attacks. Leeds seemed to be running around in circles, trying to find an opening, but honestly, it looked more like a bunch of kids in a game of tag. Only there was no one getting tagged, just a lot of tired players gasping for air.
Meanwhile, on the sidelines, Reading's head coach, Steve Coppell, was looking pretty pleased with himself. He had been watching Leeds like a hawk, and the moment he saw Leeds drop their usual high-pressure style, he practically rubbed his hands together with glee. "Ah, as expected," he muttered under his breath. "They're running on fumes. The young bucks can't handle the grind of a full season."
He took a quick glance at Arthur, who was sitting calmly on the sidelines, scribbling notes on a tactical board like he had all the time in the world. Coppell couldn't help but sneer inwardly. "They're too young, they lack experience. They'll fade," he thought. "Just wait."
Back in London, Arsène Wenger, the ever-calm and collected manager of Arsenal, was sitting in his posh villa, sipping tea (or maybe it was coffee, who knows—he's French, he could have been doing both) with his assistant coach. They were watching the same game, though from a much more distant vantage point, of course. Wenger had been keeping an eye on Leeds United ever since his scouts sent him a glowing report on one player in particular: Adebayor. He'd seen the giant striker on TV, and he was definitely intrigued. Wenger was one of those managers who knew how to spot young talent from a mile away, so when his scouts said Adebayor had promise, he was all in.
As the game progressed, Wenger's assistant coach, who seemed to be staring at the screen like it held all the secrets of the universe, turned to Wenger with a question. "Professor," he said, "Leeds hasn't exactly organized a threatening attack so far. Do you think Ferguson might have been right about their physical reserves? Maybe they're running out of steam."
Wenger didn't respond immediately. He frowned, eyes fixed on the screen. His mind was racing—not because he agreed with Ferguson, but because he was watching Arthur. There was something about him that intrigued Wenger. Sure, he admired the attacking style of play, the way Leeds seemed to keep the ball moving at all times. It reminded him of his own teams back in the day, when Arsenal was known for their fluid, attacking football. And then there was the young talent—Adebayor, of course, but also other players like Sneijder and Milner who had potential written all over them.
But what really caught Wenger's attention wasn't just the playstyle or the players—it was Arthur himself. This guy wasn't just some flash-in-the-pan manager. No, Arthur was onto something. He was creating a tactical system that wasn't like anything else in English football. While other teams were busy parking the bus (looking at you, Mourinho), Arthur was looking to take risks and make bold moves. Wenger respected that. He really did.
But that morning, Ferguson had thrown in his two cents, and Wenger wasn't having it. When his assistant mentioned Ferguson's doubts about Leeds United, Wenger's expression hardened. He wasn't one to just sit back and agree with the popular opinion. After all, Ferguson wasn't exactly known for his fondness of innovative, high-pressure football—unless it was his own. And Wenger had a strong feeling that Ferguson's comments were less about football analysis and more about… well, Ferguson being Ferguson.
Wenger slowly leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, and then dropped the bomb. "He's completely talking nonsense," he said with a shrug. "Ferguson doesn't get it. Arthur has something up his sleeve. If he's come up with a tactical system that challenges the status quo, you can bet there's more to it than just running out of steam."
Wenger's assistant coach blinked, clearly surprised by the bluntness of the response. But he didn't press the issue any further. Instead, he turned his attention back to the game, still watching closely, hoping to see something that would confirm Wenger's hunch.
Meanwhile, back on the pitch, Leeds United was starting to get their act together—just a little bit. The first 20 minutes had been rough, but Arthur wasn't the kind of manager to let his players wallow in self-pity. No, he was the type to pick them up by their metaphorical bootstraps and remind them who they were.
Leeds might have been under pressure, but Arthur knew better than anyone that this wasn't a team to give up easily. The system had its flaws—every system did—but it was built on one thing: relentless attacking football. And as much as Reading was pressing, Leeds had the firepower to turn things around.
Arthur was calmly scribbling on his board, writing down little tweaks to the formation. He was doing it without a care in the world. Meanwhile, the players were doing what they did best—running, pressing, attacking, and generally making life difficult for Reading. The game wasn't over yet, not by a long shot.
Coppell, on the other hand, was getting a little too comfortable on the sidelines, thinking Leeds was on the ropes. But Arthur wasn't worried. He knew that if they just stuck to their plan, they'd be fine. Sure, the first 20 minutes had been tough, but that was just the opening act. The real show was yet to come.
And so, as the game ticked on, Arthur kept his cool. He wasn't about to let Ferguson, Coppell, or anyone else tell him how things were going to go. Leeds might have been under pressure, but with Arthur at the helm and the system in place, there was one thing he knew for sure: they weren't going down without a fight.
It was the 39th minute of the match, and the first half was winding down. The tension was building as Reading, on the attack, was trying to make the most of their dominance. They'd been pressuring Leeds United for what felt like an eternity, and their players were swarming Leeds' half like a pack of wolves chasing a lone rabbit. The Reading defenders—having temporarily given up on the idea of staying in their own half—had even crossed into Leeds' half, with two central defenders gallivanting across the center circle like they had just discovered the joy of attacking.
On the sidelines, Reading's head coach, Steve Coppell, was shouting so loudly it seemed like he was trying to personally deliver the ball to his players. "Press forward! Keep going! Push, push, PUSH!" he yelled, directing his team with the enthusiasm of a guy who'd just chugged two Red Bulls and a gallon of coffee. He was convinced that Leeds, who'd been hanging on for dear life for the past 30 minutes, was on the brink of collapse. A little more pressure, and they'd be headed into halftime with a well-deserved 1:0 lead.
On the opposite side, however, Arthur, the Leeds United manager, was standing quietly by the sidelines, completely calm. Too calm. He had a slightly mischievous glint in his eyes that made it clear he knew exactly what was about to happen. His left hand subtly gestured toward Reading's half, and at that moment, something clicked. It was like he had a secret button hidden in his pocket that, when pressed, would trigger an explosion of counter-attacking brilliance.
Sneijder, who had been hovering just outside the penalty area like a ninja in the shadows, spotted Arthur's signal instantly. Without missing a beat, he shot a glance at Milner, who was positioned just behind him. It was a silent understanding between them, a little exchange that was quicker than a text message. No words needed.
Meanwhile, on the field, Reading's striker, Kevin Doyle, was waving his arms, asking for the ball like a kid desperate for a toy at Christmas. He had found himself in an open position, with his former shadow—one of Leeds' defenders—at least 6 or 7 meters behind him, which seemed like an eternity in football time. The ball was passed to him, and Doyle prepared himself for the run that would surely send Leeds into panic mode.
Except… as soon as he set off, something white and fast shot into his vision like a comet streaking across the night sky. It was Milner, wearing the number 15 jersey, and somehow, he had managed to intercept the pass intended for Doyle in what can only be described as a moment of football magic. It was like Milner had been sitting in a tree waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. And pounce he did.
The roar from Arthur on the sidelines echoed through the stadium, a commanding "Press forward! Counterattack quickly! Quick! Quick! Quick!" that could have made a drill sergeant proud. It was a call to arms, a signal that all those minutes of passive defense were over. Like a wave of energy, all the Leeds players who had been camped out in their own half suddenly surged forward, rushing toward Reading's side like a group of kids who had just seen the ice cream truck roll by. Milner, the hero of the moment, wasted no time and passed the ball to McKenna on the left.
McKenna quickly passed it to Sneijder, who was already halfway to the center circle before any of Reading's defenders could blink. It was like a fast break in basketball, only this was football, and things were moving even faster than anyone could have imagined. In the blink of an eye, Leeds had gone from defending for their lives to launching a rapid-fire counterattack that was about to leave Reading in the dust.
Now, Sneijder had the ball, and it was like everything had shifted. Leeds were now charging toward Reading's half, and in front of Sneijder, there were two players who looked like they could score at will—Adebayor and Tevez. On the left and right, McLean and Caldwell were pushing up, giving Leeds even more attacking options. Meanwhile, Milner was following closely behind like a good wingman, making sure that, if anything went wrong, he'd be there to pick up the pieces.
On the other hand, Reading—blessed with the sheer number of defenders they had just a few seconds ago—was now staring down a terrifying reality: they were completely outnumbered. The three remaining defenders, along with the goalkeeper, were left to try and handle the attacking horde of Leeds players charging at them with the kind of intensity you usually see in a video game when you press the "turbo mode" button.
In the span of just 2 or 3 seconds, the situation on the pitch had completely flipped. It was now a 6-on-3 situation, and Leeds had all the momentum. Sneijder, with a calmness that seemed almost unnatural, glided forward with the ball like it was a leisurely stroll in the park. As the defenders closed in on him, they started to panic—because they knew that if they didn't do something quickly, they'd be looking at a goal. As Sneijder continued his run, the defender assigned to Tevez couldn't help but rush over to try and stop him. But he was too late.
With a simple flick of his foot, Sneijder passed the ball to Tevez, who was now in acres of space and staring down the goalkeeper. The other Reading defender, realizing that he was now facing a nightmare scenario, had no choice but to charge toward Tevez, leaving Adebayor with a completely open path to goal. The goalkeeper, realizing that Tevez had the ball, rushed out to close down the angle, but Tevez was way ahead of him.
But instead of taking the glory for himself, Tevez did what any selfless player would do—he passed the ball to Adebayor, who was waiting at the far post like a guy who had been handed a golden ticket. The goal was open. The ball went in. 1-0 to Leeds United.
From Milner's interception to Adebayor's finish, the entire counterattack took just 6.3 seconds. Six point three. That's less time than it takes to make a sandwich. And yet, it was more than enough to make Reading look completely out of their depth.
The stadium erupted as Leeds players sprinted to the corner flag to celebrate. Arthur, who had been eerily calm up until that moment, ran along the sidelines with his arms spread wide like an excited child at an amusement park. The farmer's three punches—a signature move that had now become a fan favorite—were on full display. And the fans? Well, they were loving every second of it.
Back in London, watching this unfold on the TV screen, Wenger shot a knowing glance at his assistant coach. "See? What did I tell you?" Wenger said, his voice dripping with amusement. "Ferguson called this 'unable to run'? Right."
The assistant coach just smiled and shook his head. "I swear," he thought, "you guys are like a pair of old dogs fighting over a bone. Don't drag me into it."