Arthur sat slumped in his chair, staring at the thick stack of faxes Allen had placed on his desk. His head throbbed just looking at them. He'd expected maybe one or two knocks among the squad, but after scanning through the pages, he just dropped the papers onto the desk and covered his face with both hands.
Nine. Nine players.
Nine Leeds United players called up for their national teams had returned injured.
"Bloody hell," Arthur muttered, lifting the top sheet again as if rereading it might somehow change the words. "Nine! What is this, a plague? A coordinated strike against Leeds?"
Allen, sitting opposite with his usual poker face, coughed lightly. "Well, boss… as I said, they're all minor injuries. Two to three weeks max. No fractures, no ligaments, no season-ending disasters."
Arthur slapped the paper down and glared. "Two to three weeks? Allen, two to three weeks is an eternity in football! And what the hell is this?" He shoved a report into Allen's hands. "Read it. Luka Modrić. Strain caused by—wait for it—cramps. Cramps! Since when do cramps put a man out for three weeks?"
Allen pretended to read, though he already knew what it said. "Yes, well…"
"Don't 'yes, well' me!" Arthur barked, jabbing a finger at the sheet. "This is Modrić we're talking about! He's run marathons in midfield without so much as breaking stride. Never cramped once in the Champions League. But one little international friendly against—who was it?—oh yes, bloody Andorra, and suddenly he's collapsing like he's been shot? Is Croatia's head coach out of his mind? Playing a meaningless friendly like it's the World Cup final?"
Arthur tossed another fax into the growing pile. "And look at the others! Hamstring twinges, ankle tweaks, back spasms… it's like they were competing to see who could invent the stupidest injury possible."
Allen kept his voice carefully low. "Boss, injuries are… well, they're common on these September international breaks. The season's just begun, bodies aren't fully conditioned. It happens every year."
Arthur spun around in his chair, throwing his hands up. "Don't I bloody know it! Last September, what was it—six injuries? Six! I thought that was bad enough. Now it's nine. Nine! At this rate, next year we'll just send the physio team straight to the airports with wheelchairs and crutches ready."
He leaned forward on the desk, glaring at the papers like they had personally offended him. "Am I cursed? Do I have a personal vendetta with September? Maybe I should petition FIFA to skip the month altogether!"
Allen wisely kept quiet, only collecting the scattered faxes Arthur had thrown around.
Arthur groaned and dropped back into his chair. "We had the perfect start. Flying. A slip last match, but I thought, no problem, we'll bounce back. Now? Half the bloody main squad crocked. Tell me, Allen, how am I supposed to play this weekend with a lineup made of bandages and aspirin?"
Allen finally risked a word of encouragement. "At least… it's not as bad as Sun Jihai last year. No long-term casualties."
Arthur glared at him for a moment, then sighed heavily. "Small mercies. But still, this weekend's going to be a nightmare."
—
By the weekend, Arthur marched his patched-up Leeds squad onto the pitch at Elland Road for a home match against Fulham. The atmosphere was bright enough, but he couldn't shake the sour taste in his mouth. Too many regular starters were sitting in the stands nursing knocks.
In the studio, two familiar voices filled the airwaves.
"Jon, I can't help but feel déjà vu," said Gary Lineker, shaking his head. "Didn't this exact thing happen last season? Leeds looked sharp, then came the September international break, half the squad injured, and they slid all the way down before recovering in October."
Jon Champion, sat beside him, had the stats ready. "You're right, Gary. Leeds collapsed around this time last year. But the difference then was squad depth. The bench was thin, and Arthur couldn't rotate properly across the league, the FA Cup, and Europe. This season, though, he's got more options. A lot of the young players have already proven themselves in the early matches. They might just carry Leeds through this sticky patch."
"I hope so," Lineker replied grimly. "Because looking at today's starting eleven, Arthur is clearly worried. He hasn't even fielded Adriano, who's fit. Surprising choice."
"Not that surprising," Jon countered. "Adriano just flew halfway across the world for Brazil duty. Those long-haul flights take a toll. And don't forget, the Champions League group stage kicks off in just four days. Arthur's obviously keeping one eye on that."
Lineker leaned back, folding his arms. "Fair point. But still… nine injuries. It's brutal luck. Let's see how Leeds handle it."
Arthur, down on the touchline, shoved his hands into his coat pockets and muttered darkly to himself. "September again. Bloody September."
*****
Jon's analysis had been spot on. Leeds United might have been bruised and battered by international duty, but they still stood two points clear of Chelsea and Arsenal at the top of the Premier League. The opponent that day, Fulham, had stumbled through their opening three fixtures without a single win, looking like a side still half asleep after summer. Arthur knew this was the perfect chance to rotate, rest his key men, and keep them safe for the looming Champions League group stage.
After consulting the team doctor and reviewing the fitness reports, Arthur made the call—if you weren't completely healthy, you were sitting this one out. Champions League glory was not going to be thrown away for the sake of a September league fixture.
The lineup reflected his pragmatism. Only Neuer, reliable as ever, held his place in goal. In front of him, Hummels and Thiago Silva formed the central defensive pairing, with Mills slotting in at left-back and Sun Jihai trusted on the right. Mascherano and a young Toni Kroos anchored midfield, ready to break up play and distribute. Ahead of them, James Rodríguez took up position on the right wing, with Kevin De Bruyne given the freedom to drift inside from the left. Up top, Arthur paired Marco Reus with Fernando Torres—a blend of youthful speed and veteran instinct. A classic 4-4-2, simple, sturdy, and ready to strike.
Rain pattered down lightly, dampening the pitch but not the spirits of the 50,000 strong at Elland Road. The whistle blew, and Leeds immediately threw themselves forward with the reckless energy of a side too young to know fear. The roar of the home crowd only fueled them further.
In the 13th minute, Mascherano snapped into a tackle in midfield and emerged with the ball. Leeds broke with pace. A neat passing triangle moved the ball quickly upfield until Rodríguez found himself in space on the right-hand channel. Without hesitation, the Colombian whipped a dangerous cross to the far post, aiming for the onrushing Reus.
Instead, disaster struck for Fulham. Defender Titus Bramble leapt awkwardly, mistimed his header, and instead of clearing the ball, he redirected it straight toward his own net. Goalkeeper Kirkland, eyes locked on Reus, had no chance to adjust. The ball floated past him and nestled into the corner.
Elland Road erupted.
"Goooooooal! One-nil to Leeds United!" Gary Lineker practically shouted over himself in the commentary box. "Would you believe it? Rodríguez's delivery finds Bramble—who provides the finish of the day! The only problem is, it's at the wrong end!"
Arthur on the touchline didn't even smile. He just pumped his arms furiously, urging his youngsters to keep pressing. Retreat wasn't in the plan. Besides, with this many teenagers on the pitch, defending deep after just thirteen minutes was a recipe for disaster. The best form of control was to attack.
And attack they did.
By the 29th minute, Leeds doubled their advantage. Rodríguez, once again a menace down the right, slipped a low ball across the face of goal. Torres dragged two defenders with him, cleverly letting the ball run through his legs. Behind him, Reus ghosted in unmarked and calmly side-footed into the empty net.
Two-nil. Leeds flying.
On the opposite bench, Fulham manager Lawrie Sanchez stood frozen. His pre-match team talk had been built around one idea: Leeds were vulnerable, half their stars sidelined, so Fulham would "go for the throat." Instead, his side had walked straight into a trap. The more they attacked, the more space they gave Leeds' young legs to counter. Now they were two goals down before halftime.
Arthur finally allowed himself a small grin as the whistle blew for the break. His kids had done the job, and with a bit of discipline, they'd see this out.
But Sanchez wasn't about to roll over. He rang the changes at halftime, sending on two substitutes to inject energy. The response came quickly. In the 63rd minute, Fulham earned a corner, and the evergreen Emile Heskey powered through the crowd to head the ball home. Two-one. Game on.
Arthur immediately adjusted. He barked instructions, and Mascherano dropped deeper, shielding the back four. Kroos tightened his positioning, while De Bruyne tucked in to help stifle Fulham's midfield. The young side held firm, cutting off Fulham's supply lines and forcing them to shoot from distance.
The clock ticked down with little more drama. Fulham huffed and puffed, but Leeds were resolute. When the final whistle blew, it was still two-one. Leeds United had claimed the points, kept their lead at the top, and proven that even their second string had bite.
Arthur clapped his players off the pitch, pride flickering across his face. Rain-soaked, youthful, and fearless, his patched-up side had delivered exactly what was needed. September might have cursed him with injuries, but on this day at Elland Road, Leeds still stood tall.