Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

"Zlatan!!! Zlatan Ibrahimović!!! He's done it!!! He's helped Leeds United score!!!" Gary Lineker was almost out of his seat, fists clenched as if he'd just scored himself. His voice cracked from the sudden explosion of excitement. "There are still four minutes left in the game! Leeds United still have hope!!!"

Beside him, Jon couldn't resist a jab. "Careful, old man, don't go popping an artery in all this excitement." He gave him a sidelong look before twisting the knife. "I should probably tell you something less cheerful though. Manchester United's game is over. They've beaten Sunderland one–nil. So even if it stays two–two here, Manchester United still win the title."

Lineker turned his head slowly, as if Jon had just told him his dog died. He clutched the corner of his blazer so tightly the fabric wrinkled in his fist, then snapped back at him. "That's why we need to cheer! We can't give up yet!" He couldn't sit still anymore, eyes locked on the screen, almost growling at the players to move faster. He had gone beyond analysis now—he was a fan desperate for a miracle.

Meanwhile, over at Old Trafford, the game had already finished. Manchester United's players had seen off Sunderland by the narrowest of margins, one goal to nil. The result meant they'd done their part, but their celebrations were muted. The benches on both sides weren't roaring or jumping—there was a strange hush about the place, like everyone was holding their breath.

Wayne Rooney had plopped himself back down on the bench. His leg bounced nervously, and his fingernails were practically chewed down to the bone. His face showed the storm in his head—victory was in their grasp, but he was still waiting for fate to finish dealing its last hand. The fans in the stands hadn't budged either. Instead of streaming out, thousands were glued to their seats, whispering anxiously, clutching phones, refreshing score updates, and staring at the massive electronic screen. In the bottom right corner was the little square everyone was watching: Sheffield United 2, Leeds United 2.

"Alex," assistant Mike Phelan leaned in, his voice wobbling, "four minutes left. Leeds United just scored—it's two–two now."

"Yeah," Sir Alex Ferguson replied shortly, eyes narrowing. He didn't look at Phelan, didn't even blink. He was staring down the tunnel at the Premier League trophy already waiting on its plinth. His jaw worked like he was chewing invisible gum. Four minutes. Just four minutes more.

Back at Elland Road, the entire stadium had gone from flat despair to electric delirium in an instant. Ibrahimović's goal had torn the roof off the place. The noise of the crowd now thundered so loudly it even drowned out Eddie Gray's commentary over the PA system. Fans who had already left were turning around, bolting back up the stairs, calling their mates who were halfway down the street: "Get back here now! Zlatan's scored! Leeds are alive!"

On the touchline, Arthur was trying to contain himself. His instinct screamed at him to leap, to punch the air, to dance like an idiot in front of the home crowd. But he bit it back, keeping his cool for the players. He clapped with all the strength in his arms, his voice booming: "Brilliant, Zlatan!! Fantastic!! Come on, lads!! We're not done yet—we've got this!!" His voice carried across the pitch as Ibrahimović jogged back with the ball under his arm, face set like stone.

Referee Martin Atkinson glanced at his watch, raised his whistle, and restarted the game.

The situation for Sheffield United was crystal clear. Sunderland had lost away, which meant Warnock's men were just one point away from survival. If they could hold this 2–2 scoreline, they would be safe. That single point meant everything. Warnock had already been pacing furiously, shouting instructions to his players: "Hold the line! Don't take risks! Two–two is enough!"

For Leeds, that was a nightmare. With just three minutes plus stoppage time left, Sheffield United were going to dig trenches and play as if their lives depended on it—because they did.

As play resumed, Sheffield United took no chances. They rolled the ball straight back to their defenders, then further back into their own half. Their shape shrank tighter and tighter, bodies swarming like bees around their penalty area.

But Leeds were in no mood to watch. The moment Atkinson's whistle sounded, Arthur's front three sprang into action, charging like greyhounds out of the traps. Ibrahimović thundered toward the ball, Torres and the winger cutting in to choke Sheffield United's outlets. The press was ferocious.

Sheffield's players held the ball up, knocking short passes under pressure, trying to chew up precious seconds. The ball pinged back and forth before inevitably winding up at goalkeeper Paddy Kenny's feet. With Ibrahimović closing fast like a charging bull, Kenny wasted no time. He swung his boot and sent the ball high, long, and ugly, up into midfield.

The crowd groaned. Another minute bled away.

The ball came down to Alonso, calm as ever, trapping it under pressure. But by then, all eleven red-and-white shirts had fallen back deep, retreating almost onto their own penalty box. Alonso looked up—and saw a sea of defenders parked across the pitch like parked buses.

With no one stepping out to close him, Alonso began to carry the ball forward himself. He advanced past the halfway line, scanning constantly for options, but everywhere he looked, his teammates were covered. Ibrahimović was wrestling two centre-backs. The wingers were doubled up. Even Torres, who had dropped deep to find space, was shadowed. Every Leeds shirt had a man breathing down his neck.

Arthur stalked the sideline, his suit jacket flapping as he waved his arms. "Keep moving! Find the gaps! Don't stop!" He could see the problem as clearly as Alonso could—the wall in front of them wasn't budging.

In the end, Alonso had no choice but to slide the ball into Torres, who had pulled further back to receive. Because Torres had dropped so deep, Sheffield's marking hadn't stuck to him tightly, and for a moment he had room to breathe. He pivoted on the ball, only for Gillespie to rush up at last, crouched low, arms out, determined not to let the Spaniard through.

Torres' eyes darted up, studying his man, then with a sudden touch of his right boot he nudged the ball diagonally left and shaped to sprint past. Gillespie mirrored him perfectly, sharp and disciplined, refusing to bite. Torres slowed, considering his next trick.

And then he heard the call.

"Here, Fernando!"

It was Zlatan, hollering across the box. The Swede was already locked in a wrestling match with a defender, his long arm raised, demanding the pass. His giant frame was shielding the ball's intended path, body planted like an oak tree in the mud.

Torres didn't hesitate. He stroked the ball toward Ibrahimović and immediately darted diagonally, sprinting toward the penalty area. The one-two was on, and the crowd rose in unison, feeling the surge.

*****

The roar inside Elland Road was deafening. The clock ticked mercilessly towards full time, and you could almost feel the nerves vibrating through the stands. Arthur stood on the touchline, his arms folded tightly across his chest, staring at the fourth official's board, then at referee Atkinson. The man in black was glancing at his watch. It was all but certain — this was Leeds United's very last chance to do something, anything, before the whistle would slice the air and end it all.

In the commentary box, Jon's calm voice tried to steady the nation's nerves. "The game is about to end. Atkinson's already looking at his watch. If nothing unexpected happens, this will be Leeds United's last attack of the match."

Lineker, usually the cool professional, was too wound up to say anything. His face was pale, his lips pressed tight, as if he couldn't bear to jinx what was about to unfold.

Jon, sensing the silence hanging too long, pressed on. "Torres… he looks like he wants to take on the defense here, but—no, he hesitates, he's given it up. He passes! He's sent it into Ibrahimović's feet. And now Torres is darting forward into the box…"

The gasp of tension swelled through the stadium. Ibrahimović, towering and broad, planted himself like a stubborn oak, with Jagielka clinging to him from behind like a desperate mountaineer hanging onto a cliff. The Swede's chest puffed out, his long ponytail bouncing, but the first touch betrayed him — too heavy! The ball ricocheted away off his boot and spilled sideways.

"Too big!" Jon exclaimed. "It's a poor touch from Ibrahimović, and Jagielka's right on him!"

Down on the pitch, Ibrahimović's brain was working faster than his limbs. He could feel Jagielka tugging violently at his shirt, the material stretching to its limits. He knew he wasn't going to spin and strike. His eyes flicked desperately across the box, and in that sliver of a second, he spotted a blur of white cutting in diagonally — Torres.

In that instant, Zlatan's face twisted with an almost theatrical brilliance. He leaned back, made a show of stumbling, and then, with those telescopic legs of his, he stretched impossibly far and jabbed the ball with a falling scissor of motion.

The pass — if you could even call it that — was audacious, cheeky, ludicrous.

"Ibrahimović fell to the ground and somehow got a touch on it! He's flicked it forward into the penalty area!" Jon's voice cracked as if he didn't believe what he was seeing. "Oh my God!!! What did I just witness?! Zlatan's pass has gone straight through Morgan's legs!!!"

Arthur nearly ripped the fourth official's board out of his hands in disbelief. The Leeds manager barked a laugh — half delight, half disbelief. "Through the bloody captain's legs!" he shouted, spinning towards his bench. "Zlatan, you ridiculous lunatic!"

The entire stadium held its breath. The pass rolled perfectly into the path of Torres, who was charging into the penalty box like a man possessed.

"Torres has it now!" Jon's commentary was practically drowned out by the roar of Elland Road.

Defender Kilgallon saw the danger too late. His eyes went wide as saucers, and in a last-ditch act of desperation, he hurled himself forward into a sliding tackle, his body skidding across the turf, his arms out like a goalkeeper who had lost his way. He threw everything at blocking Torres' shooting lane.

Torres, however, was in no mood to be stopped. He feinted, checked himself, and with a dazzlingly quick adjustment, he softened his foot on the ball, nudged it sideways, and glided past Kilgallon as if he were nothing more than a training cone.

"Torres doesn't shoot! He takes it around him!" Jon was nearly out of his seat in the Sky Sports studio. "Kilgallon's been sent flying! There's nobody left in front of Torres now!"

The stadium erupted into a kind of frantic chaos, fans screaming, half-standing, others clutching their heads. The goal was yawning open before Torres. His mind sharpened to a single point. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the blur of Kenny, the Sheffield United goalkeeper, rushing forward desperately from the six-yard box.

Torres adjusted his body in one swift, elegant motion. His left foot planted firmly into the turf, his torso twisting sideways, his golden hair glistening under the floodlights. His right boot swung with ruthless precision, cracking against the ball like a thunderclap.

The ball flew — a bullet of white fury.

Kenny launched himself, arms outstretched, body contorted in sheer desperation. But fate was cruel tonight. The wind from the speeding ball brushed past his fingertips, and that empty, stinging feeling in his hands told him he had caught nothing.

The entire stadium's eyes followed the ball. It ripped through the air, curved perfectly, and then slammed into the back of the net with a satisfying smack that echoed into eternity.

Elland Road exploded.

"GOAL!!!" Jon's voice bellowed into millions of living rooms across the nation. "Fernando Torres!!! Last minute!!! He's done it!!! Leeds United 3, Sheffield United 2!!! Torres has won it at the death!!!"

Arthur leapt higher than he had in years, his coat flapping open, fists pumping wildly above his head. He turned in a manic circle on the touchline, screaming into the roaring crowd, his face red with adrenaline and joy. His coaching staff piled onto him like schoolboys, half tackling, half hugging, as if they couldn't believe their eyes.

On the pitch, Torres tore off in celebration, his arms spread wide, mouth open in a wild scream. His teammates flooded after him — Ibrahimović dragging himself off the turf with a grin wider than the Pennines, sprinting after his strike partner. Fans behind the goal looked as if they were about to collapse from sheer euphoria, some tumbling over seats, others bouncing like springs.

Meanwhile, poor Kenny was still on the ground, frozen in disbelief. He turned his head slowly, eyes locking on the ball now lying smugly inside his net, rolling back and forth with the mockery of finality. His face fell, pale and hollow. He had been beaten.

3–2.

Leeds United had done it. In the last minute, they had turned the match on its head, and the stadium was shaking to its very foundations.

******

The football smashed into the net, rippling the white mesh, and for a moment it felt like the entire Elland Road trembled under the weight of sound. More than 50,000 voices crashed together in one unstoppable roar that rattled windows and shook the very ground beneath the stadium. From Xabi Alonso's calm dribbling forward, to Zlatan Ibrahimović's deft assist, to Fernando Torres' lethal strike, the sequence had been pure poetry — a final passage written in fire and thunder. Leeds United fans, who had been screaming themselves hoarse for ninety minutes, now found another level of volume, a sound that felt less like cheering and more like a declaration to the footballing gods: this is ours!

The stadium was a storm of arms and scarves, flags waving violently, shirts ripped off in mad celebration. People jumped on each other, hugging, crying, even planting kisses on whoever happened to be nearby. Old men clung to strangers. Children were hoisted into the air. Some fans simply sank into their seats with tears streaming down their faces, unable to believe what they had just seen.

Only a minute earlier, despair had hung like a heavy fog over Elland Road. With time slipping away, it seemed that the long-awaited league title had once again slipped through their fingers. But one minute later, in the cruelest, sweetest twist football could conjure, their team had stood tall, snatched the game, and perhaps secured immortality.

On commentary, Eddie Gray was screaming Torres' name into the microphone, his voice cracking with passion. But nobody in the stands could hear him; the volume was beyond any broadcaster. All eyes were locked on the young Spaniard. Torres had ripped off his shirt, sprinting wildly toward the corner flag, arms stretched wide like a matador who had just slain the bull. Fans pressed against the barriers, desperate to touch him, to share in the ecstasy radiating from his every step. Torres wasn't just a player now; he was a hero carved in fire and sweat.

On the bench, Arthur had gone through every possible human emotion in the space of ten seconds. When Torres first began his run, Arthur had already leaned forward, knowing what was on. He and Simeone both shot to the touchline, eyes glued on Torres' path. Arthur saw what Simeone saw: no defender blocking the lane, acres of space opening like a gift. The only question was whether Zlatan would pass.

Arthur's stomach had knotted. For a moment, time stretched unbearably long. Then Zlatan, with his usual arrogant flourish, slipped the perfect ball into the Spaniard's stride.

Torres didn't waste it. He buried it with the cold fury of a man who lived for such moments.

Simeone reacted first, covering his face with both hands before collapsing backwards onto the turf, as though he'd just been shot by the sheer drama of it all. Arthur, on the other hand, finally let out the breath he'd been holding for what felt like half an hour. He exploded upward like a coiled spring, fists pumping into the air, eyes wide, mouth unhinged in a primal roar.

He turned and sprinted along the sideline, fists still hammering the air. The crowd behind the bench knew exactly what was coming. They went quiet for a split second, holding their breath in anticipation.

Arthur stopped, drew back, and delivered three vicious punches into the air.

"Hu! Hu! Hu!"

The sound was deafening, the entire stand echoing the rhythm in perfect unison, each one like a hammer blow to Sheffield United's heart. Warnock and his players on the opposite bench visibly flinched, the sound echoing like doom over their heads.

Meanwhile, up in the Sky Sports commentary box, things had descended into chaos. Gary Lineker had lost all composure. He ripped his headphones off, hurled them onto the desk, and began sprinting back and forth like a madman, screaming Torres' name over and over again.

"Fernando!! Fernando!! Fernando Torres!!!"

His face was red, veins popping, and for a brief second Jon Champion, sitting next to him, worried Lineker was about to collapse from sheer excitement. Lineker didn't care; he was possessed.

Thank God he had removed his headphones, or else half the television audience would have immediately complained about their eardrums bursting.

Jon, left to salvage what was supposed to be professional coverage, tried his best to compose himself. His voice shook with adrenaline, but he pressed on:

"Gooooooooooooooal!! Fernando Torres!! He's done it for Leeds United!! In the ninety-fourth minute and forty-eight seconds, Torres has delivered the killer blow! Unbelievable scenes at Elland Road! If there were no divine intervention for Sheffield United, Leeds United may just have secured the Premier League title!"

He had to pause for breath, his voice nearly breaking.

"Incredible! Absolutely incredible! Leeds United, resilient to the very last second, have turned it around in just four minutes — from trailing 1–2, they now lead 3–2 in the dying seconds! Sheffield United… oh, Sheffield United — this result would mean relegation to the Championship! And Leeds United, for the first time in fifteen years, stand on the brink of the Premier League crown! The decision rests in the hands of referee Atkinson — the players are back in position now, we're moments from the restart!"

The camera panned back to the pitch. Both teams lined up for what would surely be the briefest of resumptions. Atkinson glanced at his watch, put the whistle to his lips.

Micah Richards tapped the ball forward for Sheffield United. But before it could even roll properly, Atkinson blew again — not once, but three times: two short, one long.

The sound was unmistakable.

It was over.

Leeds United had won.

The stadium detonated.

The whistle didn't just signal the end of ninety-four minutes of football. It was the sound of fifteen years of waiting, fifteen years of frustration, pain, and longing all breaking apart at once. Leeds United were champions of England again — the 2006–2007 Premier League winners.

The players collapsed in joy, some dropping flat to the ground, some sprinting to the stands. Fans poured down the aisles, tears streaming, voices cracking. Banners flew, scarves were waved like war standards. It was chaos, it was madness, and it was glory.

And in the middle of it all, Arthur, fists still raised high, could only laugh through the tears stinging his own eyes.

Elland Road had never sounded like this before.

And perhaps, it never would again.