Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

"The game is over! Congratulations to Arthur! Congratulations to Leeds United!" Lineker's voice was shaking as though he'd just witnessed a miracle that defied all logic. His normally calm, polished commentary style had collapsed into something raw and almost childlike with excitement. "Arthur fulfilled his promise and led Leeds United to win the Premier League this season! This… this is the first top league championship Leeds United has won since the 1991–1992 season! Fifteen years! They have been waiting for this moment for fifteen long years!!"

The cameras panned across Elland Road, catching the eruption of chaos. White shirts, flags, scarves, and even the odd pint of beer were flying through the air like confetti. Fans were in tears, fans were hugging strangers, and fans were climbing onto each other's shoulders just to scream at the sky. It was as though every bit of bottled-up frustration since the early nineties had just been uncorked at once.

Lineker tried to hold himself together, but he wasn't fooling anyone. His throat was tight, and when he spoke again, there was the unmistakable sound of a man choking back tears. "Although they failed in the European arena, and although they've experienced so many twists and turns on the road to the Premier League championship… their tenacity finally moved heaven itself at the last moment! I am… I am honored—deeply honored—to announce this: Leeds United! They are the new kings of the English Premier League!"

He coughed lightly, clearing his throat as if that would hide how emotional he'd gotten. It didn't. Everyone watching at home could hear it.

Beside him, Jon could barely keep still. He looked like he wanted to leap onto the commentary desk and start leading chants. His face was red, his grin wide. "It's amazing! Absolutely amazing! Dear fans watching on TV, do not adjust your sets! This is real! Leeds United are champions of England!" Then, with perfect comedic timing, Jon's grin twisted into a sly smirk as he added, "And I can't help but wonder… do you think Sir Alex and the Manchester United lads at Old Trafford have gotten the news yet? I'll bet that not even two minutes ago, they were already celebrating their 'upcoming championship!'"

Lineker chuckled in disbelief. "You're awful."

"I'm honest!" Jon shot back, still riding the high of the moment.

And Jon, it turned out, was exactly right.

At Old Trafford, tension hung over the stadium like fog. Manchester United's game had already ended. Their fans, still packed into the stands, were waiting nervously, refusing to leave until the result from Leeds was confirmed.

On the touchline, Sir Alex Ferguson looked more anxious than he had in years. Ever since Mike Phelan had jogged over earlier and whispered that Leeds had taken the lead, Ferguson's eyes had been fixed on the ticking clock, unable to focus on anything else. Every second felt like an eternity. His jaw was tight, his lips pursed so firmly they were almost invisible. He clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of composure to anyone who didn't look too closely—but inside, his heart was pounding like a drum.

The fans weren't doing much better. All around Old Trafford, thousands of red-clad supporters were glued to their phones, or glancing from their watches to the massive electronic scoreboard that loomed over the stands. Every flicker of light on that scoreboard made them jump. It was torture—the kind of waiting that stretched a single minute into an entire lifetime.

Somewhere in the east stand, a nervous supporter tried to start a chant, but it faltered immediately, dying in the air like a bird shot mid-flight. Everyone was too tense.

On the Manchester United bench, the generational divide was almost comical. Veterans like Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs sat quietly, arms folded, wearing expressions of forced calm. They'd been around too long, seen too much, to let their emotions run wild. But if you looked closely, even they couldn't hide the faint flicker of hope in their eyes.

The younger players, however, were hopeless. Wayne Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo were pacing up and down behind Ferguson like restless tigers in a cage. Rooney muttered under his breath, bouncing on his heels, while Ronaldo kept running his hands through his hair, shaking his head, muttering something in Portuguese that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. Neither could sit still.

Time ticked on, painfully, cruelly.

Then suddenly, the vibration of a phone cut through the air like a gunshot. Mike Phelan, who had been clutching his mobile in his palm as though it were a lifeline, felt it buzz. His heart leapt into his throat. He snatched it up, eyes lighting with relief—surely, surely this was good news.

But when he read the message on the screen, the color drained from his face.

"3–2. Leeds United just overtook."

Just those words. Just that tiny update. Yet to Phelan, it felt like the heaviest hammer in the world smashing straight into his chest. His breath caught in his throat. His mouth went dry. For a moment, the sounds of Old Trafford seemed to twist, warping into something unbearable—cheers that now felt cruel, laughter that now felt like mockery.

He turned slowly, stiff as a puppet on strings, and began to walk towards Ferguson. His eyes were wide, his lips trembling, his whole body screaming reluctance. He didn't even want to say the words aloud. But before he could form a sentence, Ferguson turned.

The old manager had already seen it in Phelan's expression. Their eyes met—Phelan's full of misery, Ferguson's burning with a strange, steady calm.

Ferguson lifted one hand and placed it gently on Phelan's shoulder, the touch surprisingly soft for a man known for his infamous "hairdryer" temper. His voice, low and controlled, carried the weight of a lifetime of victories and heartbreaks. "No need to say. I already know."

Phelan blinked, stunned. "Boss…"

But Ferguson simply nodded towards the giant electronic scoreboard high above Old Trafford.

Phelan followed his gaze, lifting his eyes with dread.

And there it was, glowing in brutal clarity at the bottom right corner of the screen.

Just minutes ago, it had read 2–2. A draw. A lifeline.

Now, it blazed: 3–2. Leeds United.

Phelan's chest tightened. The numbers burned his eyes, mocking him, mocking them all. That single digit—the "3"—felt sharper than a knife.

It was over.

******

Elland Road was shaking. Literally shaking. Unlike Old Trafford, which had fallen into a stunned silence just a short while ago, Leeds' home ground was now a sea of pure chaos and joy. As soon as referee Atkinson blew his whistle to end the match, the sound inside the stadium became something between a rock concert and the eruption of a volcano. The walls and stands trembled as tens of thousands of Leeds United fans roared in celebration.

Security guards were supposed to keep control. That was their job. But in the face of this tidal wave of human emotion, there was no chance. Barriers were useless, orders forgotten. One by one, even the guards themselves gave up trying to contain it. They smiled, laughed, and some even joined in the carnival, arms in the air as if they too had just been crowned champions.

Arthur, together with Simeone, had just finished celebrating on the touchline with every substitute on the bench. His cheeks hurt from grinning, his suit jacket was half torn from the hug-fest that had broken out, and Simeone had already tried to tackle him twice in excitement. The plan was simple: rush onto the pitch, gather the exhausted players in the middle, and share the joy together.

But Arthur suddenly felt a strange tingling in his gut. Something wasn't right. He took two steps forward, then turned his head.

The fans were no longer in the stands. Or rather, not just in the stands. A flood of white shirts, scarves, flags, and even homemade banners had poured onto the grass. They sprinted, stumbled, and screamed toward the players, waving everything from painted cardboard to pint glasses they hadn't even finished before charging the field. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was unstoppable.

Arthur muttered under his breath, "Ah, hell…"

Before he could make his escape, before he could even turn his well-polished shoes back toward the dugout, his feet left the ground.

"Wha—"

A half-dozen pairs of hands shot under his arms and legs and he was hoisted into the air like a sack of potatoes. Arthur kicked once, twice, then realized resistance was absolutely pointless. He had lost his center of gravity completely. He was airborne, lifted above a storm of bodies, scarves, and chants.

And then it came.

"ARTHUR! ARTHUR! ARTHUR! LEEDS UNITED'S SAVIOR!"

The chant rang in his ears, deep, booming, perfectly in rhythm despite being created on the spot by ten thousand throats.

"ARTHUR! ARTHUR! LEEDS UNITED'S MORNING STAR! ARTHUR! ARTHUR! LEAD US TO THE TITLE!"

For a split second, Arthur panicked. The roar was overwhelming, and the idea of being dropped by a mob of overly enthusiastic Yorkshiremen didn't exactly scream "safe." His head whipped around nervously.

Then he recognized them. The people beneath him weren't strangers—many of them were the same fans who had stood faithfully outside Thorp Arch training ground every single week, rain or shine, waiting for him to sign a scarf or smile at their kids. He spotted familiar faces, lads who always handed him cheeky "strategy notes" written in biro on crumpled napkins, and even the older bloke who had once shouted, "Arthur, don't forget to drink your tea before kickoff!"

Their singing, though slightly off-key, was oddly comforting.

Arthur exhaled, let his shoulders loosen, and shut his eyes. For once, he didn't think. He didn't plan tactics or substitutions or future lineups. He simply let himself float on the shoulders of the people who loved this club as much as he did.

And as more and more of them pressed in—players, substitutes, staff—he found himself carried toward the center circle, engulfed in a sea of white and blue.

Honestly, what else could he do? He was the head coach of Leeds United. The man who had dragged this club step by step to the top of the Premier League.

This wasn't a time for caution or modesty. This was a time to just bloody enjoy it.

…

When the storm finally calmed and the fans were gently ushered back to the stands, the pitch looked like it had hosted both a football final and a music festival. Confetti, flags, and even a shoe or two were scattered across the grass.

Now it was time for the formality: the award ceremony. The staff of the English Football Association rushed around like ants, assembling the podium and getting everything in place as quickly as possible.

Arthur had already taken care of his players, announcing in the dressing room that each of them would pocket a championship bonus of one million euros. Goalscorers and assist providers were promised a little extra, much to the delight of the forwards who were already teasing the defenders about it.

Most of these lads were young, full of fire but new to glory. Only the veterans—Cannavaro, Rivaldo, and Camoranesi—had ever stood on the top podium of a major league before. For everyone else, including Arthur himself, this was uncharted territory.

As they waited, the players formed a circle around Arthur and began dancing an improvised jig that looked like a hybrid between a conga line and a Viking stomp. Rivaldo shook his head, laughing, while Simeone joined in like he'd just been handed a maraca at a wedding.

When the officials gave the nod, Leeds United's heroes marched up the steps in order. One by one, medals were draped around their necks. The crowd cheered louder for each name, the noise reaching new heights as it grew closer to the captain.

Arthur was deliberately last. He wasn't here to steal the limelight—this was their night.

Mark Bullingham, CEO of the FA, handed him his medal personally. The man gripped Arthur's hand like they were old drinking buddies and leaned in close.

"Well done, Arthur! You didn't let me down. If Leeds hadn't pulled it off, I'd have looked like a fool for showing my face here today. Imagine what Ferguson would've said, eh? Hahahaha!"

Arthur's smile was equal parts pride and mischief. "Thank you for believing in us, Mark. Though I'm sure Sir Alex will still have a few words."

Medal shining against his chest, Arthur stepped aside, letting his players take the glory. He watched Kompany, armband tight around his bicep, stride to the stage where the Premier League trophy waited.

With steady hands, the captain lifted it from its pedestal. The weight of history seemed to settle in his arms.

Then, in one motion, Kompany turned, walked to the center of the team, and thrust the trophy high into the sky.

The explosion of sound that followed nearly ripped the roof off Elland Road.

Drums, horns, shouts, even the occasional firework—it was deafening, pure euphoria condensed into a single moment.

From the speakers came Eddie Gray's voice, breaking with emotion but booming with pride:

"The Premier League champion of the 2006–2007 season belongs to—Leeds United!!!"

And at that, the white sea roared once more.