Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

While Calderón and Antonio were still on the phone, discussing how to spin the situation in their favor, the rest of the world had already caught wind of the firestorm they were trying to contain.

The Yorkshire Post interview with Leeds United's general manager, Miles Allen, had hit the internet like a thunderclap. Within hours, it went viral. What started as a regional feature quickly exploded into national headlines, then global coverage. And before long, the fallout was in full swing—especially on social media.

Under the official Twitter account of the Yorkshire Post, fans who had spent the day before roasting Arthur Morgan for being cold-hearted and unfair had suddenly flipped the script.

Now, the heat was aimed squarely at Antonio, Maicon, and even Calderón himself—who, until that morning, had remained largely invisible to public scrutiny.

One tweet read:

"Told you not to jump to conclusions. Antonio's a clown. Did he forget Barnett got banned for 18 months for the Ashley Cole mess? That punishment's not even up yet and he's already breaking the same rules."

Another chimed in:

"Can a call recording really prove illegal contact? Maybe. But asking for 5x the current salary? That's not ambition. That's madness!"

And someone else added:

"Maicon's on €40k a week. They wanted €200k! For a right-back! There isn't a right-back on Earth who makes that much."

"Exactly," replied another user. "This wasn't about money. This was a stunt. A pressure play to push Leeds into selling early."

Even Calderón wasn't spared:

"Look at Maicon's stats since joining Leeds—great, sure. But Real Madrid bidding €10 million? Please. That's an insult."

"Florentino spends cash. Calderón cuts coupons. Typical."

The thread went on for miles. Football fans around the world now had a new villain—and Arthur Morgan, once painted as the heartless manager who buried his own player, was suddenly being seen in a new light: decisive, disciplined, and in control.

That afternoon, Arthur flew back to Leeds.

The private flight was quiet, peaceful—the perfect contrast to the storm raging online. As soon as he landed, Miles Allen met him in his office at Thorp Arch.

"We've won the internet," Allen said with a grin, tossing a printed stack of online reactions onto Arthur's desk. "They've turned on Antonio and Maicon completely. And Calderón's looking like a back-alley dealer instead of a club president."

Arthur flipped through the first few pages. He didn't smile, but the spark in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Good," he said. "Let them keep talking."

Allen leaned against the doorframe. "You want us to issue another statement?"

Arthur shook his head. "No need. Let the silence speak. Winter transfer window opens in three weeks. By then, this whole thing will solve itself."

"Going to list Maicon publicly?"

Arthur nodded. "The moment that window opens, it'll be on our official site. He's gone. Whether it's Madrid or someone else—someone will pay. His stats alone will draw attention."

Allen tapped the door twice in agreement and left. Arthur leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The Alves deal had been a win. The Maicon scandal had been flipped on its head. Now all that remained was the football.

Three days later, the attention shifted from headlines to the pitch.

It was a cold, blustery Saturday afternoon, and Elland Road was packed to the rafters for one of the most anticipated fixtures of the month: Leeds United vs. Liverpool—the 16th round of the Premier League season.

Liverpool, once a powerhouse, had seen their form stumble badly. Since losing Deisler, their creative midfield general, the Reds had looked lost. They entered this game with 6 wins, 4 draws, and 5 losses, sitting seventh on the table—miles behind league leaders Manchester United.

Still, this was Liverpool. The badge still held weight. And the press was eager to build it up as a proper clash.

"Leeds are flying," Lineker said on the broadcast. "But you can never count out a club like Liverpool."

The fans believed the same. They filled the stands with noise, scarves waving, flares lighting up the cold grey sky. But what happened next caught everyone off guard.

From the opening whistle, Leeds United played with fire in their boots.

Arthur hadn't changed the lineup from their last match. It was the same formation. The same eleven. Maicon, once a guaranteed starter, wasn't even on the team sheet. But this time, no one cared. Not the fans. Not the pundits. Not even the camera crew, who didn't bother to pan toward the empty spot on the bench where he might've sat.

And in the 9th minute, the game broke wide open.

Ribéry, on the right wing, darted past John Arne Riise like a shadow slipping through cracks in the air. With a sudden burst of pace, he nudged the ball ahead, cut back inside, and with his trademark low center of gravity, sent Riise stumbling with a feint.

Now clear, Ribéry looked up and curled in a teasing cross into the box.

Ibrahimović was already on the move.

The Swedish striker, all 1.95 meters of him, timed his run perfectly. As the ball sailed just behind him, most players would've let it go or tried an awkward header. But Zlatan was no ordinary player.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly, planted his left foot, and—like a scene out of the Eredivisie highlight reels—lifted his right heel behind him and backheeled the ball mid-stride.

Gasps erupted across the stadium.

The ball clipped the underside of the crossbar and bounced down into the net. Reina, Liverpool's veteran goalkeeper, stood rooted to the spot—completely fooled by the unorthodox strike.

The crowd exploded.

Lineker nearly shouted into the mic. "My word! That's outrageous from Ibrahimović! That's something you don't even try unless you've got silk in your feet and ice in your veins!"

Arthur didn't leap up. He just turned toward the bench, gave a tiny nod, and scribbled something into his notebook.

1-0. A dream start.

And they weren't done yet.

****

The game restarted with Liverpool now chasing the match, trailing by a goal after Ibrahimović's outrageous backheel had electrified Elland Road. The mood inside the stadium was on edge with anticipation. Leeds United fans were roaring, sensing blood, while Liverpool's players looked rattled but determined to fight back.

Liverpool, to their credit, didn't collapse immediately. They tried to steady the ship.

Steven Gerrard, as always, led the charge from midfield. He barked orders, clapped his teammates on, and kept pushing the tempo, attempting to breathe some life back into the side. The Reds began to string together short passes, probing the Leeds defense and looking for cracks. Then, in the 25th minute, they nearly found a way through.

Gerrard collected the ball 30 yards from goal and, spotting a small window between defenders, let fly with one of his trademark long-range efforts.

But just as the shot was about to test the goalkeeper, Vincent Kompany launched himself into the line of fire. The ball smacked off the Belgian's thigh and ricocheted away from danger. What happened next would ignite the stadium once more.

The loose ball bounced perfectly toward Lukas Podolski, who had dropped deep into his own half to help defend. He didn't hesitate—not even for a second. Like a coiled spring, he spun on his heel, surged forward, and drove into open space with the ball at his feet.

Liverpool's midfielders were caught high, and the backline scrambled to recover.

Podolski tore through the center circle like a freight train, shrugging off a tug from Lucas Leiva before reaching the edge of the opposition's penalty area. Carragher and Hyypiä stepped up to confront him—but that was exactly what Podolski wanted.

Just as they closed in, the German striker slipped a perfectly weighted pass between them—a laser-guided ball threaded through a needle.

Ibrahimović was already there, splitting the center backs like a knife through warm butter.

He took one touch to settle, then calmly side-footed the ball into the bottom-left corner past Pepe Reina, who could only flail helplessly as the net rippled.

2–0. Leeds were running riot.

Elland Road erupted into a frenzy of noise. Arthur remained on the touchline, arms crossed, eyes sharp, but even he allowed himself a slight nod. The execution had been flawless—from defense to counterattack in under ten seconds. Textbook football.

On the opposite side of the field, Rafa Benítez was pacing furiously in his technical area, gesturing, shouting, trying to inject energy into his players. But they looked stunned. They weren't just losing—they were being outplayed in every department.

And Arthur could smell it.

He turned to his bench. "Push higher. Keep the pressure on them. Don't let up."

Leeds United obeyed. They pressed in waves, cutting off passing lanes, doubling up on the wings, forcing Liverpool into rushed clearances and misplaced passes. Gerrard was doing his best to rally the midfield, but he was surrounded, often outnumbered and overwhelmed.

Then, in the 40th minute, the dam broke again.

Liverpool had just begun another hesitant attempt to build from the back when Alonso and Rivaldo pounced.

Near the edge of the box, Alonso exchanged a slick one-two with Rivaldo that left Gerrard chasing shadows. The Spanish midfielder then lofted a soft chip toward the left side of the penalty area. The timing was exquisite.

Gareth Bale, who had ghosted in from the wing, sprinted forward, beating the offside trap by a fraction. The ball landed just ahead of him, and he reached it at full pace near the byline.

Without breaking stride, Bale whipped in a low cross with venom.

The delivery screamed across the face of goal, too quick for defenders to react and too sharp for Reina to intercept.

It looked like everyone missed it—until Fernando Torres slid in at the far post like a man possessed. Stretching out with his right foot, he met the ball just before it reached the backline and guided it into the net with perfect timing.

3–0. And still five minutes to play in the half.

Benítez could hardly believe it. His team, one of Europe's proudest clubs, was being dismantled. And the worst part? It was deserved.

In the away section, several Liverpool fans had seen enough. Disheartened and drenched by the light Yorkshire drizzle, they stood up, zipped up their jackets, and started heading for the exits.

But the storm wasn't over yet.

Leeds smelled blood, and Arthur wasn't one to show mercy.

Just four minutes later, they struck again.

This time it was Bale—again—causing chaos. Arthur had allowed him the freedom to switch flanks mid-match, and it was wreaking havoc on Liverpool's shaky full-backs.

Now on the right wing, Bale received a pass from Modrić, who had been quietly orchestrating the midfield with grace. With Riise charging toward him, Bale didn't hesitate. He touched the ball forward and used sheer pace to blow past the Norwegian like he wasn't there.

As he reached the edge of the box, Carragher rushed to close the angle. Bale stopped on a dime, sending Carragher skidding past him, and cut inside onto his stronger left foot.

From there, the outcome felt inevitable.

Bale curled a sublime shot toward the far post. The ball arced gracefully through the air, spinning toward the top corner. Reina, despite diving at full stretch, couldn't get near it. His fingertips came inches away—but it wasn't enough.

The ball nestled perfectly into the top corner.

4–0. Complete and utter domination.

The referee blew for halftime moments later, but by then, Leeds had already made their statement.

In just 45 minutes, Arthur's side had torn Liverpool to pieces.

And all of Elland Road knew it.