The calendar had barely flipped one page after Leeds United's emphatic 4–0 demolition at Goodison Park, and already the rest of the league was lining up for their turn. The 2007–2008 Premier League season had officially kicked off, and Sunday was a day for the rest of the so-called "Big Five" to strut their stuff. Arthur, satisfied with his team's start, sat down to watch the action unfold, notebook in hand, tea steaming on the table, and a smug grin that said, "Let's see how the others cope."
The first clash of the day was Liverpool against Aston Villa. To Arthur's amusement, the game started exactly as he'd hoped — with Liverpool looking utterly toothless. Rafael Benítez's side had spent the summer sulking after missing out on Fernando Torres, and instead of finding a backup plan, they'd simply… not found anyone. It was like going to the supermarket for steak, discovering it was sold out, and walking home with nothing but coupons.
Villa smelled blood. They pressed, they probed, and for half an hour, Liverpool looked like a team stuck in preseason training. Then came one of those deliciously cruel moments football specializes in. Villa's defender Martin Laursen, under no real pressure, sliced the ball into his own net with the kind of precision finish strikers dream about. Liverpool hadn't created anything, but here they were, ahead 1–0 thanks to the generosity of Villa's backline.
Arthur chuckled to himself, scribbling in his notes: "Benítez lucky as ever. Should send Laursen a Christmas card."
The second half swung back and forth, but in the 84th minute, justice seemed to arrive. Steven Gerrard lunged clumsily in the box, Gareth Barry stepped up, and Villa equalized from the spot. The home crowd roared, sensing Liverpool's collapse. But just as Arthur leaned back, muttering something about "typical Rafa," Gerrard decided to rewrite the script.
Five minutes later, Liverpool's captain collected the ball twenty-five meters from goal, shrugged off a challenge, and unleashed a thunderbolt that flew past Taylor into the top corner. It was vintage Gerrard, a reminder of why the man seemed to single-handedly carry Liverpool on his back year after year. Final whistle: 2–1 to Liverpool. Lucky, yes. Deserved? Arthur muttered darkly, "Depends on how much you value own goals and wonder strikes."
Later that afternoon, Arsenal stepped onto the stage at the Emirates. Their opponent was Fulham, and as always, Arsène Wenger's boys combined youthful enthusiasm with the fragility of a porcelain vase. They dominated possession, crafted pretty triangles, and yet still somehow contrived to make the game a nervous affair. Eventually, they scraped a 2–1 win, sending Wenger into his usual philosophical post-match sermon about spirit and development. Arthur wasn't impressed. He jotted: "Arsenal still Arsenal. Lots of passing, still allergic to defending."
Chelsea's game was next, and Stamford Bridge turned into a carnival of drama. Hosting Birmingham, José Mourinho's men roared forward but forgot that defending was also part of the job. Goals flew in from both ends, but Chelsea's sheer attacking quality dragged them to a 3–2 victory. Mourinho strutted around on the touchline, chest puffed, finger wagging, looking for cameras like a cat looking for a saucer of milk. Arthur rolled his eyes at the television. "Always about him," he muttered. Still, a win was a win. Chelsea were up and running.
Then came the real shocker of the weekend. Manchester United, the team hyped endlessly by the press, the team many pundits declared "untouchable" before a single ball was kicked, hosted Reading at Old Trafford. Sir Alex Ferguson rolled out the full artillery. All the stars, all the summer signings, the whole lot. Surely this was going to be a rout.
But ninety minutes later, Arthur was laughing so hard he nearly spilled his tea. United, despite throwing everything forward, had been held to a goalless draw. To make matters worse, Reading even had a man sent off late in the game. Ten men, clinging on for dear life, and still Ferguson's army couldn't break through. Arthur underlined his note in thick pen: "United look like they're still on holiday. Lethargic. Wasteful. Hilarious."
So, the opening weekend ended with Leeds top of the pile, at least temporarily, and Arthur in high spirits. His side had shown ruthlessness, while rivals stumbled, scraped, or relied on fortune. It was exactly the kind of start he wanted.
For Leeds fans, August was shaping up to be a month of joy. And joy it was. Week after week, game after game, Arthur's men delivered clinical performances that silenced doubters and delighted supporters. The defense, marshaled with icy precision, refused to concede. De Gea, barely old enough to rent a car, was posting clean sheets as if they were collector's items.
The second round saw Middlesbrough visit Elland Road. They came hoping to frustrate, but instead were gradually suffocated. Leeds pressed, harried, and eventually broke through to win 1–0. It wasn't glamorous, but it was ruthless.
Round three brought Sunderland. This time, the floodgates opened. Leeds attacked in waves, Adriano continued his revival tour, and the scoreboard read 3–0 at full time. Fans sang themselves hoarse as Elland Road bounced to chants of Arthur's name.
Next was a trip to Upton Park to face West Ham. Away games are always tricky, but Leeds were machine-like. Compact at the back, incisive up front, they carved out a 2–0 victory without ever looking troubled. The Hammers swung, but Leeds just jabbed back twice and walked away smiling.
Even the League Cup, often treated by big clubs as an afterthought, was handled with care. Arthur rotated the squad heavily against Hull City, throwing in reserves and youngsters, but the result was the same. Leeds won 1–0, proving that even the "second string" were drilled and deadly.
When August finally came to a close, the numbers spoke volumes. Four Premier League matches. Four wins. Ten goals scored. None conceded. Twelve points. Leeds United stood proudly at the summit of the table. Behind them lurked Chelsea and Liverpool, two points adrift, still hoping to catch up.
Manchester United, meanwhile, were a punchline. All that pre-season optimism, all that talk of dominance, had fizzled into mediocrity. It wasn't until their fourth league game, against Tottenham, that they managed their first win. One victory, two draws, one defeat — five points. Tenth place. Arthur could almost hear Ferguson chewing gum faster than usual, steam rising from his ears.
*****
After the end of the fourth round of the Premier League, the football world was buzzing with analysis. Newspapers, television pundits, and even the loud mouths on early social media were lining up to have their say. Some were already singing Leeds United's praises as if Arthur had single-handedly reinvented the sport. Others were wringing their hands about Manchester United's slow start. Either way, the opening month of the new season had given everyone plenty of material to chew on.
The Guardian led with its usual confident flair:
"Leeds United have shown unparalleled dominance in the new season. Four rounds in, and no matter what tactical arrangements Arthur rolled out, the result was the same: sheer, absolute superiority. Suddenly, Chelsea, Liverpool, and Arsenal find themselves in the role of pursuers. As for Manchester United, Sir Alex Ferguson must surely be worried. His summer signings haven't fully meshed with his tactical system, particularly the Portuguese winger Nani, who was expected to be a spark but has yet to light up Old Trafford."
The Manchester Evening News, of course, could hardly avoid looking inward, even if it meant admitting their local heroes were struggling:
"Manchester United are clearly in trouble. Across the first four rounds, United have enjoyed more possession, more shots, more corners, and more free kicks than their opponents. Yet their finishing remains inexplicably blunt. In contrast, Leeds United's summer signings have slotted seamlessly into Arthur's system. Frankly, Ferguson might need to swallow his pride and ask Arthur how to integrate new players so quickly."
The Mirror, always ready to jump on a catchy headline, offered its verdict with theatrical flair:
"Perfect start! Arthur has etched his name into another chapter of Leeds United's history. Four wins, ten goals scored, and not a single one conceded! With such a blistering start, it's no wonder Leeds fans are walking around with smiles so wide you could park a bus in them. August has been a month of pure domination for Leeds."
And it wasn't just the big, traditional outlets. Online spaces were filled with praise as well. Leeds United legend Norman Hunter, now plying his trade as a columnist and frequent Twitter loudspeaker, couldn't hold back his optimism.
"I have reason to believe this could be the most promising season Leeds United has ever had!" Hunter declared. "When I say promising, I don't just mean the Premier League. I mean everything—League Cup, FA Cup, Champions League. I firmly believe Arthur can lead us to three or even four trophies this season. The only real fear would be a lack of depth. Last year, the squad was thin, and we had to sacrifice cup runs. But this summer has been different. Two proven signings and two excellent youth promotions have given us the reinforcement we needed. If fortune smiles on us, Leeds fans may witness true history this season!"
The words spread like wildfire. Leeds fans lapped it up, plastering Hunter's quotes across forums and message boards. Rival fans grumbled that it was way too early for such grand proclamations, but deep down even they knew Leeds had looked frighteningly strong.
At Thorpe Arch, Leeds' training base, the mood matched the headlines. After a well-earned day off, the players returned to work, the air around the camp light and buoyant. Rivaldo, somehow both mentor and eternal competitor, was warming up with the younger squad members, barking bits of advice in between cheeky nutmegs.
Arthur stood on the sideline with Simeone, who was glued to his phone. Simeone's grin made it obvious he wasn't reading grim news.
"Boss," he chuckled, "everywhere you look—papers, TV, online—everyone's singing our praises. We're basically untouchable right now."
Arthur arched an eyebrow, deadpan as ever. "That's the media for you. When you're winning, they build you statues. When you're not, they set them on fire. If we'd stumbled once, the same writers would be queuing up to bury us. Enjoy it, but don't take it too seriously."
Simeone nodded sagely, then smirked as though another thought had just popped into his head. "Fair enough. Anyway, boss, the Champions League group stage draw is the day after tomorrow. You heading out there this time?"
Arthur didn't even hesitate. "What for? I don't need to sit in a suit pretending to look nervous while some UEFA official pulls plastic balls out of a bowl. If you and Ferreira fancy a trip, go. I'll watch it on TV like a sane person."
Simeone lit up instantly, like a schoolboy given a free pass. "Knew you'd say that! Excellent. I'll pack my bags for Switzerland. Ferreira and I will handle it."
Arthur shot him a look, somewhere between suspicion and amusement. "You just want a free holiday on club expenses, don't you?"
Simeone didn't even try to deny it. "Well, if you put it that way…"
Two days later, on August 31st, training wrapped up earlier than usual. Arthur, instead of lingering at Thorpe Arch for video analysis or tactical tinkering, headed home. He had other priorities for the evening.
That night, the house was warm with the glow of candles. Shakira, in Leeds on vacation, had joined him for a quiet dinner. Between bites, they laughed, argued playfully about music versus football, and clinked glasses.
Later, after the dishes were forgotten, they took a long soak, steam fogging up the bathroom. When they finally collapsed on the sofa, Arthur pulled her close, a glass of wine still in hand, and switched on the television.
Arthur leaned back, more relaxed than he'd been in weeks. Truth be told, his memory of this particular Champions League season was fuzzy. The only thing he could recall with certainty was Manchester United beating Chelsea on penalties in the final. Everything else? A blur.
But that wasn't the only reason he watched with genuine anticipation. Since Leeds' return to the Premier League, his presence alone had already begun to bend history in unpredictable ways.
Small things at first, but the longer he was here, the more he could see the ripple effect growing. Matches that should have gone one way were tilting another. Transfers that were once inevitable had twisted. Even the media narratives felt shifted.
It left him wondering just how much further reality might warp. And when it came to Europe's grandest stage, the Champions League, that thought stirred something dangerous and exciting in him.
For the first time since arriving, Arthur found himself genuinely curious. What if Leeds didn't just compete in the Champions League this season? What if they rewrote history altogether?