Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

Jon was right.

The stats didn't lie.

In just under 30 minutes, Leeds United had already racked up 11 shots, 7 of them on target. It wasn't just dominance—it was complete suffocation. Manchester City were barely clinging on, penned inside their own half, unable to find a way out. The ball, the rhythm, the momentum—everything belonged to Leeds.

Even the Leeds fans, rowdy and thunderous just moments ago, began to show a flicker of sympathy—for Edin Džeko, of all people.

The tall striker, on loan at City this season, had barely been involved. In fact, he had spent the last seven or eight minutes stranded in enemy territory, isolated in Leeds' half like a lighthouse during a storm, without touching the ball once.

But down on the touchline, Arthur wasn't showing the slightest hint of mercy. His coat collar turned up, arms crossed, he stood sharp and animated at the edge of his technical area, barking orders without pause.

"Luka!" he yelled across the pitch. "The defensive pressure's light, push up! Let Xabi cover deep—go link with Kevinoutside the box!"

Then he turned to the front.

"Zlatan! What is this, a casual stroll? Move! Get into the box—score a goal today or you're sitting next match, I swear!"

His voice cut through the roar of the crowd.

"Michael! Press! They can't even cross halfway! Why are you still hanging back? Get up and squeeze them in!"

Then a brief pause—and another shout, now aimed at the attacking line.

"Kevin, perfect! When you see the opening, go for it—don't wait, just hit it!"

Leeds weren't just playing well. They were playing with complete clarity. Every player on the pitch looked like they knew exactly what to do and where to be.

On the opposite side, Manchester City manager Stuart Pearce stood tight-lipped and frustrated, arms folded, eyes tracking the ball like a man watching an avalanche come toward him. The verbal jabs from Arthur didn't help his mood—but he couldn't argue with what he saw.

He'd known Leeds were good. But this was something else.

What was really driving him mad, though, was the lad playing in the middle of Leeds' attack.

That attacking midfielder.

Pearce couldn't figure out where Arthur had found him. The kid played like he had magnets in his boots. Every diagonal pass, every one-touch flick, every disguised through ball—pinpoint, like he had a map of City's defensive line built into his brain. Podolski and Torres were reaping the rewards, constantly getting in behind from the flanks, while City's full-backs were left exposed again and again.

And then came the 34th minute.

Podolski, ever the battering ram on the left, powered into the channel just outside the box. He feinted to cut in, then dropped the shoulder and tried to drive past Danny Mills.

It was a bold move—but Mills wasn't about to be left in the dust. He leaned in, extended a foot, and clipped Podolski's ankle just as the German shifted into stride.

Down he went.

The whistle blew. Free kick—Leeds.

The foul had occurred about 24 meters from goal, just to the left of the penalty arc. A dangerous position—close enough to shoot, wide enough to curl.

As the ball was placed, a huddle of Leeds players gathered. Modrić, Leeds' usual free-kick specialist, looked tempted. But after a quick exchange, he handed the ball over to Ibrahimovic, who had yet to find the net today.

A quiet murmur went through the stands. Fans sensed something brewing.

As the City wall was set and James crouched into position, the referee stepped back and raised the whistle.

Ibrahimovic glanced up, then back at the ball.

He took two long, elegant strides, then struck it clean with the inside of his right foot.

The ball rose quickly, then dipped sharply—curling over the wall and arcing toward the top right corner.

It was a perfect strike.

The crowd behind the goal began rising to their feet, already halfway into celebration mode.

But fate had other plans.

With a sharp, echoing clang, the ball slammed against the joint of the crossbar and right post—the classic "postage stamp"—and bounced violently back into play.

Gasps rang through the stadium. The ball was alive. And so were the players.

Chaos followed.

Bodies swarmed the box. Boots flying. Shouts everywhere.

And out of the melee, Micah Richards reacted first.

Stationed near the right post, he saw the ball fall almost at his feet. As Torres lunged toward it, Richards got there a split-second earlier, controlling it smartly and shielding it from danger.

He quickly turned, flicked the ball with his right foot, and drove forward, pushing out of the box in a desperate attempt to clear.

But before he could catch his breath, he looked up—and saw Xabi Alonso closing in like a wall of brick.

In panic, Richards tried one more feint, using the outside of his boot to dodge left.

But Alonso read it.

Perfectly.

The Spaniard stepped across calmly, swung his left leg, and poked the ball free before Richards could recover.

And where did it end up?

Right in front of Ibrahimovic.

Still inside the box. Still hungry. Still remembering the clang of the crossbar seconds ago.

He barely needed to adjust his feet.

One look. No hesitation.

He struck it low and hard with his right foot, sliding it across the grass and aiming toward the far left corner—the opposite side from his earlier attempt.

"Oh! Ibrahimovic! He found another chance!" shouted Eddie Gray, his voice lifting with excitement.

This time, the Swede didn't aim for glory. He went for precision.

James—still unsighted by the crowd in front—never saw it coming.

The ball rolled through a sea of legs and kissed the inside of the post before nestling into the back of the net.

2–0.

Leeds doubled their lead.

Elland Road erupted once more, a second wave of noise pouring over the pitch like a tsunami.

The players mobbed Ibrahimovic near the corner flag, fists pumping, faces beaming.

Arthur simply nodded, arms crossed.

Business as usual.

****

After the restart, Leeds United dialed things down slightly.

Arthur, standing calm and sharp on the sideline, had issued a clear instruction: "Control the tempo. Don't let them back in—but don't burn out either."

And so, Leeds began to play with more composure, slowing the pace without losing control. The crisp passes remained, but the intensity of the press softened, allowing Manchester City a few rare moments of breathing room.

There were no clear chances for City—but at least the floodgates weren't bursting anymore. They could finally complete more than three passes. For a side battered by wave after wave in the first half, it was something close to relief.

Still, Arthur wasn't content to watch from a distance.

He paced along his technical area with a hand on his chin, constantly reading the body language of his players. "Not too passive," he murmured, loud enough for his assistants to hear. "We don't lose momentum."

Meanwhile, City manager Stuart Pearce, though visibly frustrated, hadn't thrown in the towel.

As the referee whistled to end the first half, a camera close-up told the story perfectly: Leeds players, laughing and joking among themselves, looking fresh and confident… while City's players trudged toward the tunnel, heads bowed, lips sealed. The contrast couldn't have been sharper.

Back in the dressing rooms, Pearce still believed something could be salvaged.

He rallied his team with stern but hopeful words, then made a few tactical tweaks. Defensive lines were to push higher. Midfielders were told to show more aggression in the duel. If Leeds slowed down, City needed to bite.

But as the second half began, it became clear that Arthur had been conserving energy—not retreating.

With only four minutes gone, Leeds turned the screw again.

A fast sequence of passes between Alonso and Modrić released Bale down the left. The Welshman surged forward with that signature long stride, effortlessly leaving defenders in his wake. He looked up once, then curled in a low, driven cross.

Podolski, crashing the near post, drew two defenders with him—both fully committed to blocking him.

Which left Ibrahimovic, ghosting in behind, all alone in the center of the box.

The ball came to him perfectly, and the Swede simply guided it into the net with the side of his foot. A cool, effortless finish.

3–0.

Elland Road erupted again.

There was no wild celebration from Zlatan—just a look of calm satisfaction, arms spread like a conductor soaking in the applause.

By now, Manchester City knew the game was gone. But pride was still at stake.

With nothing more to lose, they threw caution to the wind. Pearce instructed his entire frontline to push forward. They began to gamble—overlapping fullbacks, midfielders making late runs, centre-backs stepping into midfield whenever the ball was won.

But when you push high, you leave gaps.

And Leeds were ready to exploit them.

In the 71st minute, City thought they had something. Džeko, finally with a bit of space, tried to dance past Cannavaro at the edge of the Leeds penalty area.

But the veteran wasn't fooled.

With perfect timing, Cannavaro stepped across and dispossessed Džeko cleanly, before calmly sliding the ball sideways to Modrić, who had dropped in to support.

Modrić looked up, spotted the run starting from deep, and played a diagonal ball toward Ribery, who had pulled wide to the right.

But just as Ribery took his first stride, Richards, still brimming with frustration, came flying in from behind—shoulder-first—and crashed into him.

Ribery hit the ground hard. A clear foul. Yellow card, at the very least.

But the ball bounced free… and De Bruyne was already on the move.

The referee, whistle at his lips, instead raised both hands and waved play on. Advantage, Leeds.

De Bruyne didn't break stride.

He was now bearing down on the final two defenders—Dunn and another center-back—who were caught tracking Ibrahimovic and Podolski as they angled their runs left.

It was a two-on-three, but De Bruyne had the edge. His control was pristine, his speed deceptive. And more importantly, he could see Dunn drifting toward him, leaving Zlatan completely open in the center.

De Bruyne didn't hesitate.

Just as Dunn stepped up, Kevin slipped the ball inside with a sharp, curling pass into space.

Ibrahimovic, already timing his movement to perfection, broke toward the ball, took one calm touch, and advanced into the box.

One-on-one. No pressure. Just him and the goal.

James didn't even dive.

The shot went low and precise to the bottom-right corner. Another clinical finish.

4–0. Hat trick.

The stadium shook with the celebration. Fans roared, fists pumped. Hats were thrown. Some held up three fingers in tribute to the man of the moment.

On the sideline, Arthur gave a small clap. No grin. No gloating. Just a quiet nod to his staff.

He knew this one was over.

City's morale collapsed. The shoulders dropped. The tracking runs stopped. Arthur recognized the shift immediately and turned toward his bench.

"Let's rotate. Take the weight off the legs."

With the result sealed, he began subbing off his frontline stars.

Ibrahimovic, now with three goals to his name, jogged off to a standing ovation. Podolski, De Bruyne, and others followed shortly after. In came the likes of Piqué and a few fringe players—fresh legs, and a reward for their hard work on the training ground.

The final 20 minutes were mostly procedural.

Leeds, now playing with their foot off the gas, controlled possession, worked the ball around comfortably, and avoided any unnecessary injuries. City huffed and puffed, but the fight had gone out of them. Their body language told the story.

When the final whistle finally came, it felt like a mercy.

The scoreboard read:

Leeds United 4 – 0 Manchester City

Total domination. A statement performance.

And with back-to-back wins against both Manchester giants in just a matter of days, Leeds United climbed back into the top ten of the Premier League table.

The road ahead was long—but with Arthur at the helm and this squad clicking into gear, no one at Elland Road was thinking small.

Not anymore.