The sun hung lazily over Elland Road as the first match of the 2004-05 Championship season prepared to kick off.
Leeds United, once a proud Premier League club, was now walking a tightrope—new owner, financial chaos, dia backlash, and a goalkeeper with a reputation for fumbling more than a toddler with soap.
The two teams strolled onto the pitch under the guidance of the referee. Leeds United in white, Derby County in their black and gold stripes. The roar from the crowd wasn't a roar at all—it was more like a grumble.
The sharp whistle of the referee cut through the murmur of the crowd as the two teams strode out of the tunnel into the open embrace of Elland Road Stadium.
As the players marched onto the pitch under the hazy Yorkshire sky, the comntator's voice crackled through the loudspeakers.
"Ladies and gentlen, welco to Elland Road! Let's give the Leeds United boys so encouragent, shall we?"
The response was… polite, at best.
A scattered round of claps broke out in a few pockets of the stadium, like popcorn kernels reluctantly bursting under low heat. But the majority of the ho crowd kept their hands firmly in their pockets—or folded across their chests—faces twisted into skeptical frowns as they squinted at the starting lineup displayed on the massive screen.
It was not the welco the players had hoped for.
In the VIP box high above the stands, Arthur stood stiffly in front of the glass. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. The warm-up had already been awkward, the jeers especially loud when Howard appeared on the screen. But now, with the ga seconds from kicking off, the tension felt even heavier.
Arthur frowned.
It wasn't just the boos. It was the vibe. The atmosphere. The kind of quiet disappointnt that made you feel like your mum had found your report card and was about to give you the talk.
And the team? Well, to be blunt—besides Howard, Arthur didn't recognize half the lads out there.
Most of them were either last-minute scraps Blackwell had pulled from the free agent bin, or young hopefuls promoted from the academy. None of the real talents Arthur had hustled for were in the starting eleven.
Adebayor? Chiellini? Tevez? Sneijder? All glued to the bench like spare change forgotten in the couch cushions.
Arthur gritted his teeth.
He had gone to Blackwell just the day before. Straight into the manager's office, calm but firm.
"Kevin," he'd said, "I noticed the new signings aren't starting."
Blackwell had replied with the smug calmness of soone who'd just taken a nap and eaten three digestive biscuits.
"Arthur," he said, placing a hand over his sizable belly, "they've only trained with the team for a week. Barely enough ti to know which way the dressing room is. Let start with the old guard and adjust during the match if needed."
Arthur had wanted to argue—but didn't. For now.
Because as irritating as Blackwell could be, he was still officially the head coach. Arthur couldn't very well barge in and start handing out orders like a general in a war movie.
But that didn't an he had to like it.
In fact, he'd already decided: co winter, Blackwell was getting the boot. A tactical dinosaur who leaked to the dia and played politics in the dressing room? No thank you. Leeds needed a modern thinker. Soone who respected the project.
Preferably soone who didn't take jabs at his boss in interviews.
Back on the pitch, the ga was about to begin. Players lined up near the center circle, the strikers of both teams bouncing lightly on their heels, waiting for the whistle.
In the tunnel earlier, the Leeds players had heard the boos. It wasn't just awkward—it was downright soul-crushing. Several players had hesitated before stepping out. So looked like they were walking toward an execution rather than a football match.
Howard, in particular, had caught the brunt of it. The caras had zood in on his face more than once, and each ti they did, the volu of abuse rose. Even now, he stood near his penalty box, head lowered slightly, taking slow, controlled breaths like a man trying to ditate through a fire drill.
Arthur noticed.
He reached into his system panel, summoned with a thought, and clicked on the glowing blue icon.
[Peak Buffon Template Experience Card (Duration: 4 months)]
"Activate," he said under his breath.
[Please select applicable object.]
"Timothy Matthew Howard."
Two seconds passed. Then ca the chi, and the confirmation:
[Template activation complete.]
Arthur checked the new stats on Howard's profile:
Goalkeeper Technique: 98
Reaction: 97
Defensive Strength: 97
Agility: 87
Transfer Value: 54.1 million euros
Ga Status: HOT
Talent: S
Special Skills: Saving penalties and free kicks.
He grinned.
"Let's see who's laughing now."
Howard's sudden shift was subtle at first. His shoulders straightened. His gaze sharpened. His footwork steadied like a professional dancer finding the rhythm of the music. Whatever nerves had been there were now buried beneath four months of world-class Italian experience.
Arthur sat down, arms still crossed, a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. He didn't need to yell. He didn't need to explain. The pitch would do the talking.
From the comntary booth, Eddie Grey kept up the energy.
"Leeds United kicking off in their classic white kits, moving from left to right on your screens. Derby County in navy. Let's see how this new-look Leeds side settles into the ga."
Except… no one in the booth or on the pitch really believed in the "new-look" part.
Everyone knew it was the sa old team. Sa style, sa tactics, sa slow build-up.
Arthur tapped his pen on the box railing.
That was another problem he'd need to solve. Tactics.
Blackwell's idea of attacking football was launching a hopeful cross and praying for chaos. It might've worked in 1992, but this was 2004. Modern teams needed shape, pressing, transitions—intelligence.
For now, though, he'd observe.
Howard had already made one clean catch on a Derby cross, moving with a decisiveness that shut the crowd up for a mont. Small victories. There would be more.
Arthur sat back and watched.
This was just the beginning.
***
With the sharp blast of the referee's whistle, the new season officially began at Elland Road. Leeds United's first ho ga under the scorching sun and the judgntal gaze of thousands of fans was underway. You'd think the players would be buzzing with excitent. But no. The only people moving fast were the Derby County players.
They wasted no ti. Straight from the kickoff, Derby attacked with all the confidence of a team that slled weakness—and Leeds were practically leaking it. Their players looked nervous, like students trying to fake confidence before an exam they hadn't studied for. The visitors zipped passes around, charging forward, pressing high. Their coach clearly told them, "Hit them hard, hit them early. They're fragile." And Leeds looked every bit as fragile as a wet tissue.
Within the first 20 minutes, Derby had already taken 9 shots. Three of them were real screars, just shy of finding the net. If not for Howard, Leeds would've been three goals down and possibly halfway to a full-on collapse. But this wasn't the sa Tim Howard that Leeds fans had rolled their eyes at during warm-ups. No, this was Buffon-mode Howard. The Buffon template had kicked in with its glorious 97 reaction stat and a laser-focused ntality.
Howard was everywhere. Diving low, leaping high, punching out crosses, catching rockets. His gloves, once known for their butter-fingers, now looked like industrial-grade suction cups. The Leeds defense, shaky and clumsy as they were, could only watch with a mix of awe and guilt as Howard bailed them out ti and ti again.
But not everyone in the stands was impressed—at least not at first.
"Oi! Can you lot even make it to the halfway line?" one fan shouted with his hands cupped like a gaphone.
"You're not playing football, you're just standing there hoping Howard saves everything!"
"Look at our defense! It's like watching a pub team defend against Barcelona!"
Another voice cut through: "The ga's barely started and they've already had nine shots. At this rate we'll be in League One by Christmas!"
But just as the mood was teetering toward a full-scale riot, soone in the crowd said what a few others were thinking:
"If it weren't for Howard…"
"Huh? Yeah… he's actually been… good?"
"Did you see that save? Bliy."
Now that got a few heads turning. Because, oddly enough, it was true. Howard, the guy everyone groaned about, was saving everything. During the warm-up, he'd looked like he was trying to juggle waterlons. But now? He looked like a wall with reflexes.
Another long-range shot ca flying in—Howard caught it like he was plucking a loaf of bread off a supermarket shelf. Effortless.
The Leeds players were starting to take notice too. Most of them hadn't expected much from Howard, who had joined the team only a week earlier and whose reputation from training was… mixed, to say the least. Let's just say he wasn't exactly inspiring confidence.
But sothing had changed. Howard didn't just look sharper. He acted like a leader. He stepped up to the edge of the six-yard box, holding the ball in one hand like a basketball. With the other hand, he gestured toward the back line and shouted: "Slow it down! Stop running like headless chickens. Let them get impatient, then we hit them!"
It was simple. But it worked.
The rest of the team—probably a bit stunned—actually listened. They slowed the tempo. Instead of panicking every ti they touched the ball, they started playing it back and forth. Sure, it wasn't pretty. It wasn't exactly "tiki-taka." But it gave them breathing room.
anwhile, Derby's early burst of energy began to wear off. After 30 minutes of non-stop pressing and attacking, even they had to catch their breath. Leeds, sohow, survived the first half without conceding.
Back in the dressing room, however, Coach Blackwell was not happy.
He had given the team very clear instructions: long balls, direct play, aerial threats. Basically, he wanted caveman football—get the ball up, get it into the box, head it in.
But what he saw on the pitch was anything but that. Players were passing sideways, slowing down, and worst of all, *ignoring* him.
Red-faced and furious, he barked at the team the mont they sat down.
"What was that? Did I say 'keep it on the ground and pass back to the goalkeeper'? Did I? No! I said get the ball into their bloody penalty area!"
The players didn't respond. So looked at the floor. A few glanced at Howard, who was sitting quietly, sipping water like nothing had happened.
"Second half," Blackwell growled, "do what I say. Long balls. Pressure. No more of that short pass nonsense."
So, the second half began with a tactical shift. Leeds started hoofing it long at every opportunity. No buildup, no composure—just long, looping passes toward the opposition's box. Predictably, most of them were either intercepted or safely collected by Derby's goalkeeper, who probably appreciated the free catching practice.
Leeds weren't creating chances. They were surrendering possession again and again. And worse—each ti they lost the ball, Derby launched another counterattack.
The Leeds back line scrambled. Mistakes piled up. One slip, one missed tackle, another failed clearance.
But then—Howard again.
If Derby were firing arrows, Howard was a dieval shield. Diving saves, fingertip deflections, one-on-one stops—he did it all. His shirt was drenched, his gloves were muddy, but he stood tall.
And slowly, sothing shifted in the stands.
At first, it was just murmurs.
"Did he really save that? That was going in for sure."
Then ca the cheers.
"Howard! You bloody legend!"
And then ca the completely unhinged ones:
"Tim! I live across from your flat! If you want dinner tonight, I cook a an lasagna!"
"Marry , Howard!"
One bloke even shouted, "Take off your mask! You're not Howard—you're Lev Yesin in disguise!"
Even Arthur, watching from the VIP box, heard so fans yelling his na.
"Hey, chairman kid! Maybe you're not as clueless as we thought!"
"Nice work on Howard! Do us a favour and sign eleven more of him!"
Howard had gone from punchline to hero in 90 minutes. The fans who booed him during warm-ups were now chanting his na. And for the first ti since the match began, Elland Road didn't feel like a pressure cooker—it felt alive.
The match was stuck at 0-0. At 90 minutes with injury ti left only , but Leeds had almost survived. More importantly, they'd found a glimr of hope. And it wasn't just the system, or the stats, or the Buffon template.
It was the guy in goal, sweating buckets, smiling slightly, with 22,000 fans cheering a na they'd never thought they'd be chanting.
"Howard! Howard! Howard!"
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