The 2–2 draw against Portsmouth had the flavor of stale tea — hard to swallow, but somehow still better than nothing. For Leeds United, it was supposed to be a routine home victory, the kind that keeps momentum steady. Instead, it turned into a wake-up call wrapped in a red card.
By Monday morning, the headlines were merciless.
"Morgan's Men Falter at Home."
"Leeds Lose Spark; Portsmouth Party at Elland Road."
Even Arthur had to admit — it wasn't their finest hour. Portsmouth were supposed to be the underdogs, but they'd shown up like bulldogs on espresso.
Worse yet, by the end of the weekend, the rest of the Premier League had made Leeds' stumble look even clumsier.
Manchester United thrashed Aston Villa 4–1, reclaiming second place thanks to goal difference. Chelsea kept cruising, easily dispatching Middlesbrough 2–0. And Arsenal, of course, continued their picture-perfect run, beating Bolton 2–0 and stretching their lead at the top to 26 points.
Leeds and United sat behind on 20 points apiece. Chelsea were close behind at 18. It wasn't a disaster — but in the ruthless logic of football, even one careless draw can feel like the start of a slide.
Arthur, however, wasn't one to panic. He'd seen enough campaigns to know when to shout and when to shrug. Still, he couldn't ignore the murmurs around Elland Road.
The media, predictably, pounced. They accused him of "underestimating Portsmouth" and "showing arrogance with his rotation choices." Fans debated online whether the boss had lost his touch.
Arthur's response? A shrug and a cup of coffee.
The truth was simpler — he hadn't underestimated anyone; he'd just gambled on freshness over fatigue. Unfortunately, the substitutes had looked like they'd been playing underwater for the first half.
Still, the most vicious criticism didn't fall on him — it fell on Cannavaro.
The veteran Italian centre-back, once the rock of world football, had been at the heart of both conceded goals and then capped off the nightmare by earning himself an early shower. Fans called him "past it," pundits wrote dramatic obituaries for his career, and one columnist even suggested Leeds should "put him out to pasture."
Arthur, of course, didn't join the mob. At the post-match press conference, when reporters fired the inevitable question — "What do you think of Cannavaro's performance today?" — he simply ignored it, scanning his notes as if the question hadn't existed.
He had no intention of throwing a loyal player under the bus for one bad night.
The following morning, the team boarded a flight to Ukraine for their Champions League group match against Dynamo Kyiv. It was a typical travel day: everyone pretending to nap, headphones in, and Simeone already halfway through a tactical notebook the size of a phonebook.
Arthur, however, had someone on his mind.
He spotted Cannavaro sitting near the back, eyes closed, earbuds in but not really listening to anything. The Italian looked tired — not physically, but in that quiet, soul-deep way that only long careers and too many critics can cause.
Arthur made a quick decision. He swapped seats with Kompany, who gave him a knowing grin. "Go on, boss," the Belgian murmured. "He's been beating himself up since yesterday."
Arthur settled in beside Cannavaro and gently tapped his arm.
"Hey, Fabio. You asleep, or just pretending to avoid me?"
Cannavaro blinked awake, startled. When he saw who it was, he sat up immediately.
"Boss! No, no, I wasn't— I mean, I was just resting my eyes."
Arthur chuckled. "Good, because I didn't bring a lullaby. Relax, I'm not here to grill you."
Cannavaro exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Boss… about yesterday. It was my fault. Totally. If I'd been sharper, we'd have had those three points in the bag."
Arthur waved it off. "Forget it. It's one match. The league's ten games old, Fabio. We're still second — hardly a crisis. I'm more interested in how you're doing."
That caught the veteran off guard. "Me?"
"Yeah, you," Arthur said lightly. "You've looked a bit… off lately. Not just physically, but here." He tapped his temple. "Something eating you?"
Cannavaro let out a long sigh. "It's nothing, boss. Just frustration with myself. You know how it is."
Arthur leaned back, waiting. He knew that tone — the one that said there's a confession coming, but I need you to ask twice.
Sure enough, after a pause, Cannavaro continued quietly.
"I turned thirty-four last month. You don't feel it until suddenly you do. This season, I can tell — the body's not responding like before. Against some of these young forwards… I can't keep up."
He hesitated, then gave a small, bitter laugh. "Yesterday, that Utaka kid — he's quick, but not that quick. He's not exactly Thierry Henry, you know? But when he went past me… boss, it felt like I was running in slow motion. I knew what to do, but my legs didn't get the memo."
Arthur listened without interrupting. He'd coached long enough to recognize the sound of a player wrestling with his own mortality — football mortality, at least. It was always the same: the disbelief, the pride, the quiet dread that the game might be moving on without them.
Cannavaro's voice dropped. "When I watched him run off, I just thought… damn, maybe I am getting old."
Arthur smiled gently. "Welcome to the club. My knees started sending resignation letters at thirty."
That earned a laugh, weak but genuine.
"Look," Arthur continued, "I get it. Decline's part of the game. Every player hits that wall eventually. But don't forget — you're not here just for speed. You're here because you think faster than anyone on the pitch. You read danger before it even knocks."
Cannavaro shook his head. "You're kind, boss, but I know the truth. On another team, I'd already be a benchwarmer. You've kept faith in me longer than most managers would've."
"Faith isn't charity, Fabio," Arthur said firmly. "It's calculation. And in my calculations, your experience is worth more than any teenager's sprint speed. Besides, do you realize you're the only defender in history to win World Player of the Year? You could retire tomorrow and still have a career's worth of bragging rights."
Cannavaro grinned faintly. "Flattery, boss? Dangerous tactic."
Arthur laughed. "Only when it's true."
The tension eased, and for a moment they simply sat there, watching the clouds drift outside the window. The hum of the engines filled the silence — a comfortable one this time.
Then Cannavaro spoke again, more serious. "I don't want you to worry, boss. I'm not thinking about quitting yet. My contract runs till next year, and I fully intend to make you pay me every last pound."
Arthur chuckled. "Ah, there's the fighter I know."
But then he noticed something else — a flicker of hesitation behind the humor.
"What?" Arthur asked softly. "You've got something else on your mind."
Cannavaro hesitated, then nodded. "Actually, yes. A suggestion."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
"Boss…" Cannavaro took a deep breath, then looked Arthur squarely in the eye. "For the next few matches, I think you should start Thiago and Mats instead of me. I can stay on the bench, back them up, help them in training. But out there, against fast strikers… I'm a liability now."
Arthur blinked. "You're seriously telling me you don't want to start?"
Cannavaro smiled ruefully. "First time in my life, yeah. But it's not about ego anymore. It's about results. Yesterday, I realized I can still lead, just not by running in circles around twenty-year-olds. Let Vincent marshal the backline. The lads trust him. Thiago and Mats are raw, yes, but they've got the legs for it. I'll guide them from behind the scenes."
Arthur leaned back, studying him carefully. It wasn't what he'd expected — players rarely volunteered to step aside. Most clung to starting spots like toddlers to candy. But Cannavaro wasn't "most players." He was a leader who'd won it all and knew when to adapt.
He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then finally said, "That's… remarkably self-aware of you. But listen, I'll consider it, alright? Just don't go labeling yourself a museum exhibit after one bad night."
Cannavaro chuckled. "Deal. But maybe a small display plaque wouldn't hurt — 'Fabio Cannavaro: Former Human Wall, Occasionally Outrun by Utaka.'"
Arthur burst out laughing loud enough that Rivaldo turned around from two rows ahead. "Everything okay back there, boss?"
"Just trying to stop Fabio from writing his own obituary," Arthur called back.
Cannavaro grinned, the weight on his shoulders visibly lighter.
Arthur leaned in again. "I'll think about your suggestion. But remember — you're still a core piece of my plan this season. Champions League glory doesn't come without leaders like you, understand?"
"Got it, boss," Cannavaro said, his tone warm and steady. Then, half-jokingly: "And besides, you promised me a spot on your coaching team after I retire. I'm just… starting rehearsals early."
Arthur chuckled. "Rehearsals, huh? Fine, coach Cannavaro. But until you've officially got the whistle, don't you dare sit too comfortably on that bench."
Cannavaro saluted lazily. "No promises."
Arthur smiled and looked out the window again. The clouds rolled by below them, endless and white, and for a moment he felt strangely at peace. Football was cruel, yes — it aged heroes in public and judged mistakes in slow motion — but it also created moments like this. Honest, human, and quietly powerful.
He turned back to Cannavaro. The old defender had already leaned his head against the seat, eyes closed again, breathing even. Maybe resting, maybe dreaming.
Arthur adjusted his seatbelt and muttered softly, half to himself, "You'll be fine, Fabio. The wall might crack, but it never collapses."
And with that, he closed his eyes too, as the plane carried Leeds United eastward — toward Kyiv, and the next battle waiting beyond the clouds.