The episode of becoming a one-day guest pundit was over, and with it ca the inevitable backlash, greeting him once again.
"Who is he? Does he really think he can compete with Gary Lineker?"
"Haha, never mind heading the ball, he even headed the post, and now he thinks he can match Lineker's record?"
"Just because he won a bet, now he thinks he knows it all. Typical."
As the dia circus continued to build, Richard found himself back in the center of attention—not as swiftly and heavily as before, however.
Thankfully, it was on him and not his family, but still, his father, mother, and brother were suddenly pulling him into the living room in the hotel and interrogating him.
"Why did you say that? What were you thinking?" his father asked, his arms crossed as he paced a little. "You know the kind of attention you're going to draw, right? You've just opened a whole new can of worms!"
His brother, who had been sitting quietly, spoke up. "You've got to understand how these things play out. You've put yourself in the firing line once again, and it's not going to be easy to get out of it. You think they're going to let you off the hook after this?"
Seeing how his husband and eldest son were pressuring him, his mother stepped in to save him. "Alright, stop it," she said, before patting his head worriedly. "Just stay at the hotel for a while. Maybe everything will move over if you don't appear for a while."
Richard groaned. He wanted to explain, but the right words just wouldn't co. Honestly, he didn't care all that much. The attention was split now—half of it on him, the other half on the Three Lions.
No, actually, that wasn't quite right.
What he'd said was true—Lineker's performance in the Euros had been awful, and that was the reality. The problem was, no one dared to say it outright, only him. Probably now, the only ones targeting him were Lineker's die-hard supporters.
"Don't worry, Mom, Dad, Brother. You're all overreacting," Richard said helplessly, feeling that the situation had been blown out of proportion.
The England party headed ho, having wanted to leave since the mont the ga against the Netherlands ended, or since the group stage concluded. However, they were not returning to any sort of peace.
The players were under fire, the manager now persona non grata, the fans had done the inevitable, and the newspapers were in their elent.
Having built England up pre-tournant in a rare show of positivity, the tabloids took the loss to the Republic of Ireland exactly as you might have expected. By the ti the final verdict ca in, the anger had turned into a frenzy, and even the broadsheets were joining in.
There were even rumors and photos circulating before they headed ho, claiming Bryan Robson had allegedly punched Peter Shilton after an argunt in the hotel bar. The pair quickly reconciled over breakfast the next morning, but this incident still left a stain on them.
As people often said, "1987 had ended with so many reasons to be positive'; 1988 had proved them all to be smoke and mirrors."
The Sun, Today and Star all lined up to join in kicking "England's Bottlers". By the ti of the ga against the Dutch, the press had basically written off England and their manager regardless of result.
The 3-1 defeat, and then the later Irish draw with the USSR, confird the exit and the vitriol could really start.
"English football is draped in a black cloak" said the Tis in a relatively mild report compared to the Daily Mail, who claid it was "on the road to oblivion".
The result gave a confirmatory nod for the coverage to not only continue, but to get personal.
The Mirror decided to just outright ask who would now take the England job such was the damage done by Robson's tenure: "Clough? No! Venables? No? Kendall? No! Howe? No! Sexton? No! Taylor? No! Wilkinson? No!"
Their answer was to give Bryan Robson the job but, sowhat bizarrely, only after letting the current manager limp to the end of his contract to give the captain ti to prepare.
The Observer preferred to take the view that no single person was to bla; rather, everything had gone wrong, and blaming it all on the manager was misguided. This was why Richard said there was no need to worry about him.
With all the frenzy and chaos of the British press and dia, did he want to take part in this kind of circus?
Ha, impossible. They didn't have ti for him!
Still, to appease his family, Richard decided to wear a beanie, sunglasses, and a mask before stepping out of the hotel room.
His mother even took extra care to check his outfit before he left, as though her attention to detail could sohow shield him from the growing storm.
"Don't take this off while you're out," she insisted, her voice filled with worry.
"Yes, Mom," Richard replied with a smile, kissing his mother on the cheek before heading out.
"Just stay safe," she shouted after him as he entered the elevator and disappeared from sight.
Once he left, she stood in the hallway for a mont before heading back.
First, Richard dropped by the William Hall in Islington. When Fay saw him, he nearly spat out his tea in shock. He hurriedly ushered him towards the VIP room and quickly locked the door behind them.
"Dang, this guy's really asking for trouble," Fay muttered under his breath.
Richard was there to make another bold bet—this ti for the Soviet Union in the semi-finals. And their opponents?
Italy.
Fay was stunned, but also secretly elated. He had seen his fair share of eccentric bets, but this one was on another level.
After a lengthy and tense discussion, they finally reached an agreent. Initially, the odds were set at a modest 1:5, heavily favoring Italy. But Richard wasn't backing down. He laid his offer on the table.
"I'm betting ten million pounds on a 2-0 Italy loss. Lock it in, and give your best odds you've got,"
'Crazy guy!' Fay thought, his mind racing.
The negotiation continued, with Richard willing to let his na be used in marketing campaigns—but with one strict condition: any exclusive interviews must be turned down. No matter how big the dia company, he would decline them all.
Deal.
The bet was locked in: Soviet Union vs. Italy, odds of 1:10, with two goals for the Soviet Union and no goals for Italy.
With that settled, Richard left, and soon the news spread like wildfire.
Fay went all in, pushing his limits to market the semi-finals. He even secured approval to set up a Betfair Exchange as quickly as possible, allowing people to bet directly against Richard, making the whole thing snowball into sothing even bigger.
£10,000,000!!!
The buzz around Richard's high-stakes wager sent shockwaves through bookmakers, bettors, and dia outlets alike.
So speculated that Richard had insider information, while others believed it was all part of a larger strategy to disrupt the system.
Yet, England loyalists—true to form—clung to the hope that this ti they could exact so sort of revenge on the Soviet Union for knocking England out. Similarly, Lineker's die-hard fans hoped to get back at Richard for his comnts about their idol.
"You've got to be kidding ," they muttered.
'Giuseppe Bergomi, Franco Baresi, Paolo Maldini, Fernando De Napoli, Carlo Ancelotti, Roberto Mancini, Gianluca Vialli—and you think they could lose to soone like Oleh Protasov?'
'Well, let them be lost in their imagination for a while,' Richard thought before pushing the taxi door open and stepping out.
Before him stood ancient buildings with grand stone facades, ivy creeping up weathered walls, and towering spires that had witnessed centuries of scholars passing through—this was Oxford University.
Beside him stood Harry Maddox, his brother, hesitating as he looked at the majestic Oxford buildings with uncertainty.
This was exactly what their earlier discussion had been about—Harry going back to university.
Their parents had been nothing but supportive, with their mother, Anna, even handing over her ATM card so Harry could use it for his studies. But this ti, Richard refused.
You've got to be kidding . With £1,900,000 in hand, he could easily send Harry to the best university in the UK. All he had to do was pick one. However, Richard knew better than to be reckless.
Financially, he could afford any university, but academically? Harry would probably end up completely lost, drifting aimlessly with no real direction.
Money could buy admission, but it couldn't buy success. So, with no other choice, Richard decided to take advantage of the situation to make a breakthrough.
There is a case where, later, an investigation would take place after a top-level inquiry was launched into allegations that one of its colleges was willing to sell degree course placents in exchange for large cash donations.
Richard rembered it well because this scandal turned Britain upside down. A senior fellow of the college, who beca a whistleblower, admitted that the college had made similar deals in the past because it was "poor as shit."
Of course, the college denied the accusations, but everything spiraled out of control when one case ca to light.
The Chancellor championed the case of the rejection of one of the university's talented students from its comprehensive school, only for that sa student to later be accepted by Harvard instead.
After this case surfaced, more scandals quickly followed, one after another.
The most serious one involved two college staff mbers who allegedly admitted to accepting a large £300,000 donation and explicitly stated that the donor's son's application would be viewed "extrely favorably."
This was exactly what Richard had been aiming for. The course had a quota, of course, but he believed his money could be used to apply pressure and create an extra spot for Harry.
He might not necessarily be among the top applicants, but at the end of the day, his na would have to fit into Oxford.
As for the later exposure? Richard had already thought it through.
Richard Maddox's na was already registered as one of the university's most consistent donors—not the largest, but certainly a steady one. From modest donations of £1,000 to £3,000 and £4,000, he consistently contributed, until his most recent and largest donation of £15,000.
Donations are processed and managed by the Gift Registry team in collaboration with the Developnt and Alumni Engagent office. In case sothing went awry early on, Richard had already made a special request to the team responsible for recording and acknowledging all philanthropic contributions to the university.
[...Richard Maddox had retired early, but instead of enjoying a comfortable life, he struggled to find a new purpose. Job opportunities were scarce, and he soon realized a harsh reality—without further education, securing a stable future was nearly impossible.
This realization reshaped his perspective. He ca to see education not just as a personal advantage but as a fundantal necessity for everyone, especially in Britain. Higher education should be accessible to all. Richard Maddox – Forr Footballer, Oxford Donor 1987...]
The fact that Richard grew rich from betting is no secret, and in the UK, as long as you follow the rules, the money is legitimate. However, rather than indulging in luxury, he chose to channel his wealth into education, ensuring that others wouldn't face the sa barriers he had encountered.
What began as a personal challenge soon evolved into a greater cause. His struggles and unwavering dedication earned deep admiration from staff, lecturers, and even Oxford's higher-ups.
With this, Richard believed that even if the scandal broke, his na would remain safe. Yes, there might be a few nuisances along the way, but he was confident he could still protect his reputation.
So, in front of Harry's confused and doubtful gaze, he saw Richard smiling amicably as he firmly shook hands with the Dean, the Chancellor, and a few other senior figures from the university.
Not only that.
The cara flashes followed. A photographer captured the mont as a large ceremonial check was presented, bearing the bold inscription:
"Richard Maddox donates £100,000 to Oxford University."
Beneath it, a statent read:
"For the next five years, Richard Maddox pledges to donate £100,000 annually in continued support of academic excellence and opportunity."
For him, this wasn't just a simple handshake; it was a silent agreent, a transaction wrapped in prestige. 'I give you money, and you take care of my brother until he graduates. Deal?'
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