Ti had certainly marked the faces in those images. The players were growing, and the team was becoming stronger alongside them.
Yet as Marina laid out her reasoning, Richard’s expression darkened. Perhaps he had a gift for running the club from the footballing side—spotting raw talent, negotiating transfers, predicting which young player might one day rise to greatness.
But when it ca to the managent side of the business, to the art of turning victories into influence and building a lasting brand, he knew—if he was being honest with himself—that he needed soone else. Soone who could see beyond the pitch, soone who could handle what he could not.
Marina paused for a mont, her eyes flicking toward Karren before turning back to Richard. Her tone hardened into sothing serious.
"You know," she began slowly, "I’m not technically responsible for the club’s publicity. But this thought has been weighing on ever since I beca director here."
She stopped, letting the weight of her words linger in the room. Then, catching the encouraging nod from Karren Brady, she continued.
"Given our recruitnt policy and long-term building philosophy, since we can’t create a sensation in the transfer market, we need to be capable of promoting a world-class player on our own. You can’t deny that, can you?"
Without hesitation, Richard nodded in agreent. It wasn’t that City lacked the money—far from it. But the reason Richard had bought Manchester City in the first place was to align with his vision: to create talent and build a team through developnt, rather than relying solely on established superstars.
"So when it cos to publicity," Marina continued, her tone sharpening, "even though our philosophy has always been to avoid putting individuals above the team, even though we want to prevent players from becoming arrogant or overshadowing their teammates, reality doesn’t care about ideals. If we want to raise the club’s influence and reputation, we need to do sothing different. We need to choose one player each year—soone to put at the center of our story, the face of Manchester City."
Richard frowned, confused but intrigued. "One player a year? Can you elaborate on that?"
Marina patiently clarified, "Last season, when the team won the League Cup, who were the heroes?"
Richard answered without hesitation. "The entire team deserves credit. There’s no distinction between starters and substitutes. While contributions may vary, we needed everyone."
That answer made perfect sense—straight from the playbook he had often discussed with O’Neill, the manager. Both n believed in unity above all else. The ssage was clear: no one player stood taller than the rest; victories belonged to the collective. It was that philosophy that had carried City this far.
But Marina only smiled faintly, as if she had expected that very reply. To her, Richard’s words, though noble, also revealed the gap between football ideals and the modern reality of publicity.
Marina continued, "Then who was the standout player?"
"That would be the main squad," Richard replied. "They played more matches and had more key monts; naturally, they shone the brightest."
"So here’s where the issue arises," Marina pressed on. "In the public’s eyes, many fans admire Ronaldo, others look up to Larsson, while so favor Lennon, Zidane, Pirlo, Zanetti, Capdevila, and so on. There’s a prevailing notion that although Manchester City doesn’t have a single top-tier superstar, the collective strength of these first-team players makes us look like a top team."
"While that idea has its flaws, it’s not entirely wrong either," Karren Brady added, seizing the opportunity.
She imdiately stepped in to explain why she agreed with that opinion, her tone firm and persuasive as she turned toward Richard.
The Premier League spotlight was very different from Serie A or La Liga. British dia, often skeptical of foreign superstars, would highlight whether he "fit in" rather than just worship him. So while Ronaldo’s goals were undeniable, the narrative was: "He can’t do it alone—City’s midfield and defense are what make this work."
A flashy superstar could score goals, but without a strong supporting cast, English audiences tended to dismiss him as just a "luxury player."
"That’s why, if we want the club’s influence to reach new heights, we must have players with greater recognition. So I believe we should implent a ’one superstar a year’ strategy in our publicity!"
"One superstar a year?"
Richard looked up at the ceiling with a bewildered expression.
Marina had proposed one player a year, and now Karren was suggesting one superstar a year. The phrasing wasn’t all that different, but the definitions certainly were.
And then... this strategy tugged at sothing in Richard’s mory. The words one superstar a year felt oddly familiar.
’What is it?’ Richard wondered. ’Real Madrid? No... definitely not.’
He knew it wasn’t the sa as Real Madrid’s superstar policy.
Karren Brady detailed her proposal.
"The criteria for a superstar include not only team accolades but also top individual honors like the Ballon d’Or and the FIFA World Player of the Year. While these aren’t hard requirents, most players who win the Ballon d’Or or are nad World Player of the Year are universally recognized as superstars. Our players may not ultimately achieve those honors, but they should at least aim to rank highly in the voting; even finishing second or third is better than being left out entirely."
Richard nodded in agreent.
What, really, made a superstar?
It wasn’t just silverware or numbers in a record book. It was influence—the ability to transcend football itself.
George Best had been a superstar in every sense. His flair on the pitch and charisma off it turned him into more than a player; he beca a cultural phenonon, dictating not only matches but also fashion trends and lifestyles. Fans who had never even watched a ga still knew his na.
By contrast, countless "top players"—technically brilliant, reliable match-winners—never reached that sa level. Their talent stayed within stadium walls, their fa fading when the final whistle blew.
Of course, much like the word genius has been overused, the sa will eventually happen to superstar. Karren was right about the danger of the word itself.
In ti, superstar would be diluted the sa way genius had been, overused to the point of emptiness. With football’s comrcialization accelerating, anyone with a good season risked being slapped with the label.
But genuine superstars? Those were rare.
Over the next twenty years, David Beckham stands out as the clearest example of a true football superstar. He had talent, of course, but what truly made him a superstar was the reach of his na. Even outside football circles, he was instantly recognizable.
Ask a hundred random people who Beckham was, and most could answer. Ask the sa about Zidane or Figo—arguably more gifted players—and far fewer outside the football world would know. Beckham wasn’t just an athlete; he was a brand.
Richard leaned back, exhaling softly. "Your idea of publicity is complicated. So players don’t like the spotlight. They don’t enjoy showboating. They prefer their private lives to stay private. That limits their visibility."
"I know," Karren replied calmly, her eyes sharp. "I’m not suggesting we force anyone to change their nature. That would be counterproductive—and you’d never allow it anyway. What I’m saying is: each season, we identify one player and push him forward. We shape the narrative, guide the coverage, help him climb in personal accolades like the Ballon d’Or."
"..."
"Think back: last season, Manchester City was brilliant. But in terms of global recognition? Not a single player seriously entered the conversation. This year is different. We’ve reached the Champions League semi-finals. So tell —how many of our players do you believe could be nominated for the Ballon d’Or if we played this right?"
Her words landed with weight.
Richard didn’t respond imdiately. Instead, he found himself staring at the polished wooden table, his mind drifting. Marina had spoken earlier about "one player a year"—a steady approach, careful and understated. Now Karren was pushing for "one superstar a year." The phrasing was nearly identical, but the aning was worlds apart.
Marina’s version was about building identity, giving fans a na to rally around without destabilizing the dressing room. Karren’s was bolder, more dangerous—crafting icons who might eclipse the club itself, yet capable of dragging Manchester City into the global spotlight.
And then a flicker of recognition. The phrase stirred sothing in his mory.
’One superstar a year.’
It felt familiar.
’Real Madrid?’ Richard thought. ’No... not quite. This isn’t Galácticos. This is sothing else.’
"At least three, right?" Karren’s voice cut in, pulling him back from his thoughts.
She continued firmly, "Defensive players rarely get real recognition—if they’re nominated, it’s usually just for balance. When the votes are actually cast, almost nobody chooses them. Pirlo? Too young. The experts adore him, yes, but in the eyes of the broader voting pool, he’s invisible for now. Among Zidane, Larsson, Lennon, and Okocha—"
Richard let out a long sigh and shook his head. "Cross Okocha’s na."
To put an African player on the Ballon d’Or stage right now? In 1997? Impossible.
One of the most entertaining players currently probably like Ronaldo—but the system isn’t built for him. The dia hype, the voting blocks, the biases... they all lean toward Europe and South Arica. African players simply don’t have the global visibility or political backing in these awards."
"Well, I might be overly optimistic. Two realistic contenders would be a good outco: Ronaldo, Larsson, and Zidane," she concluded after hearing Richard’s reasoning.
Richard then asked, "Assuming Ronaldo, Larsson, and Zidane all get nominated, who do you think has the better chance of winning?"
Karren hesitated, clearly aware her answer might not please him.
"Ronaldo."
This ti, though, it was Marina Granovskaia who spoke up.
Richard imdiately countered, "But many voters admire Zidane—so will surely cast their votes for him."
Marina shook her head. "Maybe. But his numbers don’t compare to Ronaldo’s."
Richard leaned back, rubbing his forehead, as the implications sank in.
It reminded him of what would happen years later with Spain. The national team had dominated world football, winning three major tournants in four years, built on the brilliance of Barcelona’s system. Yet, not a single Spanish player ever lifted the Ballon d’Or.
How could that be?
Were the voters blind?
Not quite.
ssi, during those years, was simply unstoppable and had the loyalty of many voters. But even aside from ssi, there was another problem: Xavi and Iniesta. Both were brilliant, both were indispensable, and both split the admiration of critics and fans alike. Those who loved Xavi voted for him. Those who preferred Iniesta voted for him.
Neither gathered enough montum to win outright. And because their honors and contributions were inseparable—both for Barcelona and for Spain—neither could stand clearly above the other.
The result?
Spain, despite its golden age, never produced a Ballon d’Or winner.
Richard exhaled slowly. The lesson was obvious. If City produced too many stars at once, they might face the sa risk—brilliance that cancelled itself out in the eyes of voters.
He turned sharply toward both of them. "So how are we supposed to explain this to the players? What do you expect O’Neill to say—’Ronaldo was brilliant last season, he’s our Ballon d’Or candidate, and the rest of you just accept it like professionals’? Do you realize how that would sound in a dressing room full of egos?"
He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. The thought of singling out one player in front of the others felt like lighting a match in a room full of fireworks.
Everyone knew what happened when too many stars fought for the sa spotlight—internal rivalries, resentnt, fractured unity. And if City wasn’t careful, they’d end up promoting soone else’s interests instead of their own.
Marina leaned in slightly, her tone calm but firm. "Don’t burden yourself with that. The club will handle it. So efforts will be visible, others will be more... discreet. There’s no reason to complicate things for the players."
Richard narrowed his eyes. "Discreet?"
She smiled faintly, clearly enjoying the mont. "Publicity strategies. For example—we can selectively push Ronaldo’s narrative without ever announcing it to the squad. We’ll feed highlight reels to certain broadcasters, so his goals and assists get replayed endlessly. We’ll arrange exclusive interviews focusing on his influence in key matches. We can even commission articles from sympathetic journalists, praising his leadership, his vision, his status as the face of the ga."
She paused, watching Richard closely. "It doesn’t have to co directly from the club, and it certainly shouldn’t look like part of the club’s agenda. That’s exactly why we’re planning to launch the official website. Done right, it will feel natural, almost organic—yet it will still steer the conversation in Ronaldo’s favor. Besides, don’t you also have a friend who owns that MCFC Bluemoon website?"
Richard’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected that level of precision—or subtlety. He studied both of them for a mont. It seed they had already discussed this plan before coming here.
"So you’re the clever one behind all this," he said at last, half-amused, half-impressed.
Karren’s smile only widened. "You’re just figuring that out now?" she teased, winking at Marina.
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