Director Elineau asked Richard to wait in the eting room while he cleaned up the ss or, at the very least, figured out what had happened.
He had always been very close to Zidane. When he first arrived in Cannes, he rembered that Zidane was originally supposed to stay for only six weeks. Instead, he ended up staying for four years.
Zidane was incredibly talented—truly one of a kind. Elineau was thrilled to have found such a gem, but soon, problems arose with the arrival of the young Zidane.
Just a week after joining the youth team, he was assigned cleaning duties as punishnt for punching an opponent who had mocked his ghetto origins.
Elineau was at a loss. The occasional violence Zidane displayed was actually shaped by an internal conflict of being an Algerian-Frenchman suspended between cultures and surviving the tough streets of La Castellane, where he grew up.
It was around this ti that Elineau realized just how raw and sensitive Zidane truly was. He was quick to anger when insulted about his race or family, and his emotional state was unstable.
Yet, Elineau was understanding of his struggles.
The dormitory Zidane shared with 20 other trainees beca a source of tension. With no other option, Elineau invited Zidane to leave the dorm and stay with him and his family.
It was only then that Zidane began channeling his anger into his ga, becoming best of the best player in AS Cannes. In fact, they had already planned his debut this year, but Richard's arrival had thrown all their plans into disarray.
If Richard wanted him.. could they keep him?
But soon, Director Elineau realized he had overestimated the situation. Richard hadn't co as a representative of the city or anything. He was here for himself, as a football agent.
"Un agent ?" Zidane asked curiously.
Coach Jean Varraud replied, "Oui, un agent de football. Il représente les joueurs, négocie leurs contrats, et les aide à gérer leur carrière. C'est quelqu'un qui a des connexions dans le monde du football et qui peut ouvrir des portes."
("Yes, a football agent. He represents players, negotiates their contracts, and helps manage their careers. He's soone with connections in the football world who can open doors for you.")
Zidane seed a bit skeptical. "Et pourquoi voudrait-il travailler avec moi ? Je ne suis qu'un joueur parmi d'autres." ("And why would he want to work with ? I'm just another player.")
"Parce que tu as un talent exceptionnel. Les gens com lui cherchent des joueurs com toi, des joueurs qui ont le potentiel de faire une grande carrière." ("Because you have exceptional talent. People like him look for players like you, players with the potential to have a great career.")
Fifteen minutes passed, and Richard was waiting in the eting room. There was a TV there, so he was happily watching it. After switching channels, he found one broadcasting in English.
[...Economy experts warn that a recession could soon be on the horizon. This is predicted to lead to a prolonged economic downturn, with impacts that may be felt for months or even years...]
"Oh, is it about to begin?" Richard nodded thoughtfully, but before he could say more, the protagonist for today had already arrived.
Here he is: Zinedine Zidane.
Richard extended his hand to him. "Hi, Zidane. I'm Richard Maddox. I've heard about you and your impressive performances."
This ti, Elineau and Varraud helped as their translators.
Zidane, still a bit hesitant, shook Richard's hand. "Thank you, but I'm not sure what you expect from ."
"No worries," Richard replied calmly. "I'm offering my services because I've seen your potential. Here's what I do and how you can benefit from accepting my offer."
Richard explained the benefits of accepting his offer as an agent. After that, Richard also showed him all the players that were currently under his representation.
"The youngest player to score a hat-trick in the English first division, Alan Shearer, is happy with my services. He even scored 9 goals this season, and I managed to secure his first-ever professional contract. There's also Matt Le Tissier, Teddy Sheringham, Tony Cascarino..."
Richard proudly shared his impressive roster, showing Zidane the value he could bring to his career.
Zidane looked at Elineau and Varraud, seeking answers. "Et qu'en pensez-vous, monsieur ? Est-ce une bonne idée ?" ("And what do you think, Sir? Is this a good idea?")
Both nodded.
"Oui, je pense qu'il peut t'aider à avancer." ("Yes, I think he can help you move forward.)
"Mais c'est à toi de décider." ("But it's up to you to decide.")
Hmm, to be honest, he was interested, but Zidane was still hesitant. Wouldn't that an leaving Cannes? Was he ready for that?
After hearing the reason, Richard laughed and reassured him. "No worries, no worries. I'm not going to force you to switch clubs. Now, listen to ." He then turned serious.
"If you've heard about what an agent does, forget all that the mont you work with . I'm not like them. I won't force you into anything you don't want to do—in fact, I'll be here to help you. So don't worry. If you ever have ideas or sothing to say about your club, your manager, or even the dia, I'll be your first shield. You just focus on football."
Hearing this for the first ti, Zidane was surprised. To be honest, the man in front of him wasn't the first to offer his services, but Sir Elineau, who was always by his side, had always helped filter these people for him.
When he heard that Richard wanted to et him, he genuinely thought it would be the sa as before—the offer, the small talk, and then everything fading away. But for the first ti, he saw his coach and director truly leaving the decision entirely up to him.
'To accept it or not?'
If what he said was true, then everything was perfect. But you can't just trust words alone, can you?
As he realized sothing, Richard quickly pulled out the contract he had brought with him.
"Here is the contract. Take your ti to review it," Richard said. "Coach Varraud, Director Elineau, you can help Zinedine go through the details of my offer. I'll give you so ti, or..."
Richard glanced at his watch before continuing, "Let's do this instead—I'll co back in a week. By then, I hope you'll have an answer."
Coach Varraud and Director Elineau's impression of Richard beca more positive upon hearing this. He was truly just as the rumors said—one of a kind. His approach was entirely different.
Director Elineau rose from his chair and offered his handshake. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Maddox. Truly appreciate it."
"Mr. Maddox, thank you very much."
"You're welco, sir."
After shaking hands with the three of them, Richard hurriedly stepped outside, heading back to the pink concrete bench where he had been before.
There they were—the kids were still playing football. Richard sighed in relief, seeing them still enjoying the ga.
Richard rubbed his chin, thinking for a mont. To make a good impression on the kids, it was best not to show up empty-handed, right?
With that in mind, he headed to a nearby store and stocked up on chocolate spread baguettes and ice cream.
The kids were still playing football. So were running around, kicking the ball, while others sat on the sidelines, waiting for their turn.
Then, out of nowhere, they spotted a man struggling down the street, his arms overflowing with baguettes and ice cream—like he was carrying half a bakery and an ice cream cart all by himself.
The way he wobbled, looking like he might drop everything at any second, caught the attention of a few kind-hearted, innocent kids.
"Hey, regardez ce type." ("Hey, look at that guy,") one of them muttered.
"On dirait qu'il va tout faire tomber !" ("He looks like he's about to drop everything!") another whispered.
"Quel gâchis. Aidons-le—peut-être qu'on pourra en avoir une part !" ("Such a waste. Let's help him—maybe we can get a share!") one of them suggested.
Everyone's eyes lit up upon hearing this. Being good kids, and perhaps a little curious, a few of them ran up to help him. Richard happily followed along with them before placing everything he was carrying onto the concrete bench.
But just as they were about to leave, Richard grinned and said, "Hey, where are you going? Do you really think I'm going to eat all this by myself?"
The kids froze.
"Pour… quoi ?" ("For... what?") one of them asked, eyes wide.
Richard pointed at the food, then at them—the ssage was clear.
Everyone understood, but they all hesitated. Only one little boy, probably seven or eight, could no longer resist. He had already licked his lips and reached out for an ice cream—until his older brother yanked him back by the collar.
Richard chuckled, waved his hand reassuringly, and handed the ice cream to the little boy, making him light up with pure joy, as if he had just been sent to the moon.
After that, Richard pointed at each kids, signaling them to take the food in front of them. Only then did the bolder ones gather the courage to take sothing.
Food or football?
Food, of course! In this heat, nothing beats enjoying sothing refreshing after a ga.
Before long, the pitch was empty, and all the kids had gathered in a circle on the legendary pink concrete bench.
Soon, Richard casually approached the kid wearing an AC Milan shirt and pretended to recognize him. "Ah, you're the kid from before!" he said playfully.
"Oh, vous êtes cet oncle!" Vieira also said. ("Oh, you're that uncle!")
Richard felt completely helpless. He had been trying to communicate with the locals, but his French was limited, and the language barrier was becoming frustrating. After returning, he promised himself that he would hire a team of translators—just in case.
"Hey, anyone speak English here?" he called out, waving his hand slightly as he looked around. "Three hundred Franc if you can help translate what I need to say."
A few people glanced over but quickly turned their attention elsewhere, either uninterested or too busy to help. Richard sighed. Just then, from the corner of his eye, he spotted a young woman walking along the street.
She was dressed casually, holding a small book in her hand. She looked hesitant, as if unsure whether to approach or not. But after a mont, she stepped forward, her eyes eting Richard's.
She panicked instantly, lowering her head and tugging at the brim of her round hat, which could cover almost her whole face. She then adjusted her black glasses as they slid down her nose. She seed to want to disappear.
"You—" Richard began, but then stopped himself, thinking she seed familiar. However, the young woman quickly cut him off.
"I... I can help," she said quickly.
"O-oh, okay?"
Richard replied, relieved to finally have a translator. His suspicions faded for the mont. Patrick was more important now. "Great! I need you to translate sothing important for ."
He handed her his business card and explained his situation. The young woman took the card and began translating it carefully.
What Richard had said essentially was: "This is my business card. If you or your family ever need anything—whether it's money, career advice, education, or anything at all—don't hesitate to contact . Just use fax, postal mail, or telex."
Patrick's eyes widened as he listened, but Richard wasn't finished. He then asked Patrick to take him to his ho to et his family, promising financial support.
Of course, Patrick had his suspicions, but in the end, the lure of money was too strong. He agreed to take Richard to his ho—but only outside, which Richard readily accepted.
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