It was mid-morning on a Tuesday.
Alex Ferguson had just finished his usual routine — an hour in the gym, followed by a quick nine holes at his local golf club. He felt good. The weather was decent for Manchester, the swing had behaved, and his mind was already drifting back to training in the afternoon.
He reached into his pocket for his phone, then rembered — he’d left it on the kitchen counter. Typical. Not that he cared much; he wasn’t one for gadgets. If sothing was truly urgent, the club would find him.
After finishing his round of golf, Ferguson imdiately headed for his car.
"At ho, please," he said to his driver as he climbed inside.
The driver nodded, pulling smoothly out of the club gates. The familiar hum of the engine filled the quiet. Ferguson leaned back, eyes half-closed. For all the chaos that ca with managing Manchester United, at this point, these quiet rides ho were his favorite part of the day.
However, he didn’t yet know that by the ti he reached his front door, his quiet morning would be over — and the day would take a turn he never saw coming.
At Maine Road, everything was running as usual. The first team was training, Richard had the morning off, and later he was scheduled to watch Manchester City’s under-17s. That was the agenda for the day — simple, predictable.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
Richard looked up at the sound of hurried knocking on his office door.
"Co in," he said imdiately.
The door opened and in ca Miss Heysen, Manchester City’s CEO. She looked tense, a folded newspaper clutched tightly in her hand. Without a word, she hurried to his desk, shuffled through the Sunday papers, and laid one on top.
It was the Sunday Telegraph.
Across the front page, the headline scread about a change in ownership — Manchester United.
The headline read: "Murdoch to buy Man United: £575m deal gives him TV soccer stranglehold."
Rupert Murdoch — the Australian dia magnate and majority shareholder of BSkyB — was no stranger to controversy or ambition. In Britain, his na was already synonymous with power. He owned The Sun and The Tis, two pillars of the country’s press empire.
Since acquiring The Sun in 1969, Murdoch had turned it into Britain’s best-selling daily — a tabloid packed with sensational headlines, celebrity gossip, and, above all, football. His papers didn’t just report the ga; they helped shape how the nation talked about it.
He then radically changed English football, securing a £304m five-year deal to make Sky the Premier League’s first television partner in 1992. By the sumr of 1998, however, he had decided he was no longer content with being a TV player: he wanted to be an owner. And he wanted to own the biggest club in the country.
"Finally..." Richard’s expression turned serious as he read the headline.
Murdoch had finally made his move.
It was a jaw-dropping story. United would likely have beco the world’s first true football dia empire. Every match, training session, and press conference could have been monetized through Murdoch’s BSkyB network. Pay-per-view, exclusive content, and branded series (like "Inside United") might have launched years before streaming beca common.
"I think we need to be prepared, right?" Miss Heysen said anxiously.
Even she could see what might happen if the news turned out to be true.
Owning both BSkyB and Manchester United would give Murdoch unprecedented power — control of the country’s biggest club and the main television network broadcasting the Premier League. Naturally, accusations of bias and manipulation would follow. Rival clubs wouldn’t stand still. The FA and Premier League could fracture under the pressure, with teams like Manchester City, Arsenal, Liverpool, and Chelsea pushing for their own TV deals — or even forming a breakaway competition.
"Don’t worry about that," Richard said, dismissing Miss Heysen’s concern with a wave of his hand.
Originally, the debate had been confined to Manchester United’s boardroom — whispers and speculation behind closed doors. But now, the Sunday Telegraph had dropped the bomb for everyone to see.
"The governnt will have to approve the deal," Richard said calmly. Then he leaned forward, a faint smile crossing his face. "And you’ve forgotten one more person who needs to agree."
Miss Heysen frowned. "Who?"
"Alex Ferguson."
Miss Heysen looked puzzled. "Why? He’s just the manager, isn’t he? Why would he have a say in a boardroom matter?"
"’Just the manager?’ Richard thought to himself with a faint smile, shaking his head. "Let’s call René then, just to be sure. As Ferguson’s right-hand man, he probably knows a thing or two."
René ulensteen — once part of City’s setup before crossing over to United.
When the phone was picked up, Richard spoke first.
"René, it’s Richard."
"Richard," ca the Dutchman’s familiar voice. "What’s going on?"
"You’ve seen the papers? Murdoch’s na is everywhere this morning. I guess it’s not only your boardroom that’s in chaos — ours is too."
There was a brief silence on the line. In the end, ulensteen sighed.
It started with Martin Edwards, Manchester United’s chairman, and Maurice Watkins, the club’s lawyer. Along with them was Alex Ferguson, who had just finished a match against Tottenham. They turned up for what they believed would be a routine business eting at a drab industrial park near London’s Heathrow Airport.
Ferguson’s presence there was purely coincidental, yet it allowed him to overhear what would soon beco one of the most explosive conversations in English football.
On the other side of the table sat Mark Booth, the Arican chief executive of Rupert Murdoch’s BSkyB satellite network. He had told Edwards the eting was about pay-per-view television — a potential money-spinner for both parties.
But when Edwards arrived, Booth dropped a bombshell. Murdoch didn’t just want to broadcast football — he wanted to own it. He wanted to buy Manchester United.
That eting, and Murdoch’s controversial offer, set off an earthquake whose reverberations would be felt for years. The tycoon’s bid raised serious questions about the future of the world’s biggest football club, television’s growing stranglehold over sport, and, most controversially, Murdoch’s close relationship with Pri Minister Tony Blair.
When Martin Edwards left the eting, he couldn’t have anticipated the storm that was coming. He was shocked, though not entirely surprised, by the offer. Others had shown interest in buying United before, and he had always said he would sell for the right price.
But when news of the deal leaked, now...
Well, the reaction was imdiate — and furious.
The tycoon’s bid called into question the future of the world’s biggest football club, television’s growing stranglehold over sport, and, most crucially, Murdoch’s unusually close relationship with the Pri Minister, Tony Blair.
Even though all of United’s directors would eventually signal their acceptance of the offer, the reaction beyond the boardroom was anything but calm. The fans were furious. Within days, a new pressure group erged — Shareholders United Against Murdoch (SUAM) — led by BBC Newsnight journalist Michael Crick.
Fans staged demonstrations outside Old Trafford, waving banners that read "United, Not for Sale" and "Football Belongs to the Fans." What had begun as a private business negotiation now dominated every sports page and political talk show in the country.
"Then I guess you’ll be very busy over the next week, huh?"
Richard smiled faintly. He expected Alex Ferguson would be spending more ti in the boardroom than on the training ground. As for the first team, assistant coaches Steve McClaren and Brian Kidd would likely take charge of the sessions in his absence.
After hanging up the phone with René ulensteen, Miss Heysen bid farewell, and Richard stepped out of his office, heading straight for the training ground.
Tomorrow, Manchester City’s under-17s were set to face Middlesbrough’s under-18s.
Richard arrived at the pitch still dressed in his training gear. Out on the grass, Steve Walford was already directing the players, barking orders and adjusting positions. Richard stood by the touchline, hands in his pockets, observing quietly.
Beside Walford, stood a slender young man — strikingly handso, no, very handso — with calm eyes full of curiosity as he watched the academy players train.
While most of the City staff were busy with paperwork and office duties, Marina Granovskaia, the club’s Director of Football, had a different task. Her current responsibility was to oversee all of Manchester City’s transfer dealings, including the global search for young talents.
In her scouting departnt, there were currently three scouts, but since the position of Head Scout was still vacant, Marina herself had taken on that role for the ti being.
Richard had already given her a list of players he believed would develop rapidly over the next five years, and it was Marina’s job to monitor their situations and bring them to Manchester.
The boy standing beside Walford was one of the top priorities on that list — Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite, better known as Kaká.
Richard imdiately approached them.
When Kaká sensed soone coming closer, he instinctively turned his head. But the mont he saw it was Richard, he grew tense almost instantly.
Originally, Kaká had no intention of coming to England. No matter how much City offered him or his family, he preferred to stay in São Paulo, honing his skills there. His family was financially secure, allowing him to focus on both school and football without pressure.
However, last year he suffered a career-threatening spinal fracture in a swimming pool accident. While his family was already arranging treatnt for him, Marina appeared — whispering like the devil’s advocate.
She told them that hospitals in England were far better than those in Brazil, and that Manchester City would cover all his dical expenses — on one condition: Kaká had to join City’s academy.
The transfer system in South Arica was very different from Europe’s.
Brazilian football operated under what was known as the passe system. Under this system, a player’s registration rights were controlled entirely by the club, not by the player. Even if a player’s contract expired, the club still owned his passe (transfer rights) — aning the player could not move to another team freely. The new club had to pay a transfer fee to the old one, even after the player’s contract had already ended.
It was sowhat similar to the situation in Europe before the Bosman Ruling.
Now, earlier this year, Brazil passed the Lei Pelé (Pelé Law) — nad after football legend Pelé, who was then Brazil’s Minister of Sports. The law was inspired by broader reforms toward professionalization, transparency, and player rights, much like the Bosman Ruling in Europe.
Previously, to move to a new club, European teams had to pay large fees to Brazilian clubs even for out-of-contract players. But now, after the Pelé Law, they could sign Brazilian players for free once their contracts ended.
This change helped more Brazilian players move abroad, turning South Arica into an even bigger talent pipeline for European clubs.
With contracts becoming more player-friendly, more Brazilian players began joining European leagues at younger ages. Many top clubs started investing heavily in Brazilian talent, leading to a surge of Brazilian exports to Europe — and Richard’s Manchester City was certainly one of the pioneers in this movent.
In Kaká’s case, São Paulo FC still held his youth registration, so City couldn’t simply sign him freely. They would need to negotiate a deal and likely pay compensation to São Paulo for his developnt rights.
Even after the Pelé Law, Brazilian clubs were still entitled to training compensation if a youth player moved abroad. Of course, City managed to secure a first-option agreent on Kaká, especially since his recent injury had cast doubts over his future — at least in the eyes of São Paulo’s higher-ups.
Still, it was uncertain whether he would ever beco the talented young star everyone hoped he could be.
Basically, City agreed to pay São Paulo a compensation fee for Kaká’s youth registration — even though he had suffered a serious injury that could potentially affect his future. In truth, it was a win–win situation for both sides.
Of course, not everyone at the club saw it that way. So board mbers and senior staff opposed the move, questioning the logic of investing in an injured teenager. But in the end, their objections carried little weight. Once the main boardroom had voted in favor — led by Richard’s decisive backing — the deal was sealed.
And now, sixteen-year-old Kaká was fully recovered.
From what Richard heard, the boy’s life currently revolved around three sacred pillars: football, school, and church.
He had truly reford — the kind of teenager who said "God bless you" after nutgging soone. Apparently, Kaká often said his recovery was a miracle, and that when he started earning money, he would tithe part of it to his church.
Richard smiled when he heard that. He admired the mindset — ’believing in sothing bigger than yourself keeps you grounded,’ he thought. Especially in football, where most kids only believe in their minutes to play and their own money.
"So, how is it? Do you want to play?" Richard asked with a smile as he looked at Kaká, who had just returned from his injury.
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