The day before the match was not a normal day. Oakwell was under siege.
Satellite trucks with massive dishes parked awkwardly on the narrow streets, their thick cables snaking across the pavent.
Slick, sharp-suited national reporters, who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else, were doing live stand-ups from the car park.
The global dia machine had descended on their small, hopeful club, and it was loud, invasive, and utterly terrifying.
Michael sat in his office, watching the chaos unfold.
On the small TV in the corner, the 24-hour sports network was running a pre-match special.
The Manchester United manager, Rúben Amorim, a man who radiated effortless cool and continental success, was at his own press conference.
"...and of course, we have great respect for Barnsley," Amorim was saying, a faint, condescending smile on his face.
"This competition is important. But it is also a good chance for us to rest so of our key players and give minutes to the wider squad."
The ssage was clear, delivered with a polite, devastating dismissal:
You are not worth our ti. You are our B-team’s practice session.
Michael switched off the TV, his jaw tight.
An hour later, he and Arthur walked into Barnsley’s own press room.
The small, low-ceilinged room was packed so tightly that a fire marshal would have had a heart attack. It was hot, bright with cara flashes, and it slled of sweat and expensive aftershave.
The local reporters had been pushed to the back, replaced by the sharks from the national papers.
Michael and Arthur took their seats. The room was silent, but it was the silence of a lion’s den.
A journalist from a major London paper, a man with a smug, self-important air, fired the first shot, and he aid it directly at Arthur.
"Mr. Milton," he began, his voice practically dripping with sarcasm.
"A little over a week ago, your entire managerial record consisted of one ga in the third tier. Tomorrow, you will be in the opposite dugout to Rúben Amorim, a three-ti European champion. Be honest, Mr. Milton... don’t you feel just a little bit like a fraud?"
The room snickered. Michael felt a flash of white-hot anger, but Arthur... Arthur just smiled.
He leaned into the microphone, as calm as if he were ordering a coffee.
"A fraud?" he repeated, tapping his pen on his notepad. "It’s an interesting question. Does managing in a lower league make one a fraud? Does having a smaller budget? I have prepared my team for a football match. Mr. Amorim has prepared his. The past, the trophies, the reputations... they don’t play the ga. Eleven n play the ga. We will be bringing eleven n. I assu he will be doing the sa."
It was a brilliant, non-answer that gave the journalist nothing. The reporter, frustrated, slled blood in the water and turned to the easier target. His eyes, cold and assessing, locked onto Michael.
"Mr. Sterling, a question for you, then." His voice was loud, addressing the whole room. "You sold your club’s most productive player. You’ve signed a 17-year-old from the Brazilian third tier who, we hear, can’t even get a work permit. You’re relying on amateurs from five-a-side cages and academy rejects. Your own father’s club is a model of stability. Is this a football club you’re trying to build, or is it, as so of your critics have suggested, a ’circus’?"
The room was dead quiet. This was the kill shot. The "Kid Owner" was being called out.
Michael let the insult hang in the air for a second. He leaned forward, a cold, sharp focus in his eyes that made the journalist instinctively recoil.
"A circus?" Michael replied, his voice "ice cold" and clear, silencing every side conversation in the room. "You think this is a circus? The real circus, my friend, is paying one hundred million pounds for one player. The real circus is a wage bill that is larger than the entire GDP of a small country."
He looked around the room, his gaze landing on every single journalist.
"We’re not a circus. We’re a club that believes in a different way. We’re building a team, not just buying a collection of superstars."
He leaned in a fraction closer to the microphone, his voice dropping but losing none of its intensity.
"Manchester United has players worth hundreds of millions. They are full, they are comfortable, and they are rich."
He paused, letting the final, killer line land.
"My team is starving. Tomorrow, we’ll see which runs faster: money... or hunger."
Later that evening, the team gathered in the video analysis room for the final ti. The press conference, which had imdiately gone viral, had electrified the squad. Michael’s "money vs. hunger" line was already their new motto.
The fear was gone, replaced by a jittery, defiant energy. They were the underdogs, and they were ready for a fight.
"Right," Arthur said, standing in front of the screen. "Tomorrow. The Theatre of Dreams. The entire world is watching. They are expecting us to lie down and be crushed. We are going to disappoint them."
He clicked a button, and the starting lineup for the match at Old Trafford appeared on the screen.
LW: Jamie Weston [PA 89]
RW: Finn Riley [PA 90]
ST: Danny Fletcher [PA 91]
A jolt of pure, rocket-fuel excitent shot through the room.
His three future superstars, all with potentials over 89, were being unleashed together for the first ti, on the biggest stage imaginable. It was a statent of pure, glorious, attacking intent.
The players were buzzing, clapping each other on the back, the energy in the room so thick you could taste it.
Then, Arthur clicked to the next slide. The substitutes’ bench.
SUB: Raphael Santos [CA 48 / PA 93]
The na hung on the screen. The buzzing stopped. The room was plunged back into a stunned, confused silence.
Michael himself did a double-take. He stared at the screen, his brain trying to make sense of it.
Raphael Santos had arrived from Brazil two days ago. He was seventeen, spoke no English, and looked like he weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. He was a kid, a ghost, a rumor. He was, by a huge margin, the single worst player on their professional books.
And Arthur had just nad him to the squad to face Manchester United.
Michael looked around.
The players were utterly baffled.
Dave Bishop looked at his new manager as if he had just sprouted a second head. Jamie and Finn, who had been so excited a mont before, now looked completely bewildered.
"Gaffer..." one of the senior players whispered, his voice full of disbelief. "Is... is he insane?"
Reviews
All reviews (0)