Arthur leaned back in his chair, satisfied, a rare smile tugging at his lips as Ron nodded solemnly to show he'd taken everything down. That look of acknowledgnt from his trusted scout was all Arthur needed. Pogba plus Raiola, and then those two brothers, Borg VII and Borg VI—it was like assembling a squad blessed with divine buffs, a package deal dripping with potential. Juventus had sohow managed to turn Pogba into a hundred-million-euro windfall in just four years. Arthur didn't even need that kind of astronomical return. He wasn't greedy.
His plan was simpler, sharper. Let Tuchel do the groundwork with Pogba for now. Let the boy train and learn quietly. But when Pogba hit sixteen, Arthur knew he'd move him up to the first team imdiately. He wanted to be the one to guide him personally, to shape him with his own hands. With Arthur's "Master Coach" influence, he had no doubt Pogba would light up the radar of Europe's giants within two to three years. And when that happened, whoever ended up being the poor victim on the other end of the transfer war… well, that wasn't Arthur's problem. That was their headache, not his.
For the mont, though, Arthur was just happy Pogba had shown up today. That alone was enough to keep his mood buoyant.
But then Rivaldo, always the one digging deeper, shuffled through a thick stack of scouting reports and suddenly froze on one. He pulled a sheet out, his eyes twinkling, and slid it across the table toward Arthur.
"Boss," Rivaldo said, leaning forward like a man with a juicy secret, "take a look at this one. I think the data checks out in all the right ways."
Arthur took the report, scanning the page lazily at first—then stopped dead. His eyes widened, and in an instant, amusent surged through him.
Oh, this was rich. This was Mario Balotelli.
Arthur almost burst out laughing right there. The kid was supposed to have ended up wandering off to Turkey by the ti Arthur had been reborn. But here he was, young, raw, with a silly grin frozen in the picture on the report. That goofy, almost innocent smile practically scread trouble. And without even trying, Arthur's brain summoned those immortal words: "Why Always ?"
He couldn't resist. Arthur glanced at Ron, then slid the report into his hands with a grin. "Ron, mate… you've really done it today. You've brought another troublemaker."
Ron took one look at the picture, his face instantly contorting into a grimace. He shook his head slowly, the kind of smile that wasn't a smile forming on his lips.
"Boss," Ron sighed, "this kid is even worse than Pogba, the one we were just talking about. I went back and forth in my head before finally deciding to include him in this report. But honestly? He's more of a handful than Pogba ever was."
Arthur blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected Ron to speak about Balotelli with such… weary familiarity. He leaned forward imdiately, curiosity spiking. "Oh? Co on then, tell more. Don't hold back."
Ron paused, scratching his head, his expression sowhere between disbelief and exasperation. "How do I even put this…" he muttered. "When I spoke with Pogba, sure, the boy was cocky and mouthy, but at least we could talk normally. But Balotelli? Talking to him was… ah, honestly, it was like being in another universe!"
"No, no," Arthur interrupted, raising his hand. "That's not enough. Brother, you need to spell it out. What do you an, another universe?"
Sione, who had been quietly sipping his coffee until now, perked up imdiately. His eyes glead with the hunger of a man who lived for gossip. "Yes, yes, co on, mate. Don't tease us. Give us the good stuff. What happened?"
Ron sighed like a man reliving trauma, then gestured animatedly as he explained. "Alright. For example—when I asked him if he'd had lunch yet, he looked dead in the eye and told he'd slept well last night. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
For a split second, there was silence. Then—
Pfft!
Arthur choked, trying not to laugh, but failed miserably. Rivaldo slapped the table, bursting out in guffaws. Even Sione, wide-eyed, froze in disbelief before slowly shaking his head.
"You've got to be kidding ," Sione muttered. "No way. That can't be real."
Ron threw his arms out. "I swear on my life, it's true! The kid just… doesn't connect dots like the rest of us. It's like the words go in, swirl around, and then co out in so completely different form."
Arthur couldn't contain himself anymore. He leaned back, laughing so hard his stomach hurt. Rivaldo was practically wiping tears from his eyes. The sheer absurdity of it was too much.
But Sione still looked skeptical. He leaned forward, frowning. "No. I don't buy it. If the boy was that off, there's no way he'd be putting up the numbers you've got listed in this report. It doesn't add up."
Ron shook his head gravely, as if preparing to deliver a final judgnt. "Let put it to you this way." He paused dramatically, then pointed at the report. "From the neck down, the kid is world-class."
That did it.
"Hahahahahahaha!"
Arthur doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly toppled out of his chair. Rivaldo had both hands on his face, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Even Sione, who'd tried to keep his composure, cracked and burst out laughing, though he shook his head all the while.
"From the neck down, he's world-class," Arthur repeated, gasping between fits of laughter. "Ron, you've outdone yourself this ti. That's perfect!"
It was too good. And what made it even funnier was that Arthur knew Ron was right. He rembered it himself: Balotelli was exactly that. A world-class body attached to… well, sothing else entirely. And Ron had sumd it up with brutal precision.
Arthur sat back, wiping at his eyes, the laughter leaving him breathless but oddly satisfied. It had been more than three years since he'd co to England, and little by little, so of his old mories of football had started to blur at the edges. But monts like this, hearing Balotelli described so accurately, brought it all rushing back with razor-sharp clarity.
******
Arthur could say, without hesitation, that there was one player in world football whose stories he could never forget—Mario Balotelli. No matter how much ti passed, those tales stuck in his head like permanent tattoos. And among all of them, one in particular stood out above the rest.
It was the Champions League, 2009–2010 season. Inter Milan away to Rubin Kazan. Mourinho was in charge of Inter back then, and the squad was dealing with an injury crisis. Every forward worth the na was sidelined, which ant there was only one fit striker left in the entire team: Balotelli.
Of course.
And as fate would have it, right at the end of the first half, Balotelli picked up a yellow card. A stupid, needless yellow card. Mourinho, who probably had more gray hairs than years on his head thanks to Mario, looked like he was about to combust.
So when halfti ca, the Special One made it his mission to use every second of that precious fifteen-minute break to drill sense into Balotelli's head. Fourteen minutes, to be precise, were dedicated to one single ssage.
"Mario," Mourinho said in the locker room, his voice sharp, his eyes boring into the young forward. "Listen carefully. I can't sub you off. I've got no other strikers. So you must not, under any circumstances, do anything stupid. No heavy tackles. No shoving. No reactions. If you lose the ball, let it go. If soone insults you, ignore it. If the referee gets it wrong, don't even flinch. Just play. That's it. Understand?"
Balotelli, sitting there with his usual blank-yet-innocent expression, nodded obediently. "Yes, Mister. Don't worry."
Mourinho repeated it again. And again. And again. Fourteen straight minutes of warnings, pleas, and desperate commands. By the end of it, Mario was still nodding like the picture of compliance.
Then, one minute into the second half—sixty seconds—Balotelli went in, got his second yellow, and was sent off.
Arthur could practically hear Mourinho's groan even years later. Later, in interviews, the Portuguese admitted that although he laughed about it eventually, in the mont when he saw Balotelli marching off the pitch, he'd genuinely felt like the sky had fallen on his head.
Arthur burst into laughter just recalling it. And he couldn't even bla Mourinho. Because since he'd taken over from Blackwell at Leeds United, Arthur had never once given a speech that desperate, that heartfelt, to any player. Not one. Back then, when he'd first read about the story in the papers, he'd laughed. Now? After managing long enough himself, he understood exactly what Mourinho must have felt.
And Balotelli wasn't just chaos on the pitch. No, off it, he was equally capable of driving people insane. Fireworks in bathrooms. Random training ground disappearances. Dressing up in silly costus. It was like the boy had made it his life's mission to test the patience of every coach, teammate, and referee he ca across.
But still…
As Ron had said earlier, from the neck down, Balotelli was pure, undeniable talent. World-class.
Arthur, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, finally managed to steady his breathing. "Alright then. Enough jokes. What's your verdict, Ron?"
Ron didn't hesitate for even a heartbeat. "Buy him," he said firmly. "This is the best chance we'll ever get. And you, boss—you're the one who created this opportunity."
Arthur blinked, caught off guard. "I created it?" he asked, puzzled. He didn't imdiately see what Ron ant.
Ron could tell from Arthur's expression that he hadn't connected the dots. So he leaned forward, patient as ever, and explained slowly. "Boss, I've had my eye on Balotelli since last year. The talent's obvious, but back then the timing wasn't right. If we had tried to negotiate with Inter then, they would never have let him go. And if they had, it would've been for so ridiculous, sky-high fee."
Arthur nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. "But now?"
"Now it's different," Ron said, his tone steady, analytical. "After you signed Adriano, Balotelli should have gotten more minutes. But then you went and handed Džeko and Vardy over to Moratti. I've been watching Inter these past few weeks. Mancini clearly likes Balotelli. But when it cos to actually trusting him in big matches, he's leaning more toward the strikers with proven top-league experience. Džeko and Vardy have that edge. Balotelli doesn't."
Arthur leaned back, the picture becoming clearer in his head. Ron was right—he'd set this whole chain of events into motion without even realizing it. By strengthening Inter's options with forwards he'd shuffled around, he'd effectively pushed Balotelli further down the pecking order. A ticking ti bomb with less ga ti? That was a recipe for a transfer opening if Arthur had ever seen one.
And the best part? It wasn't going to cost the kind of fortune it might have a year earlier. Inter needed results now. Mancini was pragmatic. And a bench full of unpredictable Mario wasn't worth the risk to him.
Arthur rubbed his chin, a slow smile creeping onto his face. "So you're saying the timing's perfect. They'll actually sell him if we go in now."
"Exactly," Ron said, nodding firmly. "And if anyone can handle him, it's you, boss. Leeds under you isn't just about discipline. It's about building a family. If Balotelli's going to thrive anywhere, it's here."
Arthur chuckled. A family, was it? Bringing Mario into the fold would be like adopting a wild raccoon and expecting it not to ransack the kitchen. But still… the idea had its appeal. A world-class talent, raw and untad, waiting for soone brave—or mad—enough to give him a chance.
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Alright then. Let's see just how much trouble one Balotelli can really cause."
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