Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

When the referee blew the final whistle, the roar inside the Olympic Stadium was deafening. The scoreboard stayed frozen: AC Milan 2–0 Manchester United. There would be no late twist, no miracle repeat of Liverpool's Istanbul comeback two years ago. Inzaghi's two goals had done the damage, and the red half of Manchester could only bow their heads in defeat.

Milan's players leapt into each other's arms, Ancelotti punched the air, and the famous "Big Ear Cup" was theirs once again. For them, it was redemption, reclaiming what had slipped through their fingers before.

In the luxury box, Florentino Perez's wrinkled hands clapped almost involuntarily. His voice cracked with emotion. "Great! Absolutely great!" He stared at the Rossoneri marching proudly toward the podium, eyes shining with a mixture of admiration and longing.

Arthur glanced sideways at him, smirking. He could tell Perez's thoughts were drifting back to Madrid. Though the old man no longer held the presidency, his heart was still tethered to the Bernabéu. "Five years without a Champions League," Arthur thought to himself. "That's an eternity for Real Madrid."

Perez himself looked wistful, almost wounded. Real had been humbled by Bayern Munich months earlier, out in the round of sixteen. And the memory clearly still burned him. Arthur remembered hearing how Perez, unable to contain his fury, had phoned Calderón afterwards just to unload his anger. Even out of office, the man couldn't help but meddle.

Arthur, however, had no intention of indulging the sentimental sighs of the Madrid magnate. Instead, his eyes dropped to the pitch below, to one figure standing apart from the celebrations. Sir Alex Ferguson.

The old Scot remained by the touchline, medal already draped around his neck but his feet rooted to the grass. It was as though he wanted to soak in every detail of this painful night, branding the disappointment into his memory.

Arthur noticed the red rose pinned neatly on Ferguson's chest — the same symbolic flower he'd worn in the FA Cup match a few days earlier. Judging by its freshness, it wasn't the exact same rose, but the gesture was identical. His gum-chewing jaw worked endlessly, a restless rhythm of frustration. Every so often, Ferguson's eyes flicked up toward the podium where AC Milan's men were preparing to lift the trophy. His expression carried a loneliness that weighed heavier than the silver medal around his neck.

Arthur's chest tightened with a strange sympathy. This was a man who had spent the season chasing glory on three fronts. Three titles had been within his grasp — the treble was alive. And now, in the cruelest way possible, all three had slipped through his fingers. What remained was nothing but the bitter nickname the press would throw at him: "the runner-up king."

On the stage, Ancelotti's grin stretched wide as he clutched the Champions League trophy. The fireworks exploded, the fans screamed, and the cameras zoomed in on Milan's conquering heroes. Ferguson watched with a stoic face, but in his weary eyes, something flickered.

Arthur noticed it. A strange illusion seemed to cross Ferguson's vision. For just a fleeting moment, Ancelotti's face blurred, the lines smoothing, the features reshaping. And what appeared in that instant — at least in Ferguson's mind — was not Carlo Ancelotti, but Arthur himself. The very same young manager who had been a thorn in Ferguson's side, equal parts infuriating and strangely invigorating.

Ferguson gave a short, self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head as though mocking his own imagination. "I've gone mad," he probably told himself.

But Arthur knew he hadn't. Since stepping into English football, he'd shaken up everything. Just last year, his Leeds side had knocked Liverpool out of the Champions League. This year, they had wrestled the league title straight from Ferguson's grasp. He'd forced the old master into battles he thought he was too old to fight.

Before Arthur's arrival, Ferguson had begun to feel his fire waning. Decades of trophies had dulled the hunger. He'd told himself it was nearly time to step back, to retreat gracefully into retirement. But fate had other plans.

First came Mourinho with his bluster, his arrogance, and his unrelenting success. Then came Arthur, younger, sharper, unpredictable. The Premier League had turned into a battlefield again, and Ferguson was no longer allowed the luxury of fading quietly. Every day felt like another war.

Arthur, watching from the luxury box, could sense the weight pressing on the man below. Ferguson's back seemed slightly bent, not with age but with the heaviness of defeat. Yet then, as though catching himself, the Scot straightened. His head lifted, his posture firmed.

Almost instinctively, Ferguson's gaze rose upward — to the very top of the stadium, to the gleaming windows of the executive boxes. And there, leaning casually against the railing, was Arthur. Their eyes met across the gulf of distance and noise.

Arthur wasn't mocking him. Far from it. He offered Ferguson a gentle smile, soft and respectful, and lifted his hands in slow, deliberate applause.

Even from such a distance, Ferguson understood. Arthur was not jeering at his failure; he was saluting his fight.

Ferguson's eyes softened. He gave the faintest of nods, almost imperceptible, but Arthur caught it. Then, with one final glance at the Milan celebrations, Ferguson turned and began walking toward the tunnel.

Each step seemed to shake off the weight of loss. His shoulders, hunched with disappointment, gradually straightened. By the time he disappeared into the tunnel's mouth, he stood tall once more, like the warrior he had always been.

Arthur watched him go, silently acknowledging what the cameras couldn't capture: the fire in Ferguson's heart had not gone out. If anything, it burned hotter now. And though Milan lifted the cup tonight, Arthur knew this defeat would only make the Scot more dangerous in the seasons to come.

*****

Arthur did not linger to spoil AC Milan's celebrations. The Milan players were still drenched in champagne and joy, the trophy shining under the lights like some oversized beer mug, and Arthur thought it best to let them enjoy their night. He had no desire to stroll out there and steal the spotlight like some uninvited guest at a wedding.

Instead, he kept his distance. After all, he had more pressing matters—such as settling a bet with Florentino Pérez, who was muttering about Madrid's drought as though it was Arthur's fault personally. Arthur clapped him on the back and said with a grin,

"Cheer up, old man. Come to Leeds sometime. I'll show you how a real team plays."

Florentino didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that remark, but he agreed to visit. With that, Arthur excused himself, found Shakira, and together they slipped out of the stadium hand in hand. The two of them were chatting and giggling like a pair of teenagers sneaking out of class.

A few fans recognized them and tried to rush over for autographs, but Arthur was having none of it. "Sorry, folks, no time tonight!" he muttered as he pulled Shakira along. They dodged through the crowd like a pair of secret agents escaping pursuit, and before long they were out of sight.

But Arthur wasn't about to leave Rome without tying up loose ends. Before stepping out of the Olympic Stadium completely, he pulled out his phone and fired off a text message to Galliani.

"Congrats on the win, Adriano," Arthur typed. "Enjoy the celebrations, you've earned them. But do me a favor: before June 1st, let Kaka know that Milan and Leeds have agreed on the transfer. And please—don't let him disappear back to Brazil for the summer before I get there. It'll be terribly awkward if I fly to Milan and can't even find the lad."

He added a polite flourish at the end, as if asking Galliani to keep his star prize neatly wrapped and ready for pickup.

Galliani, however, never replied. Was it because he was too busy drowning in champagne and basking in Milan's glory? Or perhaps because the thought of parting with Kaka—the very man who had carried Milan to this triumph—was too painful to face? Arthur couldn't say. He only knew the silence on the other end spoke volumes.

May 27, 2007.

Serie A reached its conclusion. Inter Milan were crowned champions, racking up a staggering 97 points. The Nerazzurri had bulldozed their way through the league, and not even Milan's Champions League heroics could overshadow their domestic dominance.

Arthur wasted no time in picking up his phone. He rang Massimo Moratti, Inter's president, to offer his congratulations.

"Massimo, my friend!" Arthur said cheerily. "Ninety-seven points, eh? You've turned Serie A into your personal playground."

Moratti laughed, pleased with the compliment. "Grazie, Arthur. But don't flatter us too much—you'll make me think Inter can finally conquer Europe again!"

The two exchanged a volley of compliments, like a pair of old politicians trying to out-praise each other. After some friendly banter, they set a meeting: the day after tomorrow, at Inter's headquarters in Milan.

Moratti, being the generous Italian host, naturally invited Arthur for lunch. But Arthur declined with a smile.

"Best not, Massimo," he said. "If I sit down at an Italian table, I'll leave five pounds heavier and unable to button my jacket."

They shared a laugh and ended the call, and Arthur immediately switched gears to the next stage of his master plan.

The priority now was clear: secure the signings of Kaka and Adriano.

Arthur knew these two deals weren't just transfers. They were statements. Leeds United had clawed their way from obscurity to the summit of the Premier League, but to cement themselves among Europe's true giants, they needed stars—players who were both world-class on the pitch and global icons off it.

And Kaka and Adriano ticked every box.

In Arthur's eyes, this was the dawn of something huge. This wasn't about adding depth or plugging holes. This was about launching Leeds into the stratosphere.

Sure, Leeds already had household names: Cannavaro and Rivaldo had brought pedigree, while Ibrahimović and Torres added flair and firepower. But to the wider world, those signings were either past their prime or still on the rise. Rivaldo was a legend, yes, but his best days were clearly behind him. Cannavaro had his Ballon d'Or credentials, but he wasn't the future. Torres and Ibra had promise, but promise alone doesn't sell shirts in Tokyo or Buenos Aires.

And that was the problem.

Fans around the world weren't flocking to Leeds because they loved Leeds. They came because they loved the players. And once those players retired or left, those fans would vanish faster than Arthur's patience in a referee's office.

Arthur needed more. He needed players who could shift the balance of football culture, players who would draw people to Leeds not just for the football, but for the story, the glamour, the sheer spectacle.

Kaka was the crown jewel. This season, he had almost single-handedly dragged Milan to Champions League glory. He had dazzled defences, racked up highlight reels, and made defenders look like traffic cones. He wasn't just a footballer—he was a poster boy, the face of the sport. Handsome, devout, well-spoken, beloved by millions of fans worldwide. Even Arthur couldn't deny it: Kaka was the sort of player who made teenage girls suddenly interested in tactical formations.

"Imagine," Arthur thought to himself, "Leeds United with Kaka. We'd have more female fans than a boyband."

Adriano, meanwhile, was the other side of the coin. A powerhouse forward, feared for his thunderous left foot and raw strength. True, his form had dipped in recent years, but his potential was still enormous. With the right environment, Arthur believed he could revive the Brazilian striker and turn him back into the beast who once terrorized Serie A defenders.

Together, Kaka and Adriano represented both elegance and power. The perfect duo to herald Leeds United's transformation into a true global powerhouse.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, already picturing the ripple effect. Shirt sales skyrocketing. Sponsors queuing at his door. Leeds becoming not just a club, but a brand.

The Rip Off Shop of Football—as he liked to call his transfer wheeling and dealing—would never have been busier.

And all that was left now… was for the players themselves to nod their heads.

Arthur grinned. That, he thought, would be the easiest part.