Chapter 10
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Italy's Fighting Bull
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“I want to take Gattuso back to England with me.”
Delio Rossi and Giuseppe Cannella exchanged glances and muttered to each other as I lit a cigarette and made my request.
“I don’t know where you heard this, but that guy’s not for sale.”
“We’re barely scraping by ourselves. No matter how desperate we are, we can’t sell him.”
Both they and I were teams fighting relegation.
I got the point, but I wasn’t about to just walk away empty-handed.
“How much would it take?”
“Are you deaf? I said he’s not for sale.”
“I hear you brought him in from Rangers for 90 billion lire. What if I match that?”
“!”
Rossi didn’t flinch, but I saw Cannella’s eyebrow twitch.
Seizing the moment, I turned to Rossi.
“Papers like Gazzetta and Tuttosport say Gattuso’s committed, but word is he’s a powder keg in the locker room.”
“What did you say?”
“He’s got a fiery temper, sure. Butting heads with the manager and even grabbing him by the collar?”
“!!!”
Delio Rossi’s face twisted like he’d taken a punch to the gut, his eyes bulging.
It was as if I’d uncovered some top-secret club intel.
“They hush it up in Italy, but in England, it’s pub talk. Him and the manager grabbing collars, flipping the locker room after a loss and burning through his wages in fines?”
Bang!
Delio Rossi slammed the table and bellowed.
“Where the hell are you getting this crap?!”
I gave him a subtle smile.
Delio Rossi.
This manager was just as hot-tempered himself. Years later, at Fiorentina, he’d get into a shouting match with a player mid-game in the 2010s—right in front of the cameras and fans—grab him by the collar, slap him, and get fired.
And in the romantic ‘90s? It was probably even wilder.
‘Public opinion on Gattuso in Salerno: a promising talent, but a ticking time bomb.’
‘Ultras booed three times after seeing post-match shouting matches between the manager and players.’
‘Salernitana players, drunk off-duty, calling Gattuso a lunatic to the pub owner—logged every word.’
‘Despite it all, agents whisper he’s headed to Roma, Milan, or Inter. Real talent.’
I owed our local expat manager Jeong a fat bonus for digging all this up.
Giuseppe Cannella lit another cigarette and spoke to me.
“...Give us ten minutes alone. I’ll treat you to some real Italian coffee—the kind they can’t get in that backwater England.”
“Sounds good.”
As I stood, a Salernitana staffer escorted me to the lounge.
And there, I enjoyed coffee and cookies served with true Italian pride.
“Grazie.”
Sipping my coffee leisurely, I glanced toward the opposite room.
Giuseppe and Rossi were arguing loudly when Cannella suddenly spotted me and yanked the curtain shut.
“It’s working.”
No relegation team wants to lose a player, but when that player’s clashing with the manager—and I already knew everything—they’d be fools not to sell. The director seemed to be convincing Rossi of that.
Ten minutes, they said, but I caught “Mamma mia!” floating through.
Twenty minutes later, a fuming Rossi stormed out first. Looked like he wouldn’t last long here.
Giuseppe stayed and made me an offer.
“Seven million dollars.”
“Seven for a relegation prospect? Guess I’ll scout midfielders from other Serie A sides.”
“That kid’ll fetch at least ten by season’s end, results be damned.”
“I can do five million, cash upfront.”
“!?”
European transfers often ran on bank loans, paid in installments for cash flow. A five-million player might come in 50k-100k chunks over months.
Later, with sky-high fees, 60-month—five-year—installments became common.
“Can you swing it?”
“I’m Blackburn Rovers’ COO, CTO, and majority shareholder. Chairman Jack Walker delegated his shares to me personally.”
“...Still, five million’s a no-go.”
“Here’s the deal: five million base. Plus 500k if you escape relegation. Plus a million if he plays 30+ league games.”
Total: 6.5 million.
We weren’t dragging this out over days—they were agonizing right here, right now. Giuseppe Cannella knew it too.
A freshly promoted Serie A side like theirs, with their results and signings? They weren’t surviving. Their player acquisition loans must be brutal; better cut the deficit now.
You know the type: stuff the lifeboats with valuables before the ship sinks.
“...I need to think it over.”
“Provisional agreement, then?”
“One more condition. This sudden transfer request? Even you know it’s out of the blue.”
Giuseppe lit yet another cigarette.
“Take him in January. But get Gennaro Gattuso to request the transfer himself.”
Transfer request.
Clubs normally paid players 10% on a straight sale. But if the player requested it? They pocketed that too.
“Done. Just give me his home number and address.”
“He’s staying in a Salerno house his wife’s dad found. Good luck convincing him.”
“Even better.”
I got Gattuso’s contact info.
A few days later.
After four straight winless games and a humiliating 3-0 thrashing by Juventus in the first-half finale, Salernitana entered the winter break, eyeing the second half come January.
Unlike the EPL, no Boxing Day here—just two straight weeks off. I headed to Gattuso’s place.
[Gennaro Gattuso’s really coming?]
“Eighty percent chance right now.”
[If he does, we can move Sherwood in winter and still compete. I’m counting on you, Mr. Lee.]
Kenny Dalglish greenlit the Gattuso signing and promised to back me to the front office.
I hung up and drove to Gattuso’s.
Gifts in hand, I knocked. The door opened, and a young woman eyed me.
“Buonasera. From Blackburn.”
“...Come in.”
Even with prior notice, the 20-something looked wary as she led me inside.
In the classic European home, a tough-looking young guy chomped onion rings at the table, glaring daggers.
Gennaro Gattuso.
“You? The one who wants to drag me back to England just when I’m settling in Italy?”
“Pleased to meet you, Rino. I’m Lee Dae-hyun, Blackburn Rovers’ COO.”
“Rino?”
Calling him by his nickname ‘Rino,’ he shot up and strode toward me.
Built like a tank—top-tier grit in Europe—with wild curly hair and a bushy beard, his glare was intimidating.
Looking ready to swing any second, I met his eyes without flinching and said,
“Only family and friends call me Rino.”
“Then be my friend?”
Suddenly, an old man yelled in English from behind, fist clenched at Gattuso.
“Rino! What’s that with our guest?!”
“Papa!”
“Apologize and seat him. Now.”
“...Yes, Papa.”
Whoa. Built like a wild bull, but whimpering ‘Papa’ to his father-in-law? Surreal.
“Sorry, friend. Call me Rino all you want.”
“Hahaha...”
Thus, I dined at Gattuso’s—courtesy of his scarier father-in-law.
Gattuso’s wife, Italian-Brit Monica Romano, and her dad, Mario Romano.
Mario treated me kindly despite my ploy to whisk his son-in-law to England, serving Italian fare.
“Special house feast for our guest.”
“Haha, thank you. Looks amazing.”
Gattuso’s earlier onion rings, grilled cheese bread, fresh pasta in white wine sauce—delicious.
‘Gattuso’s father-in-law runs big food ops in the UK.’
‘Mario Romano owns a massive Glasgow pub, plus 10+ restaurants across Europe and the US.’
This meal made returning to England unappealing.
“So why should I go to England? Convince me.”
“Our team’s in crisis. We need you.”
“I’m Italian. I play for Italy. If this team folds, I’ll find another Italian side—for my family.”
“Rino, that passion for family is why I’m proposing this.”
From my Naples stay, I pulled out laminated photos faxed from Blackburn.
“Mario, chef—take a look?”
“What’s this?”
The pics: lousy Ewood Park hot dogs, subpar Blackburn pubs for drinks and matches.
“Blackburn food.”
“Awful~ No wonder Brits eat this slop. Though I’m British too.”
Tsking his tongue, I pitched Mario directly.
“That’s why I want Rino—and you, Mario chef—in Blackburn.”
“Hm?”
“I run Blackburn Rovers, but I’m also heir to Daeyang Global, a major Korean trading firm.”
“!”
“I want to spread your amazing cuisine further. Back your Lancashire restaurant expansion. Plus, Ewood Park player meals and F&B rights.”
“!!!!”
Mario’s eyes widened; he nodded.
A known UK restaurateur—managing player diets and a couple big spots? Worth our investment.
“Not just Mario. Monica too.”
“?”
I handed Monica her gift.
She unwrapped it: couple scarves for her and Gattuso. Scottish cashmere, Scotland’s pride.
“Oh, this...”
Watching his wife and father-in-law mull it over, Gattuso’s eyes darted.
I poured him more wine.
“Rino, official offer: join Blackburn Rovers. Not alone—with your beloved wife and father-in-law.”
“Uh, um... er.”
Flustered, Mario approached with dessert: affogato ice cream and nunettine-like cookies.
“This Englishman spins a fun tale.”
“It’s not just Rino. Needs your say too, Mario chef.”
Mario grinned and whispered,
“Convince my boy well. Me handling all Premier League club meals? Tempting for a chef.”
“Of course.”
Savoring this Salerno feast, I couldn’t help but smile.
We had him.
Gattuso was coming to Blackburn with his family in January.