87 - Recruiting a Legendary Director Before the 2002 Festival

Heading into 2002 and the festival for all, I hustled every which way to establish an in-house company and recruit a true heavyweight for the president's role.

"What a truly regrettable situation."

Aimé Jacquet politely blessed Blackburn even in refusal, ever the gentleman. In the end, after Saki, Cruyff, Platini, now Jacquet too—another miss for the Blackburn CEO spot. Then came an unexpected introduction from a surprising figure.

Knock knock.

"Ah, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠come in."

The door opened, revealing an elderly man in his seventies. With a full head of white hair but thick, dark eyebrows that left a striking impression—England's legendary manager, Brian Clough, one of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the top ten greatest managers in UEFA history.

"It was a tough trek from Derbyshire to Lancashire."

"Have a seat. I'll pour you some tea."

"With brandy."

I prepared it as ordered and, sipping the tea, got down to business.

"If the legendary manager who won back-to-back Champions Leagues with Nottingham Forest lends a hand to Blackburn, it'll be a huge boost."

"Even when Jack Walker was alive, he never called me. And now his successor comes looking."

Brian Clough pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a match. Famous from his playing days through his managerial career as a chain-smoking, tough-as-nails man's man of a manager, he wielded total authority over the club, hoisted trophies, and tamed squads as a seasoned veteran.

"Stick around a year or two, and you'll see."

"We could do a three-year contract?"

"Doubt my body'll hold out that long. Besides, you're the core of Blackburn anyway."

I extended my hand to Clough.

"I'll be bouncing around on business, and with the World Cup this season, I'll spend a lot of time in Korea. Take good care of Blackburn in my absence."

"Just keep doing what you're doing."

And so, following ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠John Williams as advisor, a proper managing director finally joined Blackburn.

Clough met with the players, coaching staff, club employees, and the bridge between my Blackburn and Daeyang—the B&D Company folks, including Sari, Hughton, Villas-Boas, and other Daeyang executives. Clough extended his hand first with a smile.

"Let's all do well together."

"It's an honor to meet the manager who achieved back-to-back Champions League glory with Nottingham Forest."

During the Boxing Day period, we had to play the Champions League second qualifying round. In the first round, our group—Dortmund, Blackburn, Boavista, Dynamo Kyiv—saw us and Dortmund advance smoothly. Then the second-round groups were drawn, and ours was insane.

The first round felt like a sweet draw, but the second? Brutal. A real killer group. Only two teams advance to the group stage, and we draw Real Madrid of all teams.

"Mr. Lee, looks like we've hit a monster group after qualifying for the second round."

"We traded barbs with Real Madrid, and now we meet like this? Plenty to say if we head to the Santiago Bernabéu."

"Ah, I'd rather welcome Real's players to Ewood Park instead."

Reporters went wild writing their stories, and Real was fired up too. It was their centennial season—if they didn't win the Champions League, the whole club seemed ready to implode. The second round ran until March, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but with orders to head to Korea by year's end no matter what, I could only catch the home leg against Real Madrid.

Ewood Park was under construction, limited to just over 20,000 seats. And there arrived Spain's Galácticos. Florentino Pérez himself led the delegation, lighting a cigarette as he eyed Ewood Park.

"It's as big as our training ground."

"Didn't expect you'd come in person."

"Came to see some good players."

As I shook hands with Pérez smiling, reporters snapped photos nonstop.

"Unlike in Spain, no smoking in the stands here."

"Heh. Don't like the place."

Fine. Let's do this.

The second qualifying round match: Real Madrid vs. Blackburn Rovers kicked off.

A lineup stacked with star power, no doubt. But we could hang.

After kickoff, Real Madrid's Zidane grabbed the ball and charged. Gattuso and Van Bommel closed in, but Zidane flicked it back with a few touches. He regained it, dribbling teasingly forward—threatening to lose it but not—before chipping to Raúl up top. Raúl latched on and fired a shot, but Southgate blocked it with his body. Melberg won the aerial duel over Morientes, but Solari pounced for a shot! Friedel snagged it, giving the defense no reprieve.

We launched long from the back; Figo took it, but Makélélé shadowed tight. Van Bommel helped Figo's dribble, but Makélélé stole it and fed Zidane again.

"Damn it!"

Our sideline dribble attacks via Figo stalled, while Real circulated the ball centrally around Zidane, pounding our goal relentlessly.

34th minute of the first half. Finally, a goal erupted from Zidane's boot.

Cheers from the Spanish fans. Yupp Heynckes's face flushed red, his eyes blazing like Osram bulbs.

"Damn it."

"Boss, even two jacks like Gattuso and Van Bommel can't contain Zidane."

Senior coach Hermann urged urgently. Heynckes recalled his own Real Madrid days, lifting the Big Ear on this stage.

A Real Madrid that doesn't attack? Impossible. Del Bosque's unleashing hell even now.

That was the lineup he built for it.

"Boss."

"No, we stick to the plan."

"!"

Heynckes had prepped Gattuso-Van Bommel with Paulo Bento behind for a 3-MF block. Or Baggio ahead as shadow striker supporting the 2-MF. He chose the latter.

"Can't just clog the midfield with a 3-5-2 at home. It's qualifiers—away at Real, two each against Porto and Roma ahead."

"But boss."

"Go defensive from the first game, and Roma or Porto will smell it and swarm. Besides, this ain't a park-the-bus lineup."

Heynckes's resolve: trade fire with Real, land at least one punch. Del Bosque watched solemnly from the other bench.

Zidane dominating midfield, Makélélé anchoring—good. Just stop the runs underneath.

Carlos and Salgado overlapping aggressively today. Mendieta and Solari barely tracking back. Defense boiled down to Sánchez and Hierro. Captain Hierro had to wrangle young Pablo and lead by presence alone.

Real's ultimate attack force—but a glass cannon, vulnerable to one counter. Blackburn crawled forward on their bellies, enduring the barrage to burrow inside.

Halftime. No subs from either side; same tactics into the second.

5th minute. Makélélé shouldering double midfield duty, but Van Bommel tumbled with the ball amid collisions.

Crash!

Tweet! The ref rushed over, eyeing rolling Makélélé and hands-up Van Bommel.

"Ref!"

Even the UEFA international ref saw ambiguity. Ball first, then tangle? Leg first, ball caught? Real players protested, but verbal warning foul.

Makélélé dusted off and booted it. Southgate cleared to sideline SWP on the right. Phillips, the bullet man of EPL and now UCL, burst in. Facing not speedy Carlos but rugged Salgado.

This guy's beatable!

Phillips sped past Salgado, whipping a central cross. Makélélé lunged, but Gattuso and Van Bommel swarmed him, feeding Baggio barely.

Do-or-die. Hierro charged; Baggio jinked opposite. Facing kid prospect Francisco Pavón. Pavón slid desperately, but Baggio lofted over, unleashing a no-look volley at Sánchez.

The net rippled—Baggio's gorgeous volley answering Zidane's screamer.

"Subs incoming."

Makélélé, crushed repeatedly by Gattuso and Van Bommel, came off for Guti.

"Is this his good day or bad?"

Guti: feast-or-famine. Peak days owned games solo; slumps ruined them. Coin-flip player.

We subbed goalscorer Baggio; SWP to right, Barry left, Wayne Bridge at left-back. Figo to central AM, straight at Zidane—Heynckes's call.

Fiercer dribbles and passes than the first half ensued. Guti lacked Makélélé's marking but speared killer passes forward.

38th minute. Heynckes bellowed; right-back Thuram surged like an attacking wing-back, pushing SWP up, raising the line.

Real, attack-only, hesitated. Zidane marked Van Bommel; Figo darted past to the box. SWP's cross met Figo's head. Hierro cleared frantically, but Barry bullied Pavón, stole it, and smashed goalward.

Thwack—crossbar! Larsson pounced, hammering a header home.

"GOOOOOOAL!!!!!!!!!!!"

Larsson's header sealed it; he spun airplane celebrations at Real players.

Heynckes pulled Figo at 42', inserting Bento. Minutes left, but clapping, barking at weary legs, Bento slotted in.

Zidane and Guti pushed with pass tennis, but Gattuso-Van Bommel blocked, Bento backing for 3v2 midfield hold.

Tweet-tweet- TWEEEEET—full time after stoppage.

We beat Real. First leg of second qualifying, but 2-1 victory at Ewood Park over Real Madrid.

Zidane swapped shirts with Figo; Baggio and Raúl embraced mutually, exchanging jerseys.

"You can trust me with it."

For my 3-4 month trip, I entrusted nearby Brian Clough.

"Take care."

"Team full of grit— it'll run itself fine."

Blackburn beating Real in UCL? Tomorrow's English sports rags would splash it huge.