Victory Parade: Plundering Barca's Buyout Before the World Cup

The media praised Blackburn Rovers' championship nonstop, broadcasting every moment of the trophy parade through the streets of Blackburn on TV without missing a beat. Fans and players hoisting the trophy in ecstasy, followed by an epic party that night.

"Just this one message, saying she's too busy to come."

I felt a pang at the text from Korea. I'd even sent first-class tickets, inviting her to celebrate the win together here, but she must be swamped back home. Or maybe... she couldn't bring herself to congratulate Blackburn Rovers because of her beloved team.

"Let's go, Blackburn! We'll be title contenders again next season."

"Let's go, Blackburn!"

Champagne-fueled party toasts. The manager, players—everyone raised their glasses, savoring the moment. Stepping out briefly from the lively bash where I'd already changed into my second suit, Brian Clough showed up with the B&D staff to congratulate us.

"Boss, you did it."

"Seeing league and cup trophies up close in my twilight years. Hahaha!"

Clough laughed heartily, eyeing the champagne before downing it in one go.

"Doc says no more or I'll croak, but a day like today? Screw it."

Ignoring the doctor's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠advice, Clough raised another glass. Then, Villas-Boas approached me from beside him.

"Boss, a word."

"Shoot."

"About that plan to screw over Barcelona. I did some scouting."

"So, did it turn into a bloodbath worse than the Figo transfer?"

"How about snagging a Figo-level player on a free?"

"!?"

Villas-Boas's words made Clough's bushy eyebrows twitch, and Sari nearly spat out his cigarette in shock.

"A Figo-level player? Barca still got one like that left? Maybe in central midfield or defense."

"What about Rivaldo, who's anchored their attack since Figo left?"

"Oh!"

Rivaldo. Barcelona's top ace right now, a world-class striker who'd claimed the '99 Ballon d'Or and FIFA World Player of the Year before Figo.

"Signing Rivaldo would cost 40 million euros, easy."

"We can get him for free."

"This Portuguese kid doesn't mince words—can that really happen?!"

Clough chuckled in disbelief, while Sari lit a fresh cigarette.

"That's a tall order. Even with Chris and the gaffer hunting Figo's replacement for next season's buildup, Rivaldo? Come on."

Villas-Boas led us to the meeting room and handed me a file with the faxed details.

"From Rivaldo's agent, Carlos Alinin. There's a hilarious clause in here."

"Let's see..."

Such a clause existed, and Barcelona couldn't just watch Rivaldo walk with their eyes open.

"Baggio's 35 now, and Italy bombed out of the finals qualifiers after all that."

"Unbelievable. It's like they don't respect Roberto after two stellar PL seasons."

Everyone nodded at Clough's words. Even this season, he'd posted 12 goals and 11 assists, defying his age—yet Trapattoni picked Vieri, Del Piero, and Inzaghi.

"With Baggio's replacement on the horizon, Rivaldo's a solid pick. If it goes through, we'll have three Ballon d'Or winners on the roster."

"I'll talk to Yupp myself."

I wrapped up the meeting and stood. Amid the championship euphoria, one man needed consoling. Clutching a bouquet, I rang Baggio's doorbell in Blackburn.

His wife opened the door quietly and greeted me.

"Is Roberto inside?"

"He doesn't want to see anyone."

"Just let me say one thing."

"..."

She whispered inside, then returned.

"He says he has no energy for any words. Sorry. But the chairman himself..."

I handed her the gift and flowers.

"Then pass this on: 'Trapattoni will crash out of the World Cup for failing to recognize Italy's greatest fantasista.'"

"!?"

"And add: 'I'll put the Big Ear in your arms instead of the FIFA Cup, so forget today's glory and misfortune—for next season.'"

Baggio's wife nodded silently and closed the door.

"Tch."

As I got in the car to head home, Baggio's curtain parted, revealing him. I rolled down the window, gave a quiet thumbs-up. He nodded back with a bitter smile.

Champions League win next season, no question. Squad building would ramp up even more aggressively.

Season over, a call came from Spain. Florentino Pérez.

"Congrats on the Champs League win this season."

Real Madrid had gone all-in for this season's Champs League. After missing Figo, they grabbed Mendieta as a backup, then in January, to bolster wings, they loaned rising star Joaquín Sánchez from Real Betis with a buy option—and he actually lifted the Big Ear there.

"The chairman upped it by 2 million euros?"

This sly old fox was sweetening the pot by 2 mil, having profited most from our mutual destruction with Barca in the Champs League. Real Madrid, flush with this win and UEFA broadcast cash, eyed 100 million euros for next season.

"We'll push it in the summer window after the World Cup, 02-03 season. Off the record till then, please."

"Of course. And you promise we get first dibs on Real players after."

Business cleanly squared with Pérez. Next call: from Barcelona.

Next season, Luis Figo leaves, Rivaldo arrives.

"Tell me more about the contract situation. I know the gist, but press announcements matter."

So Rivaldo blows up, demands termination. We swoop in first.

"!"

Can't play in Euros? That bars Spain, Italy, Portugal, France, Netherlands... wait!

"Euro? It specifically says EURO in the contract?"

"No other text? No underlines, parentheses?"

These idiots— in trade, a single character difference in contracts can make or break millions of euros. Sloppy drafting because of the sudden termination demand. Barca figured he'd go to rich Middle East leagues or back to Brazil. But I could snag him.

"We're signing him. Contracts now."

"4.5 mil USD salary, call. Two years plus one-year option. That work?"

"Got it—fax it now. I'll sign with my $2K Montblanc and send back."

Rivaldo's signing wrapped at lightspeed. Before the ink dried, I tipped off every late-night sports reporter.

Rivaldo signing. Pre-World Cup bombshell transfer exploded UK media, rocked Spain. Naturally, my office phone lit up.

"Juan Gaspart."

"Told 'em not to put you through, but you're persistent as hell."

Third hang-up, but he kept calling—I finally picked up.

"You got through. Blackburn Rovers, club of the sunburnt isles."

Spaniards and their potty mouths. Pérez, now Gaspart—full meltdown.

"If you're just cursing, I'm hanging up."

"No idea what fraud you're on about. You freed Rivaldo, we legally dealt with his agent."

Drawing from Daeyang Group's international lawyers:

"Rivaldo can't transfer inside Euro territory. That's the clause, right?"

"That 'Euro'—I figured it meant the currency 'euro,' not the EU. No issue."

"We use 'pounds,' not 'euros.' Premier League's in the pound zone, not eurozone. Clean signing."

"Sue then. Think anyone buys your tantrum after drafting that sloppy contract? One wrong period, one typo—business loses millions."

"If you're Barcelona's chairman, study international trade at least."

I hung up and yanked the receiver cord. No more gripes on Rivaldo now. He's en route from Barcelona via Manchester to Blackburn.

"Right after Rivaldo's unveiling, I'm heading back to Korea. For the World Cup."

Wrapping up last as always—then Rivaldo and I head to our nations for World Cup prep.