Chapter 404: One Superstar per Year is Enough

Time had certainly marked the faces in those images. The players were growing, and the team was becoming stronger alongside them.

Yet as Marina laid out her reasoning, Richard’s expression darkened. Perhaps he had a gift for running the club from the footballing side—spotting raw talent, negotiating transfers, predicting which young player might one day rise to greatness.

But when it came to the management side of the business, to the art of turning victories into influence and building a lasting brand, he knew—if he was being honest with himself—that he needed someone else. Someone who could see beyond the pitch, someone who could handle what he could not.

Marina paused for a moment, her eyes flicking toward Karren before turning back to Richard. Her tone hardened into something serious.

"You know," she began slowly, "I’m not technically responsible for the club’s publicity. But this thought has been weighing on me ever since I became director here."

She stopped, letting the weight of her words linger in the room. Then, catching the encouraging nod from Karren Brady, she continued.

"Given our recruitment policy and long-term building philosophy, since we can’t create a sensation in the transfer market, we need to be capable of promoting a world-class player on our own. You can’t deny that, can you?"

Without hesitation, Richard nodded in agreement. It wasn’t that City lacked the money—far from it. But the reason Richard had bought Manchester City in the first place was to align with his vision: to create talent and build a team through development, rather than relying solely on established superstars.

"So when it comes to publicity," Marina continued, her tone sharpening, "even though our philosophy has always been to avoid putting individuals above the team, even though we want to prevent players from becoming arrogant or overshadowing their teammates, reality doesn’t care about ideals. If we want to raise the club’s influence and reputation, we need to do something different. We need to choose one player each year—someone to put at the center of our story, the face of Manchester City."

Richard frowned, confused but intrigued. "One player a year? Can you elaborate on that?"

Marina patiently clarified, "Last season, when the team won the League Cup, who were the heroes?"

Richard answered without hesitation. "The entire team deserves credit. There’s no distinction between starters and substitutes. While contributions may vary, we needed everyone."

That answer made perfect sense—straight from the playbook he had often discussed with O’Neill, the manager. Both men believed in unity above all else. The message was clear: no one player stood taller than the rest; victories belonged to the collective. It was that philosophy that had carried City this far.

But Marina only smiled faintly, as if she had expected that very reply. To her, Richard’s words, though noble, also revealed the gap between football ideals and the modern reality of publicity.

Marina continued, "Then who was the standout player?"

"That would be the main squad," Richard replied. "They played more matches and had more key moments; naturally, they shone the brightest."

"So here’s where the issue arises," Marina pressed on. "In the public’s eyes, many fans admire Ronaldo, others look up to Larsson, while some favor Lennon, Zidane, Pirlo, Zanetti, Capdevila, and so on. There’s a prevailing notion that although Manchester City doesn’t have a single top-tier superstar, the collective strength of these first-team players makes us look like a top team."

"While that idea has its flaws, it’s not entirely wrong either," Karren Brady added, seizing the opportunity.

She immediately stepped in to explain why she agreed with that opinion, her tone firm and persuasive as she turned toward Richard.

The Premier League spotlight was very different from Serie A or La Liga. British media, often skeptical of foreign superstars, would highlight whether he "fit in" rather than just worship him. So while Ronaldo’s goals were undeniable, the narrative was:

"He can’t do it alone—City’s midfield and defense are what make this work."

A flashy superstar could score goals, but without a strong supporting cast, English audiences tended to dismiss him as just a "luxury player."

"That’s why, if we want the club’s influence to reach new heights, we must have players with greater recognition. So I believe we should implement a

’one superstar a year’

strategy in our publicity!"

"One superstar a year?"

Richard looked up at the ceiling with a bewildered expression.

Marina had proposed

one player a year

, and now Karren was suggesting

one superstar a year

. The phrasing wasn’t all that different, but the definitions certainly were.

And then... this strategy tugged at something in Richard’s memory. The words

one superstar a year

felt oddly familiar.

’What is it?’

Richard wondered. ’

Real Madrid? No... definitely not.’

He knew it wasn’t the same as Real Madrid’s superstar policy.

Karren Brady detailed her proposal.

"The criteria for a superstar include not only team accolades but also top individual honors like the Ballon d’Or and the FIFA World Player of the Year. While these aren’t hard requirements, most players who win the Ballon d’Or or are named World Player of the Year are universally recognized as superstars. Our players may not ultimately achieve those honors, but they should at least aim to rank highly in the voting; even finishing second or third is better than being left out entirely."

Richard nodded in agreement.

What, really, made a superstar?

It wasn’t just silverware or numbers in a record book. It was influence—the ability to transcend football itself.

George Best had been a superstar in every sense. His flair on the pitch and charisma off it turned him into more than a player; he became a cultural phenomenon, dictating not only matches but also fashion trends and lifestyles. Fans who had never even watched a game still knew his name.

By contrast, countless "top players"—technically brilliant, reliable match-winners—never reached that same level. Their talent stayed within stadium walls, their fame fading when the final whistle blew.

Of course, much like the word

genius

has been overused, the same will eventually happen to

superstar

. Karren was right about the danger of the word itself.

In time,

superstar

would be diluted the same way

genius

had been, overused to the point of emptiness. With football’s commercialization accelerating, anyone with a good season risked being slapped with the label.

But genuine superstars? Those were rare.

Over the next twenty years, David Beckham stands out as the clearest example of a true football superstar. He had talent, of course, but what truly made him a superstar was the reach of his name. Even outside football circles, he was instantly recognizable.

Ask a hundred random people who Beckham was, and most could answer. Ask the same about Zidane or Figo—arguably more gifted players—and far fewer outside the football world would know. Beckham wasn’t just an athlete; he was a brand.

Richard leaned back, exhaling softly. "Your idea of publicity is complicated. Some players don’t like the spotlight. They don’t enjoy showboating. They prefer their private lives to stay private. That limits their visibility."

"I know," Karren replied calmly, her eyes sharp. "I’m not suggesting we force anyone to change their nature. That would be counterproductive—and you’d never allow it anyway. What I’m saying is: each season, we identify

one player

and push him forward. We shape the narrative, guide the coverage, help him climb in personal accolades like the Ballon d’Or."

"..."

"Think back: last season, Manchester City was brilliant. But in terms of global recognition? Not a single player seriously entered the conversation. This year is different. We’ve reached the Champions League semi-finals. So tell me—how many of our players do you believe could be nominated for the Ballon d’Or if we played this right?"

Her words landed with weight.

Richard didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he found himself staring at the polished wooden table, his mind drifting. Marina had spoken earlier about "one player a year"—a steady approach, careful and understated. Now Karren was pushing for "one superstar a year." The phrasing was nearly identical, but the meaning was worlds apart.

Marina’s version was about building identity, giving fans a name to rally around without destabilizing the dressing room. Karren’s was bolder, more dangerous—crafting icons who might eclipse the club itself, yet capable of dragging Manchester City into the global spotlight.

And then a flicker of recognition. The phrase stirred something in his memory.

’One superstar a year.

’

It felt familiar.

’Real Madrid?’

Richard thought. ’

No... not quite. This isn’t Galácticos. This is something else.’

"At least three, right?" Karren’s voice cut in, pulling him back from his thoughts.

She continued firmly, "Defensive players rarely get real recognition—if they’re nominated, it’s usually just for balance. When the votes are actually cast, almost nobody chooses them. Pirlo? Too young. The experts adore him, yes, but in the eyes of the broader voting pool, he’s invisible for now. Among Zidane, Larsson, Lennon, and Okocha—"

Richard let out a long sigh and shook his head. "Cross Okocha’s name."

To put an African player on the Ballon d’Or stage right now? In 1997? Impossible.

One of the most entertaining players currently probably like Ronaldo—but the system isn’t built for him. The media hype, the voting blocks, the biases... they all lean toward Europe and South America. African players simply don’t have the global visibility or political backing in these awards."

"Well, I might be overly optimistic. Two realistic contenders would be a good outcome: Ronaldo, Larsson, and Zidane," she concluded after hearing Richard’s reasoning.

Richard then asked, "Assuming Ronaldo, Larsson, and Zidane all get nominated, who do you think has the better chance of winning?"

Karren hesitated, clearly aware her answer might not please him.

"Ronaldo."

This time, though, it was Marina Granovskaia who spoke up.

Richard immediately countered, "But many voters admire Zidane—some will surely cast their votes for him."

Marina shook her head. "Maybe. But his numbers don’t compare to Ronaldo’s."

Richard leaned back, rubbing his forehead, as the implications sank in.

It reminded him of what would happen years later with Spain. The national team had dominated world football, winning three major tournaments in four years, built on the brilliance of Barcelona’s system. Yet, not a single Spanish player ever lifted the Ballon d’Or.

How could that be?

Were the voters blind?

Not quite.

Messi, during those years, was simply unstoppable and had the loyalty of many voters. But even aside from Messi, there was another problem: Xavi and Iniesta. Both were brilliant, both were indispensable, and both split the admiration of critics and fans alike. Those who loved Xavi voted for him. Those who preferred Iniesta voted for him.

Neither gathered enough momentum to win outright. And because their honors and contributions were inseparable—both for Barcelona and for Spain—neither could stand clearly above the other.

The result?

Spain, despite its golden age, never produced a Ballon d’Or winner.

Richard exhaled slowly. The lesson was obvious. If City produced too many stars at once, they might face the same risk—brilliance that cancelled itself out in the eyes of voters.

He turned sharply toward both of them. "So how are we supposed to explain this to the players? What do you expect O’Neill to say—’Ronaldo was brilliant last season, he’s our Ballon d’Or candidate, and the rest of you just accept it like professionals’? Do you realize how that would sound in a dressing room full of egos?"

He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. The thought of singling out one player in front of the others felt like lighting a match in a room full of fireworks.

Everyone knew what happened when too many stars fought for the same spotlight—internal rivalries, resentment, fractured unity. And if City wasn’t careful, they’d end up promoting someone else’s interests instead of their own.

Marina leaned in slightly, her tone calm but firm. "Don’t burden yourself with that. The club will handle it. Some efforts will be visible, others will be more... discreet. There’s no reason to complicate things for the players."

Richard narrowed his eyes. "Discreet?"

She smiled faintly, clearly enjoying the moment. "Publicity strategies. For example—we can selectively push Ronaldo’s narrative without ever announcing it to the squad. We’ll feed highlight reels to certain broadcasters, so his goals and assists get replayed endlessly. We’ll arrange exclusive interviews focusing on his influence in key matches. We can even commission articles from sympathetic journalists, praising his leadership, his vision, his status as the face of the game."

She paused, watching Richard closely. "It doesn’t have to come directly from the club, and it certainly shouldn’t look like part of the club’s agenda. That’s exactly why we’re planning to launch the official website. Done right, it will feel natural, almost organic—yet it will still steer the conversation in Ronaldo’s favor. Besides, don’t you also have a friend who owns that

MCFC Bluemoon

website?"

Richard’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected that level of precision—or subtlety. He studied both of them for a moment. It seemed they had already discussed this plan before coming here.

"So you’re the clever one behind all this," he said at last, half-amused, half-impressed.

Karren’s smile only widened. "You’re just figuring that out now?" she teased, winking at Marina.