In the early hours of the morning in Manchester, probably five hundred meters from Maine Road, the streets lay deserted. The soft glow of the moon mingled with the dim light of streetlamps, casting the surroundings in gentle, almost ethereal tones.
Richard slept soundly in his dormitory, lying on his side, cocooned in the heavy, blessed calm of slumber. Suddenly, the shrill ring of his phone on the bedside table pierced the silence.
Startled, he switched on the bedside lamp and glanced at the screen. The name on the incoming call was saved in his contacts:
Geoff Thompson
Richard pressed the answer button, holding the phone to his ear, then closed his eyes, hoping to drift back into sleep.
"Mr. Richard, Iâm sorry to disturb you at this hour. Itâs me... Wiseman. I need to discuss something with you in person. Iâm right outside your door. I saw the light turn onâI know youâre awake..."
Thompsonâs voice continued, but there was no response.
He lingered just outside the dormitory, concealed in the shadows cast by the streetlamp, careful not to be seen. His voice dropped deliberately, but Richard offered no reply. The silence pressed down on him, sending a chill down his spine. He hurried on, "Mr. Richard, there was some misunderstanding earlier. We can clear it up. Wiseman and I at the FA have always considered you a friend..."
Thompsonâs mind raced, confirming Wisemanâs suspicion: Richard was indeed the manipulator behind the scenes. The purpose of coming here was simple. Richard wasnât motivated by moneyâresolving the misunderstanding was key. He could also retrieve the information for a small price. Though the process was cumbersome, it wasnât impossible. With Richardâs influence in England, drafting a legal contract could be done in minutes.
Thompsonâs throat went dry as he spoke into the empty street. The darkness and silence pressed in around him, and he began to doubt whether the phone was working at all.
Ten minutes after Richard had taken the call, Thompsonâs flicker of hope sank into a dark abyss. Richardâs silence was heavier than a thousand bitter accusations.
With no other choice, Thompson called Wiseman back. Muttering to himself, he cursed, "What the hell is this guy waiting for, acting like a big shot?"
It was true: Wiseman had sent him to find Richard and plead on his behalf, while Wiseman himself seemed too proud to set ego aside.
Now, Wiseman entered the neighborhood cautiously, anxious about being recognized. It was his turn to take over Thompsonâs phone and confront Richard directly.
When a man of Wisemanâs stature spoke, the dynamic shifted. His tone was calm, deliberate, and authoritative. He began by reminiscing about the old days before slowly, almost imperceptibly, steering the conversation toward the earlier misunderstanding. But the problem is Richard remained silent, not uttering a word. He listened, but he didnât speak.
Wiseman continued talking for five or six minutes, growing increasingly agitated as Richard remained silent. His voice hardened, turning threatening.
"Richard, even if you ruin my career, I have many friends in the FA. I have people behind me. If I go down, you wonât have it easy either!"
BEEP~BEEP~BEEP~
The call ended. Wiseman slammed his phone down in frustration, ready to storm the Manchester City dormitory gate. Thankfully, Thompson, noticing the situation, quickly restrained him.
If not... he couldnât even imagine the consequences.
The two had lingered too long. Soon, a security guard patrolling near the dormitory began to grow suspicious and approached from a distance. Sensing the danger, Thompson quickly grabbed the cursing Wiseman and dragged him toward the car, pulling him along before the guard could reach them.
They moved swiftly, hearts racing, the dim streetlamps casting long shadows behind them. Wiseman fumed, muttering under his breath, but Thompson didnât pause. Each step felt like a narrow escape, the quiet night amplifying the tension.
By the time they reached the car, both men were out of breath. Wiseman slammed the door shut behind him, throwing a final glare at the dormitory. Thompson exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Next time, we donât wait this long," he muttered.
Wiseman could only growl in agreement, the night air heavy with frustration, fear, and the lingering taste of failure.
As they retreated, Thompson felt an unusual pang of sadness. Who would have thought that the mighty FA executive director and its chief would be skulking through the streets under the cover of night?
Back in his dorm, Richard opened a bedside drawer and pulled out his new Walkman. He slipped on the headphones and let the hypnotic strains of music wash over him, hoping to lull himself back into sleep.
Sleepless nights were nothing new. Especially on match daysâreturning home late at night, as if he were still playing professionallyâthe thrill of victory brought exhilaration, while defeat or draws left a lingering gloom. Either way, restful sleep eluded him. Music had become his only method of regulating his mind, a private ritual to calm the storm within.
Meanwhile, Wiseman and Thompson trudged along the quiet streets, their heavy strides marking each step with the weight of their failure. Though the walk appeared casual to outsiders, it felt more like prisoners marching toward the gallows.
By dawn, they slumped onto a bench by the street, pale-faced, bracing themselves for the day ahead.
Manchester was already alive with activity. The cityâs hum rose steadily as morning approached, streets filling with early commuters and delivery vans. News of the scandal spread like wildfire, and by three or four in the morning, nearly every outlet had received the explosive headline. Some journalists abandoned entire pre-written editions to cover the breaking story in real time.
As the sun rose, newspapers hit the stands, plastering a single message across every front page. It wasnât entirely new newsâthe scandal had simmered before, but now, after the criticized Manchester City and Wimbledon matches were stirred up again and linked to it, it instantly grabbed everyoneâs attention.
"FA Board Accused of Plotting Against Former Chief Graham Kelly: Secret Allegations Resurface"
"Insiders Claim Covert Maneuvers to Undermine Kellyâs Influence Amid Lingering Controversies"
Sources claimed that the board had, in the past, orchestrated a quiet campaign to oust former chief Graham Kelly, aiming to consolidate power under the current leadership. Behind the scenes, whispers of secret dealings, long-buried correspondence, and contentious decisions from Kellyâs tenure resurfaced.
Graham Kelly himself remained silent, maintaining a calm exterior, but those who knew him understood that the "secret behind Kelly" was far more complex than mere financial or political disputes.
Outside FA headquarters, journalists gathered en masse. Chaos reigned inside. Wiseman and Thompson had yet to appear, and the spokesperson offered no comment. The silence was damningâthe FA seemed to be tacitly accepting the accusations.
The public watched with a mix of amusement and indignation.
Recent news in English football had already been chaoticâManchester Unitedâs transfers stalled under government interferenceâand now the FA scandal had erupted once again.
Everyone knew the unspoken truth: Wiseman and Kellyâs bribery of the Welsh FA had long been an open secret. Backdoor dealings were the unwritten rules of the game. Every World Cup bid involved maneuvering behind the scenes.
But what the public would not tolerate was the use of public funds for personal gain. And that was the line they had crossed.
Previously, Wiseman survived and Graham Kelly became the fall guy. But now that the narrative had shiftedâportraying Kelly as merely a scapegoat and Wiseman as the true mastermindâthe story had taken a very different turn.
The FA was no longer the old FA. With finances in turmoil, it wasnât just one or two rivals eyeing Wisemanâs seat. It seemed as though the entire FAâlike hungry wolvesâwanted that position for themselves. And then from here, they aimed for positions within FIFA. Internally, within the FA, their ambitions were no secret. Many supported them, believing that having an Englishman in FIFA would benefit the nationâbut knowing and acknowledging were two very different things.
This sensational news dominated discussions not only across Manchester. London, Liverpool, and beyond. Foreign media stationed in the city quickly joined the frenzy.
Richard, having been disturbed briefly during the night, woke later than usual.
He arrived at Maine Road later than usual, but before he could settle into his seat, Issy Heysen burst in, grabbing the remote and flicking the TV to BBC News. A live reporter stood before the chaos outside FA headquarters, cameras flashing, journalists shouting. Issy practically cheered at the sight.
Richard remained composed. He finished his juice, tidied his table, and watched the circus unfold. After the match against Wimbledon, he had already made his decision: there would be no further dealings with Wiseman or Thompson.
But was that truly possible?
Wiseman was the FA Chief. Their paths would inevitably crossâespecially if Manchester City lifted trophies. Victory meant banquets, ceremonies, and interactions with the FA. There was no avoiding that.
So Richard was left with only two choices: leave English football entirely...or make sure Wiseman and Thompson were removed. Was that even a choice?
The FA Chief was no saint. Like most who sat in high chairs, he had skeletons hidden in the dark. With Englandâs history of football scandals, it was only a matter of time before those skeletons surfaced again.
Richardâs request to his lawyer, Adam Lewis, had been straightforward: Keep an eye on them.If they slip, let them fall. If they stay, sue them.
That was the plan.
He turned off the TV. Then, as if nothing had happened, he headed to the gym and joined the squad for training. His day proceeded like any other.
Routine. Controlled. No one would ever suspect his involvement.
By mid-afternoon, Wiseman appeared outside FA headquarters with Thompson trailing behind. Reporters surged forward like a wave collapsing on the shore. Security had to force a path through the crowd.
Hours later, well into the evening, after a frantic internal meeting, a press conference was suddenly called. Wiseman stepped up to the podium. The room fell silent. His expression was stiff, his voice suffocatingly calm.
"Effective immediately, I will resign from my position as Chairman of the Football Association."
No excuses. No explanations. Just surrender. He had no choiceâremaining in power would doom Englandâs bid for the 2006 World Cup.
Thompson resigned alongside him. In one day, the FAâs two most powerful figures were erased from the hierarchy.
As they exited the building, Wiseman ignored every question hurled his way, ducking into his car and vanishing into the night.
Thompson paused, offering cameras a thin, bitter smile. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "one small mistake can bring the most painful consequences."
The public believed he was referring to the Welsh FA bribery.
But insiders knew better. This wasnât about Wales. Or money. Or even corruption.
This was a reckoning. A quiet execution. A debt collected.