Chapter 556: Genius Zizou!

Richard couldn’t help it.

David Silva.

That was the name. The one he had already circled in his mind, the player he envisioned pairing with Xabi Alonso in the future. For that vision to become reality, nothing could be left to chance.

No misunderstandings. No half-measures.

So when Marina told him that it wasn’t the boy who had rejected the scout, but the family, Richard knew immediately that this was no longer something he could delegate. He had to come himself.

While arrangements were made, Richard stayed at his hotel, waiting. The place was quiet, almost deceptively so.

Today was Wednesday, which meant the Champions League quarter-finals were about to begin.

Manchester United vs Inter Milan.

It was the third time David Beckham had faced Diego Simeone since the 1998 World Cup. And as for why the two of them were once again the center of attention—if you knew what happened in France in 1998, then you already understood.

Back then, Simeone, playing for Argentina, fouled Beckham during the Round of 16 match. After going down, Beckham lashed out from the ground, kicking Simeone. The referee immediately showed Beckham a red card. England were reduced to ten men and were eventually eliminated on penalties. The incident became one of the most infamous and widely discussed moments of the 1998 World Cup.

Now, history had brought them together again—this time on the Champions League stage.

In the first leg of the quarter-final, Manchester United defeated Inter Milan 2–0. Both goals were almost identical: Dwight Yorke finishing from precise crosses delivered by Beckham.

Tensions flared once more in the second half when Simeone thought he had scored for Inter, only for the goal to be disallowed for a push in the build-up—an incident that nearly sparked another brawl between the two sides.

Now, heading into the second leg, the media had only one story to tell.

United held a 2–0 advantage, but no one in the dressing room felt safe.

In front of the television, Richard watched the match with quiet relish. Perhaps it was because United had only recently been beaten by City, but for some reason they looked... restrained. Less swagger, more caution. The confidence was still there, but it was tempered, disciplined, as if the derby loss had forced them to tighten every screw.

Inter pushed hard, feeding off the crowd’s energy, and eventually they found a breakthrough. Nicola Ventola’s goal sent the stadium into eruption, briefly threatening to tilt the entire tie.

But this United side no longer panicked.

They absorbed the pressure. They slowed the game. They waited.

Late on, with Inter committing bodies forward, the moment came. Paul Scholes—introduced from the bench—arrived at the edge of the box and struck with brutal simplicity. One touch. One finish. Silence.

1–1.

The away goal drained the life out of the stadium. On aggregate, United moved ahead 3–1, the tie effectively sealed in that instant. Inter’s resistance collapsed, not with a fight, but with resignation.

Richard leaned back slightly, arms folded. He could imagine how furious Moratti was with Inter’s increasingly frustrating run without a league title—a drought that had now stretched to ten years after another chaotic season. In fact, the Champions League had become their only realistic hope for silverware.

Inter had already been eliminated from the Coppa Italia, and in Serie A they could only cling to eighth place for the time being.

KNOCK—KNOCK—KNOCK

Just as Richard was watching the match, a knock sounded at his hotel door.

He opened it to find Marina standing outside. The moment he saw her expression, Richard already knew what it meant.

"Is it today?" he asked.

"Yes," Marina replied. "San Fernando are playing CD Mensajero this afternoon. Do you want to watch it?"

"Of course I do," Richard said immediately, pushing himself up from the sofa.

But before leaving, he glanced back at the television. On the screen, the referee raised his whistle and blew for full time. The stadium cameras cut to exhausted players collapsing onto the pitch. The scoreboard confirmed it.

Manchester United were through. With that final whistle, it was settled—Manchester United would face Juventus in the Champions League semifinals.

He switched off the TV. The David Silva issue was calling now.

Ciudad Deportiva de Maspalomas was not a grand stadium. Concrete steps replaced sweeping stands. A single main pitch, bordered by wire fencing, sat under the open sky. The seats—sun-faded plastic—had clearly endured years of heat, salt air, and neglect.

There were no luxury boxes, no real media facilities to speak of. Just a small clubhouse, a few training fields, and a narrow tunnel that led directly onto the grass. A modest ground. A fourth-tier match. A boy playing out of position as a goalkeeper.

"Here!"

Gary the scout waved his hand, already waiting for them near the entrance.

PHWEEEE~

The longer Richard watched David Silva play as a goalkeeper, the tighter his jaw became.

This was wrong. Completely wrong.

BOOM!

In the 78th minute, CD Mensajero struck again. The ball tore past the defensive line, skipped once on the grass, and slammed into the net.

2–0.

A groan rolled through the modest stands.

Richard’s eyes never left the pitch. David Silva—twelve years old, small even for his age—turned sharply inside the goalmouth. For a split second, he just stood there, fists clenched. Then, unable to contain himself, he angrily punched the grass.

David got back to his feet immediately, barking something at his defenders, pointing with a gloved hand, organizing the back line as if he were a midfielder trapped in the wrong body, the wrong position.

Richard exhaled slowly. "Look at him," he muttered.

The footwork had been there all match. His distribution—short passes, calm touches, even attempts to start play quickly—was far too refined for a child meant to stay between the posts. Every time the ball came to his feet, his instincts betrayed him. He wanted to

play

, not just block.

Marina noticed it too.

"He doesn’t think like a goalkeeper," she said quietly.

"No," Richard replied, eyes sharp. "He thinks like someone being punished."

With that, Richard stood up, following Marina and surprising Gary.

"Sir, aren’t you going to watch anymore?" Gary asked, confused.

"No need," Richard said, shaking his head.

He glanced back once at the pitch, where the match continued under the fading afternoon sun. He paused for a moment, thinking carefully, then spoke.

"Arrange a meeting with David," he said. "But not directly."

Gary frowned. "Not directly?"

Richard nodded. "Let’s say the Maddox Group is interested in investing in new fitness and training equipment for UD San Fernando."

Hearing this, Gary was taken aback—but then his eyes lit up.

"A soft approach?" he said.

Richard only nodded. "I can make that happen. The club officials would welcome any investment."

After giving those instructions, there was nothing more for him to do on the ground. The pieces had been placed. Now, it was simply a matter of waiting for the results.

Richard returned to his hotel.

Three days later, Manchester City returned to Premier League action for their 31st league fixture, this time away against Blackburn Rovers.

The situation at Ewood Park was grim.

Everything that could go wrong for Blackburn had gone wrong. Roy Hodgson had paid the price in November, dismissed after a run of disastrous results. In an effort to stabilize the ship, the club turned to familiarity—appointing Manchester United assistant Brian Kidd as his replacement.

But the damage had already been done.

The loss of Tim Sherwood had hit Blackburn especially hard. Without him, their midfield lacked leadership, bite, and organization. So, on paper—and increasingly on the pitch—this was supposed to be a straightforward afternoon for City.

Blackburn Rovers maintained a compact defensive shape, which most observers believed was the best possible choice given their current form.

PHWEEEE~

At Ewood Park, Mourinho was alert to Brian Kidd’s tactics.

Several deliberate clearances were launched directly into Manchester City’s half, an attempt to catch the defense off guard by quickly releasing Blackburn’s two forwards. Kidd was clearly gambling on chaos rather than control.

Mourinho understood the logic. Even the lowest-ranked team, when defending with ten men behind the ball, still clings to the hope of a sudden, lethal counterattack. That was why he kept Cannavaro, Thuram, and Makélélé positioned deep. If Blackburn’s two forwards somehow managed to receive the ball cleanly and score in a two-versus-three situation, Mourinho would accept that as football’s cruel randomness.

But stopping the ball and turning under pressure from Makélélé—renowned for his elite defensive awareness and tackling—was already a monumental challenge. On top of that, the long trajectory of Blackburn’s clearances gave City’s defenders ample time to read the flight, recover their positions, and contest the ball comfortably.

After sixty minutes, Stanović’s performance as the attacking midfielder had been underwhelming, both inside and around the penalty area. He wasn’t suited to such a deep, compact defensive block. With space at a premium and defenders glued to him, his movements became predictable, and his influence on the game steadily faded.

"Hmmm..."

Mourinho rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then he turned and looked toward the bench.

Zinédine Zidane.

Deliberately left out of the starting eleven.

Mourinho straightened, the decision finally made. This was exactly the kind of match that demanded control rather than chaos—and for that role, Zidane was the best option he had.

Before making the substitution, Mourinho called Zidane over once more. Seeing him lightly jumping in place, full of restrained energy, Mourinho raised a hand, signaling for him to calm down. He stepped closer, then squatted so they were eye to eye.

"Zizou," he said quietly, his voice low and controlled. "Do you trust me?"

Zidane didn’t answer immediately.

"Do you know why I put you on the bench," Mourinho continued, "and why I’m sending you in now?"

Mourinho held his gaze, speaking in the simplest, most measured tone he could manage. He knew Zidane had been disappointed—perhaps even a little angry—when his name wasn’t in the starting eleven. But watching the match unfold, Zidane had begun to understand.

Timing.

That was the word Mourinho had emphasized before kickoff. At the time, Zidane hadn’t fully grasped it. Now, as Blackburn’s midfield started to slow and their defensive shape lost sharpness, it became clear.

This was the moment.

Without hesitation, Zidane nodded.

"Trust," he replied.

He understood the plan now—wait until Blackburn’s players were tired, until their concentration dulled, and then strike where they least expected it.

Mourinho smiled faintly.

"Good."

With that, Mourinho turned back toward the technical area and raised his hand to the fourth official, signaling for the substitution.

He waited for the next natural stoppage in play.

When it came, the board went up.

Stanković’s number.

Dejan jogged toward the touchline, his head slightly lowered. It wasn’t anger—just frustration. Matches like this hurt players who lived between the lines, players who thrived on space and rhythm. Today, Blackburn had offered neither.

Mourinho didn’t let him pass quietly.

He stepped forward, placed a firm hand on Stanković’s shoulder, and leaned in so only they could hear.

"Dejan," he said calmly, "today’s match didn’t allow you to shine. Don’t take it to heart."

Stanković looked up.

"Not every game gives you space," Mourinho continued. "Not every match lets talent breathe. But a great forward—" he tapped Stanković lightly on the chest "—always carries his hunger into the next one."

Stakovic only chuckled, "Boss, I’m not a child; you don’t need to console me like that."

Mourinho replied, "Okay then, just sit back and focus on the match."

Stanković managed a small smile in response. He accepted the jacket handed to him by Baltemara Brito, pulled it on, and settled down on the bench, his eyes returning to the pitch. The frustration hadn’t vanished, but it was under control. Now, he watched—not as a victim of substitution, but as a teammate waiting for the moment to learn from it.

"Here we go—Zinedine Zidane," Andy Gray’s voice rang out over the television. "And to be honest, I’m surprised he didn’t start today. What do you think, Martin?"

His co-commentator, Martin Tyler replied after a brief pause.

"Well, it could be because of fatigue, or perhaps the aftermath of the match against Manchester United. I think—what on earth...!"

Martin Tyler’s voice suddenly exploded.

"Oh my God—goooooooal!"

The commentary box erupted in disbelief.

As they had been talking about Zidane, the very man under discussion burst into the penalty area barely moments after stepping onto the pitch and scored.

An instant impact.

Zidane had read the movement perfectly. He drifted forward unnoticed, timing his run with the calm precision that defined his career. Zambrotta surged down the flank and delivered a sharp cross into the box.

An instant impact!

Blackburn’s defenders reacted too late. The ball skimmed through the near-post crowd and carried on toward the back post, where Zidane had ghosted in unmarked. The angle was awkward—the ball was already past him.

So Zidane didn’t turn. He didn’t adjust his feet.

Instead, he leaned forward and let the ball glance off the back of his head, redirecting it gently but decisively across goal.

The goalkeeper froze.

The ball crossed the line.

A goal scored with instinct, positioning, and intelligence—not power.

Ewood Park fell silent for a split second before the City bench erupted. Players and staff alike were both amused and bewildered.

"What kind of goal is that?"

In front of the television, Richard allowed himself a sharp nod—just another reminder that when genius arrives at the right moment, it needs no announcement.