Football Dynasty-Chapter 44: Hunting Talent

Alan Shearer – Striker / Current club: Southampton

Matt Le Tissier – Attacking Midfielder / Current club: Southampton

Teddy Sheringham – Striker / Second Striker / Current club: Millwall

Tony Cascarino – Striker / Current club: Millwall

Andy Cole – Striker / Current club: Arsenal

Lee Sharpe – Winger / Current club: Manchester United

Les Ferdinand – Striker / Current club: Queens Park Rangers

Ian Wright – Striker / Current club: Crystal Palace

Graeme Le Saux – Left Back / Current club: Manchester City

Chris Armstrong – Striker / Current club: Manchester City

Rob Jones – Right-back / Current club: Manchester City

Richard had initially set his sights on signing Steve McManaman under his management. However, his plans hit a wall when McManaman's father adamantly refused.

"We don't need an agent," was basically what they said, shutting down any negotiations before they could even begin.

Richard couldn't hide his disappointment. That door had closed before it even had a chance to open. But was he truly satisfied with the players under his management?

Of course not.

Now was the time to begin his hunt across Europe.

Richard stood in the arrivals area of Terminal 3, known as the Oceanic Terminal, which handled long-haul routes to the United States and Asia, making it the busiest gateway for overseas travel. This was it—London Heathrow Airport.

"Thanks for dropping me off," Richard said, offering a small smile to Fay, who now looked every bit the corporate elite—tailored suit, polished shoes, and, of course, the signature gold-rimmed glasses that all businessmen seemed to acquire upon promotion.

Fay, his personal manager at William Hall, had handed in his resignation and climbed the ranks to become Operational Manager at Paddy Power. Despite his fancy new title, he still kept Richard close—his golden ticket—who just happened to be a friend.

"Of course. Good luck with your trip," Fay said with a professional nod, his tone so polished it could've come straight from a corporate training video.

Richard admired him very much. Just look at him—barely a month into his new job, and he was already walking, talking, and nodding like he owned a hedge fund. Truly impressive.

With a final handshake and a clap on the shoulder, Richard grabbed his luggage, waved Fay off, and strode forward—ready to conquer whatever madness lay ahead.

First stop: France.

Zinedine Yazid Zidane, later known as Zidane or Zizou, was born on June 23, 1972, in La Castellane, Marseille, in Southern France.

Before arriving in Cannes, Richard had to make sure he was prepared. So, during the taxi ride, he kept himself busy reading through Zidane's data.

At the age of ten, Zidane bagged his first player license for the junior team of a local club from La Castellane. He perfected his skills on the rough streets of La Castellane in Marseille, France.

However, his term at the club was short lived and after about one and a half years he was transferred to SO Septemes-les-Vallons.

His alliance with Septemes, however, lasted for about two and a-half-years, after which he among those selected for a three-day training in Aix-en-Province at the CREPS.

While training at CREPS, his skills were ascertained by AS Cannes recruiter, Jean Varraud, at a French Football Federation training camp. He was taken in where he spent his next three years, perfecting his skills in the Cannes' Youth division.

After playing for the Cannes youth team, 17-year-old Zidane quickly became the focal point of their offense. A rangy midfielder, he possessed exceptional upper-body strength and footwork, complemented by his superior field vision.

"Sir, we've arrived," the taxi driver said in broken English, snapping Richard out of his focus on the papers in his hands.

"Ah, yes! Sorry about that," Richard said quickly, fumbling for his wallet.

The taxi driver, an older man with a thick mustache, gave him a knowing look. "First time in Cannes?"

Richard handed over the cash and chuckled. "Something like that."

The driver nodded knowingly as he counted the bills. "Well, enjoy it while you can. Cannes may be beautiful, but it can eat you alive if you're not careful."

Richard smirked. "Good thing I'm not here for the beaches."

The driver let out a gruff chuckle, shaking his head as he pulled the lever to pop the trunk. "Suit yourself, mate."

Stepping out, Richard stretched his arms, feeling the Mediterranean breeze brush against his face. The scent of sea salt mixed with cigarette smoke and freshly baked bread from a nearby café—"Ahh," it was unmistakably Cannes.

The streets were alive, with men in sharp suits and women in oversized sunglasses strolling past luxury cars, their heels clicking against the pavement.

Richard grabbed his suitcase, adjusted his coat, and took a deep breath. Cannes might be known for its film festival, but for him, it was about something else entirely.

After renting a hotel room, Richard didn't waste any time finding Stade Pierre de Coubertin—the home of Les Dragons.

However, he had arrived early—an entire hour before his meeting with the Cannes representative. Not that it mattered. It gave him time to look around and take everything in.

Richard sat on one of the pink concrete benches, taking in the scene around him. Just beyond, charming bungalows lined the streets, their facades evoking the essence of Provence, the land of Marcel Pagnol, Paul Cézanne, and Peter Mayle.

But what truly caught his attention was happening right in front of him.

On this narrow strip of pink paving stones, boys played a cramped version of football. There was no space for elaborate wing play, no room for sweeping passes down the flanks.

'At the northernmost tip of the crescent-shaped city of France, generations of players have honed their skills on pitches like these,' Richard thought as he watched. 'A game where the wings don't exist because they simply can't—there's no space for them.'

And yet, in these tight, chaotic battles, legends were born.

The boy looked around 13 or 14 years old, wearing an AC Milan football shirt.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur," he said politely. "Vous êtes assis sur notre but." ("Excuse me, sir, you're sitting on our goal.")

"Ah? What?" Richard was caught off guard. He didn't speak French.

It wasn't until the AC Milan kid pointed at him and repeated, "Goal, goal!" that Richard finally understood.

He blinked, glancing around. Only then did he realize—the pink concrete bench he was sitting on wasn't just a bench.

The shabby pink-concrete open space beside him, stretching about 80 yards long and 12 yards wide, was actually just another makeshift pitch.

"Oh! Okay, okay, sorry." Richard quickly got up, offering a sheepish smile.

"Patrick, frappe le ballon ! Dépêche-toi !" one of the boys urged impatiently. ("Patrick, kick the ball! Hurry!")

It seemed the kids were in a hurry, eagerly pushing their little friend forward. At first, Richard paid them no mind. They were just kids, eager to play—nothing unusual.

But then, the AC Milan kid turned around, and Richard was stunned speechless.

Because there, on the back of his jersey, printed in bold letters—though dirty and faded—Richard could still read it clearly.

4. VIEIRA.

That impatient kid... he just called him Patrick, right?

Now, all that was left was to put the pieces together.

Patrick Vieira.

This chapt𝓮r is updat𝒆d by ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom.

For a moment, Richard just stood there, speechless. Could this be fate repaying him for what he had done for the Hillsborough victims?

For an hour, Richard sat on another concrete bench, busily scribbling notes as he watched Vieira play.

Not good. Bad, even. Very bad.

Well, this was just a kids' game. However, that pace, that strength, willingness to press, that engine... This kid was everywhere. Even Richard had to admit that.

While the other kids screamed and panted, he remained silent, his breathing steady—almost effortless. He didn't complain, didn't demand the ball—he simply played, covering every blade of concrete. Richard tapped his pen against his notebook.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

The name Richard Maddox, to the English crowd, was synonymous with madness—a crazy, reckless spender. He could be called a controversial figure, even if he never intended to be. His outrageous bets, bluntness, and fearlessness often defied common sense itself.

In Europe, however, 'Rich Guy.'

The fact that he bet on the Soviet Union against his own countrymen—and took their money—was perhaps a bit exaggerated, but that was how Europeans perceived him.

A smart and bold gambler. After all, in betting, there are always winners and losers, right?

So, the reception he received in AS Cannes was very good.

CLICK.

The sound of a camera shutter echoed through the small office, capturing the moment for posterity. Richard Maddox stood beside Jean-Claude Elineau, the director of AS Cannes, both posing with a ceremonial plaque.

The polished brass plate gleamed under the office lights, its inscription bold and unmistakable:

[...For His Generous Contribution of £100,000 in Support of AS Cannes Youth Development, 1989...]

Elineau shook his hand firmly, nodding in appreciation. Around them, club officials and young academy players clapped politely.

"Your support means a great deal to us, Mr. Maddox," Jean-Claude said, his distinct French accent adding a layer of charm to his words.

In 1989, the euro had not yet existed as an official currency, and France still used the French franc as its official currency. £1 was equivalent to approximately 10.7886 FRF, which means that Richard's £100,000 would have been approximately equal to 1,078,860 FRF—a significant amount for AS Cannes.

Richard replied with a polite smile. "Well, let's just say I see great potential in the Cannes youth academy to develop future French talent."

Elineau's eyes lit up with satisfaction. "That is precisely our vision," he said, his tone carrying both pride and ambition. "We want to build a foundation for the next generation—players who will not only succeed at Cannes but leave a mark on French football."

Without wasting a moment, Richard swiftly explained his reasons for investing in AS Cannes. When the club officials heard that Richard wanted to meet Zidane, they exchanged uneasy glances, hesitating for a moment.

No wonder he made the donation—his intentions must be questionable!

However, they couldn't afford to be rude to their benefactor. With heavy hearts, they reluctantly agreed to let Richard meet Zidane, but only under the supervision of his first coach, Jean Varraud. But just as they were about to finalize the arrangement—BANG!

A loud noise echoed from behind them, and to their surprise, the source was none other than Zidane himself.

"Putain, comment il ose!" he spat, his frustration evident as he kicked the trash bin once more for good measure. ("Dammit, how dare he!")

"Ça suffit!" ("Enough!") Varraud called out, his voice carrying a sternness that broke through the tension. "Arrête ça maintenant! Ce n'est pas comme ça que tu dois te comporter ici. ("Stop that now! This is not how you're supposed to behave here.")

Zidane's chest heaved as he tried to calm himself. He muttered again, this time quieter, more to himself than anyone else. "C'est dur, coach. Très dur." ("It's hard, coach. Very hard.")

Varraud sighed, his gaze softening. "Je sais, mais tu n'es pas seul dans ça. On est là pour t'aider. Mais tu dois apprendre à la contrôler, sinon elle te contrôlera." ("I know, but you're not alone in this. We're here to help you. But you have to learn to control it, or it will control you.")

Zidane nodded reluctantly, though his frustration was far from gone.

He then kicked the trash once more, sending it flying and causing a mess everywhere, leaving Richard in a daze.

He then turned toward Elineau, "What are they talking about again?"