hollywood billionaire

Chapter 571 Do You Care If I Buy a Football Team? (Part 2)

"He knows me?" Han Yi was genuinely surprised. "How could he..."

“Brother, this is London,” Turki laughed. “You can’t expect to stay anonymous after spending a billion dollars in this city.”

"Our music copyright fund?"

“That’s right.” Turki snapped his fingers, pointed at him, and laughed. “Didn’t you already say in the email that the Wave Music Copyright Management Fund has now entered a very mature implementation phase? What do you think the musicians whose copyrights we’ve bought will do? Do you think Dave Stewart is still holed up in his office writing songs every day?”

“Let me tell you, he’s already rented an office in Canary Wharf that’s not big, but it’s definitely not small either, and…” Turki emphasized, “he’s already hired a team. Not musicians, but bankers. They’ll be in charge of copyright acquisition negotiations and subsequent asset management.”

“Brother, you’ve turned a musician into a capitalist out of thin air. Do you think people won’t notice? Now that we’ve made such a splash in Square Mile, people on the ‘street’ are bound to be asking around. London’s business circle isn’t that big, but it’s not that small either; news travels incredibly fast.”

"So, what do you think Parish heard?" Han Yi raised an eyebrow and asked with interest.

“It’s not just what I think, it’s something I’ve heard for sure,” Turki said slowly. “A mysterious Asian billionaire from North America is teaming up with Saudis to establish a billion-dollar mega-fund in an attempt to completely change the rules of the music industry.”

"That's a ridiculous rumor."

“Is it an exaggeration? No, it’s not.” Turki answered himself. “You know the size of this copyright fund better than anyone. If it really succeeds, the Wave Music Fund will be an exponential stock even on the London Stock Exchange. More importantly, your past record is enough to prove that you are a trustworthy player, even for those who don’t have the same strong intelligence capabilities as us.”

"The New York Times article I read was published publicly. Parish can afford the $15 a month or $195 a year subscription fee."

"So this invitation to watch the game..."

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. Inviting you to Selhurst Park was my idea alone. I just wanted you to watch a great Premier League match, and by the way—if you don’t mind my over-the-top honesty—to show you our influence in London so you can feel more at ease with your partners.”

"I have always had complete confidence in you."

“One moment doesn’t define a lifetime. One must constantly prove their worth to remain on this stage.” Turki pressed his hand to his chest, his expression utterly sincere. “Inviting you to the game is one way I’m proving my worth, and honestly sharing Crystal Palace’s situation with you from my perspective is another. Parish will definitely come over to chat with you during halftime; that guy has already been glancing over here several times. I promised him I would introduce him to you, but at the same time, I also have a responsibility to my partner and will tell you the whole story.”

“I appreciate that, buddy.” Han Yi glanced quickly at Steve Parish in the next stand and breathed a sigh of relief. “I really hope he’s just here to chat with me and doesn’t bring up the investment. I don’t want to disappoint that poor guy twice in a row today.”

"But, just for fun, let's hypothesize: if he were willing to give up his shares and persuade the other shareholders to sell the club to you and exit, would you be interested in Crystal Palace?"

“I don’t limit myself, so I will never say no to something that hasn’t happened yet.”

Han Yi pursed his lips and once again carefully examined the old stadium in front of him, which was originally built in 1924.

In the London fog, Han Yi even had a moment of disorientation, feeling as if he had traveled back to London in 1952.

“I like Crystal Palace. I think it has passionate fans, huge competitive potential, and a market worth exploring and developing because it's located on the outer ring of the UK's largest city. But unfortunately... the idea of ​​owning such a club doesn't excite me.”

This is Han Yi's most honest and sincere assessment of Crystal Palace FC. While he enjoys the TV series *Football Manager*, particularly the character of AFC Richmond, and to some extent, the inspirational story of a rags-to-riches story, as a hardcore *Football Manager* player, he hasn't managed a top-tier team in the games for several generations, and has rarely even played against a club in a top league like Crystal Palace. He usually starts in League One, League Two, or even the North and South leagues, gradually leading an unknown club to the pinnacle of success.

But reality isn't a game. Honestly, Han Yi didn't want to start from scratch, taking over a mediocre club with an empty showroom, and then spending ten or even decades turning it into a European powerhouse. Such a story might be wonderful, but with his instant reward system, he wasn't suited for this kind of delayed gratification scenario.

What he needs is the grandest stage and the most intense stimulation.

What he needs is a wealthy family.

This is a glorious powerhouse that will stand at the very center of the football history chart, both in the past and the next hundred years.

"What kind of club would excite you to buy?"

What kind of club?

Upon hearing Turki's question, Han Yi couldn't help but focus his gaze on the white figure dribbling at high speed down the right flank.

Chelsea, playing away at Selhurst Park, wore their away kit.

After losing to Arsenal on September 24, Conte's team switched to a three-defender formation, and in the following 10 Premier League matches, they conceded only two goals, achieving a ten-game winning streak.

The shift from Mourinho's 4-2-3-1 formation to Conte's 3-4-2-1 starting in October meant that many players had to adjust their positions and make sacrifices for the team. In this match, captain Cahill partnered with Azpilicueta and David Luiz to form a three-man defense, with Kante and Matic as the two defensive midfielders in front of him. Marcos Alonso and Victor Moses played as the two wing-backs, Diego Costa played as the lone striker in the middle, and Willian and Hazard provided attacking support from behind him in the left and right attacking midfield positions.

The most eye-catching of them all is Eden Hazard, who left his familiar left wing and moved to the right attacking midfield position.

He had only appeared in this position once in the previous ten Premier League matches.

However, the positional switch with Willian did not affect Hazard's form at all. Whether on the left, right or in the middle, before he lost his way in the Madrid burger shop in the 2016/17 season, he was still the dribbling king who made the defenses of 19 Premier League clubs tremble with fear.

Hazard met the ball with a deft flick of his right foot, accompanied by a tiny feint, easily fooling the first Crystal Palace midfielder who came up to press him.

Immediately afterwards, the Belgians pushed their speed to the limit!
The ball seemed to be magically glued to his feet. He kept his center of gravity extremely low, like a blue lightning bolt gliding along the grass, advancing at high speed along the right flank. Crystal Palace's entire left-wing defense was turned upside down by him alone. The left-back, Joel Ward, who had pushed forward, chased back desperately, using all his strength, but he could only watch helplessly as Hazard's figure got closer and closer to him—not that he caught up with Hazard, but that Hazard was preparing to cut inside, about to completely shake him off and enter the golden area in front of the penalty area.

This is the most dangerous signal.

In the heat of the moment, Ward didn't have time to think; his instincts overwhelmed his reason. He had no choice but to launch a vicious sliding tackle from the side and behind Hazard just before Hazard was about to change direction.

"boom!"

After a dull thud, Hazard was tackled hard to the ground, rolling twice on the grass.

A huge uproar erupted at Selhurst Park. The home Hawks fans' hearts were in their throats; they instinctively stood up from their seats, staring nervously at the fallen Hazard and the perpetrator, Ward.

"Beep——!"

Referee Jonathan Moss's whistle pierced the noise of the stadium. He rushed to the scene, his expression stern, showing no mercy to the home team. He decisively pulled a yellow card from his breast pocket and held it high toward Joel Ward, who had just gotten up from the ground and hadn't even had time to raise his hand in protest.

As soon as the ruling was announced, the uproar in the stands immediately turned into a chorus of boos.

A deafening chorus of boos echoed throughout the stadium; Crystal Palace fans were clearly furious with the decision. In their view, since Hazard hadn't immediately called for the team doctor and been stretchered off, Joel Ward's tackle was simply a clean tactical foul. They frantically pressured the referee with their boos, but Jonathan Moss remained unmoved, simply and coldly noting Ward's number in his notebook.

Han Yi shifted his gaze to the home and away team benches near the sideline, where he saw Chelsea's manager, Antonio Conte, standing at the forefront of the technical area.

His signature passion burned brightly in the cold air. The instant Moss pulled out the card, the Italian abruptly turned to face his bench, followed by several large claps. The flamboyant gesture seemed to praise the referee's wise decision, or perhaps to tell his players—keep this pressure going, don't stop!

Not far from him, Crystal Palace manager Alan Pardew appeared much more somber. He had his hands deeply tucked into the pockets of his thick down jacket, glanced briefly at the scene of the incident, then immediately looked away, his brow furrowed, and paced back and forth in the technical area.

One was as passionate as fire, the other as somber as water. The starkly different auras of the two coaches were vividly displayed in their respective technical areas, clearly distinct from one another.

Han Yi withdrew his gaze, his mind racing.

Chelsea.

He thought to himself, this might be the club that can excite him.

This is a lion that, after a ten-game winning streak, is still far from satisfied and will continue to give its all in every contest on the field. It strides confidently toward the Premier League record, its eyes fixed on its next prey.

"You're thinking about Chelsea, aren't you?" Turki noticed the subtle change in Han Yi's expression.

"How could you not want to own a club like this?" Han Yi raised his arm and pointed at Conte. "Victory has become a habit for them, a daily routine. You can't instill this kind of gene in any team without years of hard work. Not to mention how excellent its location is, I mean... the heart of West London? Can you think of any place in England with greater commercial potential than this?"

“From a geographical point of view alone, that’s the best place.”

Turki agreed wholeheartedly. If we only consider pure location and community wealth, only one of the twenty Premier League clubs stands by a wide margin: Chelsea. Stamford Bridge is located in one of the wealthiest and most expensive residential areas in Britain, at the border of Fulham and Chelsea, postcode SW6. The median house price in the surrounding area exceeds £135 million, and the local residents are among the highest-income earners in the UK, arguably without equal. This means its local fan base is extremely wealthy, possessing substantial disposable income.

This is a scene that any club owner would dream of.

In the distant 2025/26 season, a pint of beer at Stamford Bridge will cost £5.7, and a pie will cost £4.5. In contrast, a pint of beer at Liverpool will cost only £3.3, and a pie will cost £3.4. Regarding merchandise, Chelsea's standard adult home kit at £125 is the most expensive in the Premier League, £5 more than Arsenal, who are also based in London. As for season tickets, Chelsea's cheapest season ticket is priced at £880, not as high as Arsenal's lowest price of £1127, but still significantly higher than Manchester United's £608, Manchester City's £425, and Liverpool's £713.

This is the core reason why Roman Abramovich was able to so quickly transform a perennial mid-table team into a league champion and European powerhouse after taking over the club in 2003, and maintain this dominance for over two decades. What Abramovich did was provide the crucial initial investment – ​​a massive influx of capital – to acquire world-class players and coaches, resulting in immediate and tangible results.

Once this war machine starts running, once trophies begin to fill the Stamford Bridge showroom, the enormous commercial potential of Chelsea FC itself, located in the wealthiest postcode in all of Britain, is fully unleashed.

The wealthy older generation of local fans, as well as the new generation of upper-middle-class fans drawn by the victory, possess the highest disposable income in England and spare no expense in converting it into exorbitant season tickets, expensive boxes, the most expensive jerseys, and pint after pint of beer.

This strong local ability to attract revenue, combined with London's global appeal as an international metropolis, has propelled Chelsea onto a fast track to sustained profitability.

It no longer needs to rely entirely on the boss's financial support, but has become a high-quality business machine that can generate its own revenue and sustain itself.

"So, brother, I'm just like you... For me, Crystal Palace in the suburbs, although it's in London, is still a bit lacking. I only want to invest in quality assets in the core area."

“But there aren’t many people willing to sell prime assets in the core area,” Turki sighed. “Do you think we don’t want to buy Chelsea, Arsenal, or Tottenham? Nobody’s selling!”

"It's just that no one is selling right now," Han Yi said slowly, his eyes slightly narrowed. "No one can predict the future."

"It's hard to say, but I'm sure there won't be any clubs changing hands in London for at least the next ten years."

"Perhaps you are right." Han Yi smiled and did not refute, because he had no way to prove anything with facts that had not yet happened.

What should he say?

It is said that in 2022, the crisis in eastern Ukraine will escalate into a "special military operation" between the two countries, which will directly lead to Western sanctions against Russian oligarchs who have already established themselves in the City of London, forcing Abramovich to sell Chelsea.
How many people living in 2016 would believe this bizarre story that sounds anti-globalization?

However... if we can really take advantage of that opportunity and buy Chelsea before Burley, it will definitely be a profitable deal.

However, Han Yi cannot launch a war prematurely, nor would he meticulously plan and wage a war just to buy a Premier League club. If he were to wait for that opportunity, it would be five years from now.

However, fueled by the ambition awakened by the memo and stirred by the excitement of the football field, he knew he couldn't wait that long.

It won't take that long.

Because a golden opportunity was presented to him.

Its name is AC Milan.

Han Yi's thoughts drifted across the English Channel, from the banks of the Thames in London, to the Apennine Peninsula.

If London is the undisputed capital of Great Britain, then Milan is undoubtedly the economic lifeline of Italy.

It is not only Italy's most developed financial center, but also one of the most important metropolises in continental Europe.

Han Yi was well aware that in 2016, when people talked about Italy, they always carried a sense of regret and helplessness. People would talk about its weak national economy, its high public debt, and the almost incurable north-south divide—southern Italy, especially Calabria and Sicily, was often jokingly referred to as the Third World of Europe, with a depressed economy and persistently high unemployment.

But this stereotype should never be applied to Milan.

The Lombardy region, where Milan is located, is the heart and engine of Italy.

In 2016, Lombardy, with less than one-sixth of Italy's population, contributed over 22% of Italy's GDP. Its per capita GDP reached €3.6, far exceeding Italy's average of €2.8 and even surpassing the €1.6 of some southern regions. The Milan metropolitan area consistently ranks among the top four in GDP among all EU cities, making it an economic behemoth on par with the Paris region, the Madrid region, and North Rhine-Westphalia.

Along with Baden-Württemberg in Germany, Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes in France, and Catalonia in Spain, it is known as one of the "Big Four Motors of Europe" and is one of the richest, most dynamic, and most industrialized regions in continental Europe.

In short, although Italy's national strength is rapidly declining, Milan, and the industrial region of northern Italy it represents, is in no way inferior to London, Paris, or Munich in terms of wealth, business vitality, and per capita purchasing power.

And AC Milan is located right in the center of this golden land.

Indeed, in terms of commercial development and capital attraction, Italy is far inferior to England, and Serie A has no chance of catching up with the Premier League. However, this does not prevent century-old powerhouses like AC Milan from consistently achieving excellent results on the European stage and continuing to conquer the world market, gaining favor and support from fans in various countries and regions. Look at Paris Saint-Germain; no matter how weak Ligue 1 is, it cannot prevent this Paris-based club from rapidly rising to become a new force in European football.

Moreover, no matter how much Serie A declines, it still has a solid foundation. The two Milan teams in Milan and Juventus in Turin already make for an attractive three-way battle. Add to that Napoli, who will represent Southern Italy and cause trouble in the coming years, Roma, a second-tier powerhouse representing the capital in Central Italy, and a group of stable midfielders like Lazio, Atalanta, Fiorentina, and Udinese. If managed properly, Serie A can retain its status as the third-best league in Italy.

Having a top-tier club that dominates the third-ranked league in Europe, or even the third-ranked league in the world, is certainly a thrilling and inspiring achievement.
What's more, this top-tier team is the team he has wholeheartedly supported since childhood.

History presented him with such an opportunity; how could he not seize it?

Thinking of this, Han Yi suddenly entered a wonderful state of mind.

He was still sitting in the presidential box at Selhurst Park, his fingertips still able to feel the London fog and the chill it carried, his gaze still fixed on the pitch.

But the deafening boos from Crystal Palace fans and the cheers from the away fans seemed to be receding rapidly into the distance.

Instead, there was a familiar, passionate narration in various languages.

There were passionate shouts in Italian, steady analysis in English, and his most familiar Mandarin commentary from his hometown...

It felt like watching a live television broadcast.

A television broadcast that he had watched alone in the middle of the night, fighting off sleepiness, on countless nights throughout his life.

The scene before his eyes began to distort and change.

On the pitch, Hazard, Costa, Kanté... the pure white Chelsea away kits they wore gradually blurred in the London fog, the white patches beginning to flow in a hazy blur.

Then, it was as if scorching magma and deep darkness were simultaneously poured into that pure white space.

The glaring red and the heavy black began to intertwine, divide, and recombine.

Finally, the pure white team uniform with blue stripes on the side completely faded from Han Yi's sight, transforming into a totem that was most familiar and most beloved deep within his soul—

Red and black striped shirt.

"Hazard was tackled to the ground, and it was a perfect free-kick opportunity."

"The ball was placed at the spot where the foul occurred, and the player jogging over to take the kick is Chelsea's most consistent set-piece specialist, Marcos..."

"Pirlo".

Marcos Alonso in white was gone, replaced by a figure wearing a red and black jersey with the number 21 and long, flowing hair.

Andrea Pirlo.

He stood in front of the ball, his eyelids drooping lazily as always, but his expression was incredibly focused.

"Pirlo takes a run-up...and shoots directly! Wow!"

"boom--!"

The ball slammed against the crossbar and bounced high into the air!

The sound of the shot hitting the post was like a thunderclap, abruptly pulling Han Yi back to reality from his strange sense of time travel.

He blinked, and the red and black striped shirts in front of him disappeared, turning back into Chelsea's white away kit.

Marcos Alonso once again took the free kick.

His high-quality free kick struck the crossbar of the Crystal Palace goal.

A collective gasp of relief swept through Selhurst Park. The home fans, still reeling, watched as the ball bounced back into the penalty area and was hastily cleared out of play by a defender.

"Oh, what a brilliant shot!"

"That was an absolute textbook Pirlo free kick... absolute control of a set piece! He made the ball go perfectly over the wall, the curve of the ball was extremely tricky, and the speed was impeccable... The goalkeeper had already surrendered, there was absolutely no chance. If it had been just an inch or two lower, the ball would have gone in."

"He did everything right. A pure masterclass performance. He just lacked a tiny bit of luck when the ball bounced off the crossbar."

"...Cabaye is advancing with the ball in the center circle. So far in the game, Crystal Palace hasn't had a single shot on goal, and they're even having trouble getting past halfway. They need to step up their game!"

"A clean and beautiful shovel strike, from Ngorongoro..."

"Gattuso! Who can escape unscathed from this beast? No one!"

"Chelsea launch a counter-attack, this time the Brazilian is leading the ball forward..."

"Kaka!"

Han Yi's pupils suddenly contracted.

Is that figure in the white jersey William?
No, that's not it anymore.

The jersey was changing shape, with red and black stripes emerging from the white background. William's slightly bulky physique was elongated, becoming light and elegant, and the number on the back changed from 22 to... still 22.

Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Rett.

He is back.

That lightning-fast Milan prince, with his handsome face held high and his signature long strides, began his unparalleled long-distance run through midfield. The ball, like his most loyal servant, obediently followed his every step.

Crystal Palace's midfielders tried to intercept, but in Han Yi's eyes, they were like slow-motion replays.

"He's past! He's still dribbling! Nobody can catch him! He's too fast!"

"Willian has broken into the penalty area! He's going to pass the ball to Diego in the middle..."

"Inzaghi!"

In Han Yi's hallucination, Super Pippo, wearing the number 9 red and black jersey and always lurking on the offside line, appeared. He moved with ghostly grace, shaking off Delaney who was marking him, and was about to receive Kaká's ground cross…

"Inzaghi! Shot—!"

"clang!"

Another sound!
In reality, Diego Costa's close-range shot was brilliantly deflected by Crystal Palace goalkeeper Wayne Hennessey with his fingertips, changing the ball's direction and hitting the post once again.

"My God! This is the second time! AC Milan's luck is absolutely terrible today!"

"The fog obstructed the spectators' view, but it did not hinder Chelsea's progress. With ten consecutive wins, their form is simply outstanding!"

"Maldini and Cafu on the wings are working together with Rivera and Gullit to keep attacking the opponent's defense!"

"Win the header! Rijkaard has once again kept the ball in the opponent's half. It seems like not even a fly can get to AC Milan in this match. What terrifying dominance! Keep in mind, behind the Dutchman stand two towering figures, Nesta and Stam!"

"Cabaye tries his luck from a distance! Dida catches the ball securely, and Baresi, who was about to head the ball back to the goalkeeper, is pushed down from behind, giving Cabaye an opportunity!"

"Dida throws the ball to Albertini, Rui Costa dribbles laterally... Maldini joins the attack... cross to Van Basten in the middle! He did it again, Marco..."

"Costa! His thirteenth goal of the season!"

The sudden, deafening roar of cheers from the away fans' section struck Han Yi's eardrums like a hammer blow, pulling him back to reality from that magnificent illusion that transcended time and space.

He blinked blankly.

The red and black striped jerseys and those legendary names vanished amidst the deafening cheers of celebration.

In the real-life Seljestad Park stadium, the match is still ongoing.

Just now, in the 42nd minute, Chelsea's attack finally paid off.

It wasn't some kind of legendary feat, but rather the most pragmatic teamwork.

After drawing defenders into the middle, Eden Hazard cleverly passed the ball to center-back Azpilicueta, who was making a high-speed run from the back. The Spanish defender took a couple of steps forward and delivered a precise cross.

The ball arced perfectly over the head of the Crystal Palace center-back and found Diego Costa in the center of the penalty area.

Costa leaped high and, in his signature style, delivered a powerful header, slamming the ball into the net.

0-1, Chelsea took the lead before halftime.

Han Yi looked around.

To his right, Turki was excitedly pumping his fist and warmly embracing Chelsea chairman Bruce Barker, who had somehow reappeared in the box, as they congratulated each other.

On his left, his girlfriend, Barbara Pavin, was also raising her arms high, cheering with all her might. Her face was flushed with excitement, and her long, fluffy hair bounced excitedly behind her head, making her look energetic, cute, and charming.

Barbara noticed Han Yi's gaze, let out a soft cry, and immediately turned around, like a happy little bird, she pounced into Han Yi's arms, hugged his neck, and celebrated the goal with him.

They sat in the last row of the stands, a secluded corner where the fans' attention was focused on the stadium, and no one would notice them. Moreover, Barbara was very mindful of propriety, simply embracing him happily without kissing him; their actions were intimate yet appropriate, and even if someone saw them, it wouldn't be a problem.

After the brief celebration ended, Barbara was still clinging to Han Yi. She looked up at him with her bright face and asked curiously, "What were you thinking about just now? I looked at you several times, and you seemed very focused and absorbed, so I didn't disturb you."

Han Yi's heart was still pounding fiercely from the hallucination he had just experienced and the warmth of the woman in his arms. He smiled and suddenly asked a completely unrelated question: "Have you... heard the theme song from the 1998 World Cup?"

"Huh?" Barbara was taken aback, clearly not expecting him to ask that. She tilted her head and thought for a moment. "I've heard of it, of course. Why?"

"What's the name of that song?" Han Yi pressed.

"La Cour des Grands."

What is your English name?

“Do You Mind If I Play?” Barbara tilted her head and teased, “What’s this? A pop quiz for football history class?”

"It's not a football history lesson, but it could be... a lesson about the future of football."

Han Yi's smile deepened. He gazed into her eyes and asked softly in an unprecedentedly serious tone.

"Do you mind...if I play?"

"If I play the game of soccer..."

"In an unprecedented way."

(End of this chapter)