When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 191 Decision Two

2004年7月17日凌晨5点08分，《伦敦晚旗报》主编安德森的公寓里，电话铃声像警报一样炸响。

He jumped out of bed, grabbing the receiver with a grumpy sigh: "Damn it! Do you even know what time it is?"

On the other end of the phone, Mike, the deputy director of the sports department, trembled with excitement: "Boss! This is absolutely bombshell! It's confirmed in Monaco that Roy is joining Chelsea! Sources personally saw Roy's agent board Abramovich's yacht, and Mourinho was there too! They talked all night in Monaco port!"

Anderson's sleepiness vanished instantly.

He walked barefoot on the cold floor, the London morning mist still lingering outside the window.

"Are you sure it's that Roy? The one who scored 17 goals in the Champions League last season?"

His voice suddenly became urgent, "Is that the bastard who ate Arsenal's defense for breakfast at Highbury?"

Mike exclaimed excitedly, “It’s absolutely true! My source is the head of security at the yacht club. He saw Abramovich and Mourinho seeing Roy off and noticed that Roy’s agent, Mendes, was carrying a file folder. They just signed a preliminary contract a few minutes ago! I heard Chelsea offered a record-breaking weekly wage of £12!”

Roy's transfer saga has been full of twists and turns.

Initially, the British media extensively reported that he would join Manchester United.

A reporter from the Daily Mail photographed him visiting the Carrington training facility.

The Sun exclusively published photos of him having dinner with Ferguson in a box at Old Trafford.

The BBC Sport even did a special program analyzing the possibility of him wearing the number 7 jersey for Manchester United.

Headlines like "Roy will become the new king of Manchester United" are everywhere.

However, the tide suddenly turned. When he appeared in Madrid, Spanish media reported that he might return to Real Madrid: he not only sent his 11-year-old brother to Real Madrid's basketball youth academy, but also bought property in Madrid, seemingly preparing for his return.

British media had to make an emergency shift, with The Mirror even publishing a special report titled "Roy home: Real Madrid DNA never fades."

Just when everyone thought he would choose between Manchester United and Real Madrid, he unexpectedly chose Chelsea, shocking the entire football world.

At 5:17 a.m., Anderson, editor of the London Evening Standard, made the first phone call as if he were in a battle.

"Tom! Wake up! Roy's gone to Chelsea! Get to my office right now!"

He roared into the microphone while his other hand dialed a second number.

"Art Department! Jenny! Wake up! I need the new front page! Now! Immediately! Right now!"

He practically yelled, and a chaotic crashing sound came from the other end of the phone, like someone had fallen off the bed.

The third call was to the printing plant manager: "Old John! Stop all the printing presses! Yes, now! Put everything that's already printed into the shredder!"

The fourth call was to sports editor Eddie, who was clearly still half asleep: "Boss, are you sure you're not dreaming?"

"dream?!"

Anderson nearly crushed the phone in his hand. "I just got a tip from an informant on Abramovich's yacht! Roy has signed! Mourinho negotiated it personally! If you keep dawdling, tomorrow's headline will be the entire sports department of the Evening Standard on jobless!"

The fifth call was to the newspaper delivery dispatcher: "Listen up, all trucks, stand by! Anyone who dares to leave early will be sent to drive a forklift for The Sun!"

Although the Evening Standard's regular procedure requires that the morning paper be submitted by 4 pm the day before, printed by 2 am, and delivered by 5 am, the deadline can be changed temporarily when there is a major breaking news such as Roy's transfer to Chelsea.

When editor-in-chief Anderson received the news at 5 a.m., although some newspapers had already begun to be delivered, the printing plant was still able to urgently print additional revised editions.

With the editor-in-chief's power to make last-minute adjustments to major news, the newspaper could have easily published this explosive transfer news in the morning paper, despite the extremely tight timeframe.

At 6:50 a.m., the sky was just beginning to lighten on the coast of Monaco, and the morning mist over the Mediterranean Sea had not yet dissipated.

Roy and Mendes boarded Abramovich's private helicopter, and as soon as the door closed, the roar of the engine instantly drowned out everything else.

Mendes clutched the draft contract he had just signed, as if afraid it would suddenly fly away.

"120,000 weekly salary, 100% portrait rights for five years"

Mendes stared at the number on the contract, his finger trembling involuntarily.

Fifteen million pounds—he had never heard of such a high signing fee in his life.

Fifteen million pounds.

Mendes' fingertips repeatedly traced the bottom of the contract page, as if to confirm that the string of numbers was not a printing error.

This 19-year-old is a Champions League winner, a key player in the European Championship victory, and a monster who scored over seventy goals in a single season.

This is the craziest moment of his agent career.

In 2004, Ferdinand's £400 million signing fee was already astronomical, while Beckham's transfer to Real Madrid cost only £500 million. The first page of this contract states £1500 million (although £500 million of that is tied to the Ballon d'Or and Champions League clauses).

Abramovich's demands are clear: Chelsea needs a younger icon than Henry, a super symbol who can overshadow Manchester United's Class of '92 and Real Madrid's Galácticos.

Roy's achievement of winning the treble and the European Championship at the age of 19 made Messi and Ronaldo, who were the same age at the time, seem like unpolished gems.

He is already a finished product, a hybrid of Zidane and Beckham.

Mendes glanced out the helicopter window; Abramovich's yacht was shrinking to a white dot on the horizon.

"madman."

He muttered in Portuguese, "But only a madman would ask for that price."

Roy pushed his sunglasses up to his head, revealing eyes that L'Équipe described as "a cheetah eyeing an antelope."

“The signing fee is just pocket change,” he said, pointing to the additional clauses on the last page of the contract.

100% ownership of portrait rights, right to use private jet, and automatic renewal trigger mechanism.
"What he's really buying is the headlines in the Premier League for the next five years."

He made the first call.

"Claire?"

His voice was calm, as if he had just signed not the most outrageous contract in football history, but a supermarket receipt.

"Yes, it's settled. Weekly salary of 120,000, signing bonus of 15 million."

A short, sharp gasp came from the other end of the phone, but her professionalism allowed her to quickly regain her composure.

“What about portrait rights?” she asked.

“One hundred percent.” Roy’s lips curled up slightly.

“Abu didn’t get a single euro.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone for two seconds.

"Good heavens," Claire finally whispered, "What about commercial development? Nike is going crazy waiting. They've been pushing for the promotional video shoot since yesterday."

"Tell them to wait a little longer."

Roy's gaze swept across the familiar panoramic view of Monte Carlo through the porthole.

In the morning light, the yachts in Monaco Bay look like scattered pearls, the golden domes of the casinos gleam gaudy in the sunlight, and the F1 racetrack winds its way through the city.

This gray ribbon that he could overlook from his balcony every May.

The helicopter slowly landed on the rooftop helipad of his apartment building, the wind whipped up by the rotor blades ruffling the branches and leaves of the potted olive tree on the roof.

For the past year and a half, the city has treated him like royalty: huge posters of him hang outside the Stade Louis II, yacht owners in the harbor vie to invite him to parties, and even the Prince of Monaco once stood up and applauded him from his box.

He won two Ligue 1 titles, a Champions League title, a French Cup, and a League Cup here, becoming a true "Monaco Demon King".

But at this moment, the Chelsea contract he holds in his hands is signaling that all of this is about to change.

He's flying to London early the day after tomorrow to get a medical check-up, and then officially signing the contract that evening at Stamford Bridge.

Mendes had already made the arrangements. Nike was in a hurry and squeezed in a promotional video shoot right after the physical examination and signing. James even flew in from the United States to cooperate.

"When does preseason training start?" Roy asked.

"48 hours after signing the contract."

Mendes flipped through the schedule, "Mourinho said there's no time for you to adapt, Manchester United's first Premier League match is on August 15th."

Roy paused for a moment when he heard the name "Manchester United".

Just a month ago, he was so close to Old Trafford.

The number 7 jersey personally promised by Ferguson, the opportunity to play alongside Ronaldinho, and Old Trafford, the Theatre of Dreams that players all over the world yearn for.

But Old Trafford already has too many legends. The legend of Best, the mantle of Cantona, the curve of Beckham, Manchester United's "King" has come and gone generation after generation. When he goes there, he will just be another successor.

And Chelsea? The Blues, who had only been in charge for a year, were like a blank sheet of paper.

Zola's era is over, Lampard and his contemporaries are still growing, and Stamford Bridge is yearning for a totem of its own.

Here, he is not someone's successor, but the one who will create a new dynasty.

That red jersey with "ROI" printed on it, number 7, will ultimately only remain in my imagination.

The elevator doors slowly opened, and Roy stepped into his familiar Monaco apartment.

Mendes slumped into the sofa like a deflated balloon, his tie askew, his whole body slumped there as if he had just been through a war.

“The arrangements in London are all set,” Heathlen, who was waiting in the apartment, got straight to the point. “Chelsea did offer a mansion in Surrey, but it’s too far from Harrington training ground, at least a 1.5-hour drive away.”

Because Chelsea's current training ground, Harrington (northwest London), is about 20 to 25 miles (about 32 to 40 kilometers) away from the new Cobham training ground (Surrey), the commute is too long, making it impossible to purchase suitable property between the two locations in the short term.

After careful consideration, Roy's team developed a dual-residence plan:

A four-bedroom detached house located near Harrington Training Ground, just a 12-minute drive from the training ground, with basic training equipment in the yard.

At the same time, I rented a three-bedroom serviced apartment next to Stamford Bridge Stadium. It's an 8-minute walk to the stadium, and there's a commercial area downstairs, which makes it convenient to handle sponsorship matters.

This combination of options ensures high efficiency in daily training, while the villa's proximity to the training ground avoids long commutes.

It also offers convenient access to both competitions and business activities, with the apartment located in the heart of the city center.

They will consider purchasing long-term accommodation after Cobham's new training facility is completed.

Roy turned to Heathlen and asked, "Has Romy's school been arranged yet?"

Heathlen took a stack of documents out of his briefcase: "I've booked Hill House School, right next to the apartment, a ten-minute walk. The curriculum is similar to that in Monaco, with two extra tutoring sessions in English every day."

His eleven-year-old sister had just made friends in Monaco, and now she's going to travel across the ocean with him.

He looked out the window; the morning light in Monaco was still brilliant, but two days later, this place would only be a vacation spot he occasionally returned to.

At 7:00 AM sharp, Chelsea's official website was suddenly updated.

At the top of the homepage is a composite photo of Roy wearing a Chelsea blue jersey, with only one line of text below: "Chelsea Football Club confirms signing of Roy."

There was no transfer fee, no contract length, not even the usual welcome message. Meanwhile, the club's office phone began ringing incessantly.

The BBC Sport morning news team first discovered the announcement and is urgently seeking details.

The press officer at Stamford Bridge watched the number of visitors soaring in the background and quietly poured himself a second cup of coffee.

He knew that the old website server would likely not be able to hold up for the next 48 hours.

Manchester United CEO David Gill strode into his office and slammed a printout from Chelsea's official website onto the table: "Alex, they beat us to it and signed Roy."

Ferguson stared at the paper for a long time, not even noticing the cigar ash falling onto his trousers.

He recalled having dinner with Roy's agent a week earlier, during which the agent assured him that Manchester United would be his first choice.

The office was eerily quiet.

The cigars in the ashtray were almost burned out, but he didn't bother with them.

Chelsea, built with Abramovich's money, has snatched away the number 7 successor he had his eye on.

Ferguson knew better than anyone that Roy would become a world-class star.

He should have made history wearing Manchester United's red jersey, but now he has to wear Chelsea's blue one.

“Call Everton.”

He repeated it again, his voice a little hoarse.

Rooney is a good player, but mentioning him now is like throwing away a diamond to pick up a pearl.

Ferguson knew he had lost a game in the transfer market, and that game might be one that Manchester United would regret for years to come.

He couldn't understand why Manchester United, who were clearly able to match Chelsea's offer and were even willing to give Roy the number 7 jersey, still lost.
"What exactly did they give us that we couldn't give them?"

He asked in a low voice, more like he was asking himself.

Jill hesitated for a moment: "Abramovich met with Roy and his agent in person. He reportedly promised him a key role, and..."

"And what?"

"future."

Ferguson sneered: "The future? Manchester United's future is worse than theirs?"

Gil didn't speak. He knew that what Chelsea could offer, Manchester United could also offer: wages, honors, status—the Red Devils had it all.

But Abramovich gave more than just money; he gave her an almost insane ambition, an arrogance that disrupted the established order.

Manchester United is a powerhouse, but Chelsea is becoming something else entirely.

A football empire built on rubles, a nouveau riche who dares to ask anyone for a price.

A businessman like Abramovich, who sails his private yacht directly into the port of Monaco and slams blank checks on the negotiating table, was simply not a thing ten years ago.

Now they've not only arrived, but they've also taken away a flagship player who should have belonged to Manchester United.

"There will be more Russians like this in the future."

He suddenly said to Jill, his voice hoarse, "Hedge fund bosses from Qatar, the UAE, and the US will turn football into a playground for oil and dollars."

Ferguson recalled the days of Sir Busby, when transfer fees could be handwritten in a checkbook.

Now? He shook his head with a wry smile.

The old order of football is collapsing, and established giants like Manchester United must either adapt or be crushed.

Ferguson ultimately just shook his head: "Never mind, get Rooney's matter sorted out quickly."

But he knew in his heart that what he had lost was not just a player, but the beginning of a war.

Wenger sat at the dining table, having just taken a sip of his coffee, when his phone suddenly vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID; it was Arsenal vice-chairman Deane calling first: "Arsena, have you seen the news? Chelsea have splashed out again. The Evening Standard just confirmed that Chelsea have offered Roy a weekly wage of £12, plus a £1500 million signing bonus."

Wenger gently set down his coffee cup: "I see, Dane. This is modern football."

Dane continued, his voice filled with disbelief, "And as far as I know, they've also promised image rights revenue sharing and Champions League bonus terms. This completely disrupts our existing salary structure."

Wenger paused for a moment: "Dane, do you remember what we said when we were building the new stadium?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone: "We said we wanted to succeed in our own way."

At eight o'clock in the morning, Desailly sat at the table with a cup of coffee in his hand and casually opened the London Evening Standard that had just been delivered.

When he saw the bold headline "Roy officially joins Chelsea" on the front page, his hand trembled, and the scalding coffee spilled directly onto the newspaper.

"Merde!"

Desailly stared blankly at the wet newspaper, then suddenly burst out laughing.

He recalled how many text messages and phone calls he had sent to Roy over the past few months in an effort to persuade him to join Chelsea.

Now that the person has actually arrived, he doesn't know what to do.

Desailly stood up and paced back and forth in the kitchen.

This is his last year at Chelsea, and his last chance to win the Champions League with the club.

With Roy joining the team, this dream suddenly became within reach.

He took out his phone, hesitated for a moment, and finally sent Roy only a simple text message: "Welcome to Stanford Bridge, see you at the training ground."

On a clear morning in London, the number of people wearing blue jerseys suddenly increased.

On the subway, several young fans huddled together, staring at the same newspaper, occasionally bursting into cheers, drawing the attention of those around them.

A small queue had already formed in front of the newsstand, and the owner was busy restocking, muttering, "These newspapers are selling like hotcakes today."

In the bars outside Stamford Bridge, fans in blue jerseys huddled together, watching the transfer news on TV.

"19 years old, two-time Ligue 1 champion, Champions League champion, European Championship champion."

One fan counted on his fingers, his voice filled with disbelief, "This kid has won trophies we've never seen in our entire lives."

"45 league goals, 17 Champions League goals, and 10 European Championship goals"

Another fan shook his head, "These statistics are like something out of a novel."

"He is the new core of the French team, after Zidane."

Someone interjected, "Did we really buy him?"

A cheer erupted in the bar, and the clinking of beer glasses filled the air.

Several young fans have already started discussing what number he should wear. Some insist that it must be a number that symbolizes a key player, while another laughs and retorts, "He's only 19 years old, he can pick any number he wants, it'll all be his in the future anyway."

"Number seven, it has to be number seven!"

A young man with curly hair slammed his fist on the table, "Mutu's form this season has been terrible, what's the point of keeping him? Just get rid of him!"

The guy next to him wearing a baseball cap immediately shook his head: "Number 10 would suit him better. Joe Cole? Just loan him out to develop him, he's not a starter anyway."

"Number 10? You think he's one of the organization's core members?"

A third person chimed in, "He's a striker, he should wear number nine! Isn't Crespo going back to Italy? That'll make room for him."

An elderly fan who had been silent in the corner suddenly snorted: "What's the rush? Does the number matter? Zola wore number 25 back in the day and he was still a legend."

The young men were taken aback for a moment, then burst into laughter: "Old man, times have changed! These days, which big name isn't scrambling for a top-tier phone number?"

"Exactly! He's a European Golden Boot winner, is it reasonable for him to wear a double-digit shoe?"

In front of a newsstand on the street, several middle-aged men stared at the photos in the newspaper and couldn't help but grin.

"Now let's see who dares to call us nouveau riche?"

One of them patted the newspaper and said, "This is a genuine top-tier star, not a flop bought with money."

"Next season will be a good show for Arsenal, with Henry and Roy going head-to-head."

"Henry? Give me a break! Roy is on our side now! Just wait and see how he thrashes Premier League defenders at Stamford Bridge!"

"Do you think he might pull off a backheel assist against Manchester United? Ferguson's expression would be priceless!"

"Absolutely! But first, let him teach Arsenal a lesson in the Community Shield."

"He's one of us now."

Throughout West London, in pubs, restaurants, and on the streets, Chelsea fans were excitedly discussing the same topic.

They have truly signed one of the hottest talents in football today, and he is only 19 years old with unlimited potential for the future.

Meanwhile, women in England are also buzzing about the French starlet who is about to join Chelsea.

In cafes on every street corner, young girls flipped through newspaper photos, whispering about those "cheetah-like eyes" and that signature smile.

In the office, the female colleagues gathered together during their lunch break, jokingly saying, "Now we finally have a reason to watch the game."

The transfer news that was constantly being broadcast on TV became their topic of conversation during their leisure time. Fashion magazines took the opportunity to analyze his dressing style, and even hair salons put up posters with "Roy's hairstyle".

"Beckham is handsome but a bit pretentious."

"Irving is like the boy next door."

"But Roy's eyes are so dark they look like they can suck you in."

"It's better than being obsessed with Rooney, that kid looks like a potato that's been caught in a door."

The summer breeze in England seems to have suddenly taken on a touch of French romance.

Before Roy even set foot on British soil, his name had already spread throughout London's fashion and entertainment circles.

Several tabloid girls stared at the photo in the newspaper, their eyes filled with naked desire, plotting how to use him to gain fame.

The tabloid reporters' phones started ringing non-stop, all from celebrity agents asking "what kind of parties Roy likes?"

Fashion magazine editors are wondering if they can secure an exclusive interview.

Even the casting director at the TV station jokingly said, "Find a reason to invite him to a variety show, and the ratings will definitely explode."

London summer suddenly came alive, as if everyone was waiting for the arrival of this French golden boy.

Some people were hoping for his goal, while others had other thoughts.

(End of this chapter)