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John W. Henry and Tom Werner find themselves inside the steel confines of a warehouse elevator that appears empty. Their nervous energy means that they cannot bring themselves to speak, much less confront. You are about to run a simulation that you have clocked milliseconds for the past six months. They know they only have one chance.
The doors open painfully slowly and expose them to a cold space. In the distance there are three chairs occupied by shadowy figures waiting, waiting. When they approach their creators, they see men in the flesh for the first time. They are just people like us Henry whispers to himself. It’s him, it’s him, oh my gosh, it’s really him . Someone needs to talk and soon – the show should start as planned. This is now very real, Erling Haaland is waiting.
Henry offers his somewhat husky opening tactic, his voice failing him into a monologue that he could review in his sleep. Werner is a little calmer now that his boss speaks. Erling stares, his father Alf-Inge Haaland is unshaven, slumped in his chair and supported by a hand resting on his chin. Mina Raiola is sitting cross-legged, furiously taking notes. He hasn’t raised his head once. Werner once again feels dizzy as a result.
Henry builds his case the only way he knows how. He is selling Liverpool as all potential and romance, as a venture at risk but far more profitable than any Sheikh that has appeared on the pitch in the last 24 hours. The flip chart is out, shows the Hugs from Jürgen Klopp, the Champions League and Premier League trophies. Neglect any of the newer commercial jobs. Erling is unfazed, his father somehow seems more absent and Raiola fidgets uncomfortably. Everyone knows why: it’s time to talk about money.
It’s Werner’s moment, but he suddenly doubts the pitch. He starts to guess the Real Madrid and Barcelona angles that were unveiled on Thursday and stands still, framed. He is too terrified to perspire. Henry looks at him for the first time all morning, he can see that it is time to deploy the Chapel Street contingency that he secretly negotiated with Mike Gordon due to this happening. He takes a breath to intervene, but Werner suddenly exploded:
We give you what you want. We originally planned a modest budget that would still make him the fifth highest paid player because we believed we could sell a vision of the club, but to hell with that. We will give up the construction of the Anfield Road booth. In fact, we will make a better one and give you naming rights. – guaranteed. We will offer you a seat for life on the dashboard, my seat, there I leave it. We will cut the budget by selling assets to make this happen. Shit, we can’t do that because then it means you’ll be playing front with Divock Origi. Am I saying this out loud? Why am I saying all this out loud?
Silence fills the air. Henry grinds his teeth to the point where the muscles in his jaw are visible. Raiola stops writing. For the first time he looks up and smiles mercilessly. There is a huddle between the three, a rapid procession. Werner looks at the ground. The Dragons are reunited, first is Alf-Inge:
Your tone is weak and unimaginable. Your foundations are strong, but I find myself unable to believe you. In fact, you seem to be out of your league. This is too rich a company for his blood and I will not invest my son’s career in it.
Next is Raiola, who asks a question: Did you really think this was a possibility? Henry’s words are drowned out by Werner, who begins to cry out loud. They pick up the flip chart and head for the elevator. When the doors are closed both literally and metaphorically, Erling speaks for the first time during the entirety of the hectic affair. His voice is deep, resonant and drives a powerful, reverberating reminder to Henry and Werner that this kind of deal is not what they do, it is not what their club does best. The message was clear; I’m out.
Next, hoping to persuade Haaland, is another group of American businessmen who share the Glazer surname – this could be fun.
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