The room filled with thunderous applause as Ricky finished his speech and sat down. Chuck Jones smiled radiantly and gave him a pat on the back.
‘Wonderful speech. I couldn’t agree more.’
‘Thank you Mr. Jones. It means so much to us Goldsmiths alumni to have you here. And thank you for your generosity.’
‘No, thank you and your colleagues for your contributions to the art world. We need more people like you. I’m very fond of your work, ‘The Visitors’ - of course I’m sure everyone is.’
‘Oh that. I was fortunate that people liked that one. It really set off my career.’
‘I’ll say! Were you always interested in sound?’
‘Yes - and no. I have a peculiar case of hyperacusis and my ears react more sensitively to sounds than the normal person. When I was a kid I thought I was going mad, but luckily I got some medications that worked and I was able to control it better. The sensitivity is still there, and it impacts the way I hear and see. I just translate that into my works.’
‘How very fascinating!’
‘But I wasn’t always thinking about, you know, sound art. I actually wanted to become a soccer, or I guess football, player. I actually played with Mateo Carrasco when we were kids.’
‘Is that right?’
‘I mean, this was 16, 17 years ago. I quit early because I tore my ACL a couple times and couldn’t compete at the right level. But yes, for a couple seasons we were at La Masia together. Barcelona’s youth academy. Mateo was actually here earlier but now I don’t know where he is.’
Ricky made a point of swinging his head and looking around. He wanted to emphasise his friendship with one of Chuck’s players.
‘It’s okay. I’m sure I’ll see him soon. We do work at the same place after all,’ Chuck said.
Ricky also made a point of laughing hard, though not too hard, at the attempt at humour.
‘Mr. Jones, I would actually like to speak with you about an investment. Not now but if you’re free at some other time.’
‘Please enlighten me.’
‘It’s a headphone that can revolutionise the supporter’s match day experience. It’s wired exclusively for hearing players on the pitch so supporters can feel as though they are actually on the ground with the players. The prototype isn’t complete but it’s almost ready and I can still show you how it works when I have my tablet--’
‘Excuse me Ricky,’ The warden sliced his pitch and grinned at the American tycoon. ‘Mr. Jones may I borrow you for a second.’
‘Certainly, but first--’ Chuck Jones turned to Ricky. ‘I’ll tell you what Mr. Vega, all this is just fascinating and I do want to hear more. Why don’t you come to the football club tomorrow morning? I need to be there to take care of some paperwork and we can chat.’
‘Of course Mr. Jones.’
‘Would you like to have breakfast?’
‘Breakfast is perfect.’
‘Oh wait, I’m sorry I’m having breakfast with the club manager. Shall we say 11:15?’
‘Whenever’s good for you is good for me.’
‘Now you’re starting to sound like you’re looking for investors.’
Ricky made a point of laughing hard, though not too hard.
Monday
With three quick strokes, Tony Barlow spread orange marmalade over his toast, as he had done for the past six decades. He did not care much about what type of fruit preserve his toast was covered in. It could have been butter for all he cared. However, orange marmalade was a staple at the breakfast table his mum used to prepare in his days as a schoolboy. Therefore, he elected to honour the longstanding ties between the Barlows and citrus peels whenever he could.
This did not mean, however, that he was sentimentally attached to the fruit preserve. This was a matter of convenience rather than nostalgia, and Tony Barlow was all for convenience when it came down to the mundane details of life. Surely, the specific items of a Monday breakfast were to be deemed unqualified and inappropriate for his attention. He believed that attention, time, and resources needed to be strategically concentrated on a focal point most appropriate for any given situation. In the case of breakfasts, this focal point usually took the form of a newspaper exuding the smell of fresh morning ink. Rather than tapping relentlessly on his smartphone screen, he preferred to turn the pages of a physical newspaper and smell that ink. It was a tradition of decades for him.
In a way, the newspaper embodied Tony’s philosophy. A newspaper picked out the most memorable and important developments of yesterdays and summarised them for the reader, stripping them of the unnecessary fat which would unnecessarily divert the reader’s attention. It was a collection of focal points, all of which were at the least somewhat helpful in living one’s life as a proper, respectable citizen who contributed something to the world.
The idea of contributing to the world appealed greatly to Tony. The appeal stemmed not from altruistic thinking but the desire to be recognised and welcomed. He wanted to be - as much as was possible - a focal point for people’s attention. He didn’t want to be some orange marmalade, subject to the mechanical swings of the butter knife, completely and utterly replaceable with strawberries, grapes, apricots, peaches, plums or any other fruit or vegetable known to man. He wanted to be a distinctly memorable figure who would prevail in the struggle against oblivion. Wasn’t there that Chinese or Korean proverb, about dead tigers leaving skins and dead men leaving names? It was all about success and defying mortality by way of memory.
Of course, he cautioned himself from time to time, telling himself that too much vanity and greed would be cancerous. Instead, what he yearned for was to occupy a modest booth in people’s minds. To be someone that people would recall fondly every now and then. Someone that did something meaningful. Yes, that wasn’t asking too much of life. And he wanted to rightfully earn such attention through achievements. All in all, he thought he was quite fair with his approach and ambitions. He was reaching the twilight of life and no longer possessed the vitality of youth. This was not lost on him, and he made sure to recalibrate his efforts according to the realistic parameters set by the laws of nature and time.
Recalibration meant screening out insignificant matters that clawed for his attention. One example was a text message he’d received some time last night. He didn’t recognise the number. It simply read:
The end is coming.
Hooligans, he thought. Careless, reckless young people. Probably a United supporter or some other lunatic who had got ahold of his number somehow and thought he could cause a wee bit of trouble. When he saw the message he had promptly turned his phone over and gone back to sleep. He thought no more of it this morning. But he probably should have, because it was an omen of things to come.
‘Tony.’
He looked up and found his employer smiling down at him. He always had a good smile on.
‘Anything in the papers?’
‘Well, Chuck, I was just reading a wee something about our star player.’
‘Enlighten me.’
Tony folded the newspaper into a quarter of its size and handed it over to the billionaire.
"Mateo Carrasco has requested authorities to drop charges against the supporter who ran onto the pitch to deliver a gratuitous hug in the dying minutes of Sunday’s Premier League match between London FC and Stoke City. Carrasco was once again the hero for the Lions, scoring a superb solo effort after slaloming past defenders and a helpless goalkeeper. But he was not alone in his celebrations as a Vietnamese man jumped the Spanish star. Nonetheless, the attacker stayed calm, trying to stop aggression from the security guards as they apprehended the overzealous supporter. Sources have now revealed that the star player has, through his representative, asked prosecutors for ‘leniency’ and ‘a complete dismissal of the happening.’ Such an act of generosity will only consolidate the player’s image as a model professional who embodies both talent and integrity, a combination that is not found often in an age of brawling, swearing, and whoring players."
‘Won't hurt his image, right?’ chuckled the club’s majority shareholder and chairman as he handed back the papers. Tony nodded. It was an untoward happenstance and not much more. He screened this out of his mind as well.
‘So Tony, what’s this about? As much as I’m delighted to speak with you, we must agree that it’s not very often that you ask first for a private sit-down.’
‘I won’t beat around the bush. I want to step down after this season is over.’
Chuck didn’t lose his smile, but he shifted his posture.
‘I don’t understand, but you’re doing a terrific job here. Since you took over, you’ve turned this team around. We’re all behind you on this - may I ask what the matter is?’
‘I’m a simple man. I’ve spent all my life in football, and it’s the only thing I know. And I’ve lived the dream by managing this club, it’s an honour I’ll always cherish. But I think I’ve come to the end of the line here. It’s my health Chuck. I’m not well and I don’t want to tarnish my reputation. I want to go out with my head held high - it’s the only thing left for me.’
Chuck expressed his concern by leaning in toward Tony.
‘I had no idea Tony. Is there anything we can do to help with the treatment? What is it you’re dealing with?’
‘It’s my head. My head’s not right - but I don’t want to ask for pity here. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me and I aim to win this league next Sunday and give something to cheer about for the supporters. I assure you I could not be more motivated for the game. My energy and passion is stronger than ever, and I want to finish on a high.’
The businessman mulled over Tony’s case and carefully digested the news. This would likely change some of his plans.
‘I see your mind is made up. In that case I understand, and I thank you for telling me. We will start searching for someone after the season.’
‘You also have my word that I will assist in any way regarding the search for a new manager. I’ve got no family Chuck, and this club is all I’ve got.’
‘Relax, Tony. I’m very grateful for your dedication, and you don’t need to remind me. I know you to be a strong, honest man. Everything will be fine, and you can unwind a little. Enjoy your last moments.’
With everything off his chest, Tony let out a sigh. He appreciated the friendship offered by the American, who possessed a warm heart and cold brain. The man was meticulous, goal-oriented, and driven. People didn’t become billionaires out of good karma, and Chuck Jones didn’t come from money either. He was the same age as Tony but looked much younger and took great care of his health. The combination of these factors led Tony to conclude that behind those warm smiles was a shrewd man whose concentration would never stray off track.
Yet that concentration was something Tony admired. He was so quick and firm with his decisions in the boardroom, and when he believed in someone or something he gave it full support. A prime example was Mateo Carrasco. Last summer no one else on the board wanted to bring Carrasco to London but Chuck waved away the protests and gave the go-ahead to Tony.
The move turned out to be a shrewd investment. Carrasco was a clever technician who could skin defenders and cripple entire game plans. He also had the steel to match the silk; at 6’1” Carrasco boasted a torso chiseled out of titanium and looked a good bet in the physically demanding colosseums of the Premier League. Right away he proved his worth, functioning as the engine for the London side’s title hunt. And the Fates had tapped in so marvelously into the fixture computer; the title-deciding game would pit Manchester United against London FC in London. It was a mouthwatering clash for all.
‘I do have a question about the club’s future, Chuck.’
‘By all means.’
‘What exactly is happening with this takeover business?’
‘Well my position hasn’t changed. I’m against a takeover because I question their intent. But as you know, I’ve allowed the sale of a small stake because a relationship with the Saudis will nonetheless be a mutually beneficial one. We expect some lucrative sponsorships but that’s the end of it.’
The takeover Tony was referring to had been in and out of the papers for several months. Around the time that reports of massive losses at Jones Investment Group surfaced, it came out that Chuck Jones had sold ten percent of his shares in London FC to Mamlaka Investment Company, a Riyadh-based firm with ties to the sovereign wealth fund. The Saudi Arabian investor wasted little time, acquiring shares from other sources to ramp up its holdings to twenty-two percent. Rumours were rife that Jones was trying to offset his losses by selling the club, something that the American denied.
During this time Tony had vehemently opposed the potential takeover. It was the one issue for which Tony abandoned his general philosophy of not rocking the boat. He feared that the club would lose its colour and sink into a cycle of soulless plastic surgery funded by whimsical owners sitting on piles of oil money. His voice gained considerable backing from supporters and some members of the board. His quest for the historic title, therefore, carried a symbolic meaning as well; a triumph without oil money would aid his cause in convincing shareholders that the future promised great things even without resorting to Arab funds.
Others shared Tony’s scepticism, albeit for different reasons. Several sports pundits, leaders of NGOs like Global Transparency, and key figures within the government expressed concern over the nature of the dealings. In particular Philip Forsythe, the governor of the Bank of England, speculated there was ‘unwholesome business’ going on under the table and was pushing for a stern inquest of the share sales with the hopes of unearthing some skeletons and blocking a takeover. Success for the governor would provide him with a token achievement to show for his ‘Sound Conscience’ campaign and produce the small benefit of placing him in good stead for a KBE in the upcoming New Year Honours. Arise, Sir Forsythe. Now there was a sound to uplift the conscience if there ever was one.
‘So you won’t sell?’
'Not if I can help it.'