"Is that Russian out of his bloody mind?" Sir Alex Ferguson exploded on the other end of the line. "Twenty-eight million euros?! For a right-back?! He's driving up the price of every player in Europe!"
Arthur chuckled, having expected exactly this reaction. "That's Roman for you. A billionaire with no financial brakes. He sees a player he likes, he doesn't negotiate—he bids like he's buying art at Sotheby's."
Ferguson grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously Scottish and very much unrepeatable.
To be fair, he had every reason to be frustrated. Buying players used to be a gentleman's game—firm handshakes, straight talk, value for money. But ever since Abramovich brought his oil-stained checkbook to the Premier League, the market had gone haywire. Every club outside of England now assumed Premier League sides were daft rich fools ready to pay double for average talent and triple for anyone remotely world-class.
Arthur, comfortably seated in his Thorp Arch office, put his feet up on the desk and smiled into the phone. "It's the modern game, Alex. You've got to roll with the madness or get left behind."
The line went quiet for a second before Ferguson responded, "Easier said than done. You've got your club to yourself. Leeds isn't on the stock exchange. At United, every damn move affects share prices. I so much as sneeze, and someone in London sells their stocks."
Arthur laughed. "Yeah, you've got the Glazers and the press watching you like hawks. Meanwhile, I can sign a left-back and no one even notices until he's on the team sheet."
"Must be nice," Ferguson muttered, not without a hint of envy.
Then, as if trying to shake the bitterness out of his voice, he cleared his throat and got back to business. "So. Are you seriously selling Maicon? Or is this just another one of your games?"
Arthur's tone changed slightly—still friendly, but more direct. "Look, Alex, I'm being honest with you here. There's real interest. Calderon's gone all-in. His latest offer is 20 million cash, plus Sneijder."
There was a long pause.
"Plus Sneijder?" Ferguson repeated.
"Yep. And knowing Real Madrid, they've probably promised Maicon the captain's armband, his own parking spot at the Bernabéu, and a lifetime supply of hair gel."
Sir Alex exhaled sharply. "Bloody Calderon. That rat moves faster than his PR team."
"You sound like you've got a personal grudge," Arthur teased. "He steal your tea biscuits or something?"
Ferguson sighed, the kind of sigh you only develop after decades in football. "Not Calderon, per se. It's Real Madrid in general. You know Cristiano's agent?"
"Mendes?"
"That greedy Portuguese ferret," Ferguson growled. "Every time we try to renew Ronaldo's contract, Mendes uses Madrid to jack up the asking price. Says Ronaldo's got a dream of playing for them, how they'll make him the highest-paid player in the world... It's exhausting."
Arthur leaned back with a grin. "To be fair, if you sold him to me, I would give him the highest salary in the team."
"Don't get cheeky, lad."
"Just saying," Arthur chuckled. "Madrid isn't lying. Ronaldo's definitely got that Madrid sparkle in his eyes."
"Yeah, and Mendes has dollar signs in his."
The banter gave way to a moment of quiet understanding. Despite their club rivalry, Arthur and Ferguson had always gotten on well. They respected each other's football minds, and even more, they respected each other's blunt honesty.
Arthur leaned forward now, his voice lowering. "Alex, let's be real here. You've seen how the market's heating up for Maicon. I'm telling you as a friend—there's no way your board greenlights that kind of money for a right-back. Not when you've already got Neville playing decently."
"I know," Ferguson admitted. "Gary's still solid, but he's getting up there. I have to think long-term."
Arthur didn't miss a beat. "You and me both. But if I'm being honest… I think Maicon's headed for Madrid. Calderon's not playing fair, and I wouldn't be surprised if they've already sorted things with Maicon's camp."
There was silence again. Then Ferguson said, "So what's this call really about?"
Arthur grinned. "Thought you'd ask. I need a favor."
"No."
"You didn't even let me explain!"
"I know where this is going. You want me to bid high again, drive up Calderon's price like last time. And what do I get out of it, Arthur? Last time it was Tevez, and in the end we still got burned."
Arthur held up a finger, though Ferguson couldn't see it. "True. But remember, you did save millions off the asking price thanks to that little show."
"Doesn't mean I'll play stooge again."
"You're not a stooge. You're a master negotiator aiding a fellow tactician."
Ferguson didn't respond.
"Alright," Arthur said, putting his ace on the table. "Help me this time, and next summer I'll find you a proper right-back. Cheap. Reliable. One of those classic 'how the hell did United find him for so little' signings."
The line went quiet again. "Go on."
Arthur's voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. "There's a lad. Antonio Valencia. Currently at Wigan, on loan from Villarreal. Solid pace, work ethic like a soldier, can defend, can cross, and won't cost an arm and a leg."
"Haven't heard much about him."
"That's the beauty of it. No one has yet. You'll thank me in two years when he's an Old Trafford fan favorite."
"Hmm." Ferguson considered it. "So I bid on Maicon. Make a bit of noise. Scare Calderon into raising his offer again."
"Exactly. Push him to the breaking point. The moment I get what I want, I'll pull the plug and sell him for a king's ransom."
"And you'll make sure Valencia comes my way next summer?"
"On my life," Arthur said. "Consider it an unofficial scout recommendation. No fee, no agent drama. Just my way of saying thanks."
Ferguson gave a deep chuckle. "You're a sly little fox, Arthur."
"Flattery will get you everywhere."
"Fine," Ferguson finally said. "You'll get your theater. I'll call David Gill and get the papers started. But if this Valencia lad turns out to be rubbish, I'm sending you the bill."
"Deal," Arthur said, already smiling. "Pleasure doing business, Alex."
****
Less than twelve hours after Arthur and Sir Alex Ferguson hung up, the transfer market—already simmering—exploded like a pot of overcooked spaghetti. That evening, the Manchester Evening News dropped a bombshell: Manchester United had officially submitted a €32 million bid for Leeds United's right-back, Maicon.
Within minutes, English media had a collective meltdown.
"Has Ferguson gone mad?" questioned Sky Sports.
"A world-record fee—for a full-back?!" cried BBC Sport.
Even Twitter, usually busy with photos of cats and celebrity drama, was ablaze with theories. Pundits debated everything from Maicon's market value to Ferguson's sanity. Was this another psychological chess move from the old Scot? Or had Abramovich's open-wallet policy broken Sir Alex's legendary resolve?
Whatever the reason, one thing was certain—Arthur's plan had worked.
And over in Madrid, across the wintry cobblestones of the Spanish capital, Calderon nearly choked on his Christmas pudding.
The Real Madrid president had just finished dinner—wine glass in hand, leaning back in his chair, enjoying the smug satisfaction of believing he had quietly secured Maicon—when his phone buzzed. The screen read: Capello.
Oh, here we go.
Calderon sighed, braced himself, and picked up. "Yes, Fabio?"
"Ramon," came Capello's gravelly voice, "you've seen it, haven't you? The offer. Manchester United. Maicon. Thirty-two million euros. What's going on?"
Calderon pinched the bridge of his nose. "I just saw it, yes."
"But you told me the deal was nearly done," Capello snapped. "You said you'd handled it!"
That tone—half panicked, half accusatory—made Calderon grit his teeth. For a manager who spent more time yelling than smiling, Capello had an incredible knack for sounding like a disappointed father.
"Fabio," Calderon said, a little sharper than necessary, "let me remind you—I'm the president of Real Madrid."
"Well congratulations," Capello muttered. "Now could the president please explain what's happening with my bloody right-back?"
Calderon rolled his eyes and forced a calmer tone. "Listen, I did handle it. The player wants to come. We had preliminary agreements in place. What I didn't expect was for Arthur to go full war mode and list Maicon publicly like he's on eBay. This is a curveball."
And indeed, it was.
Calderon had assumed it would be a quiet affair. A bit of pressure from Maicon's camp, a modest offer from Madrid, and Arthur—being the pragmatic manager everyone claimed he was—would surely accept. No one keeps an unhappy player, right?
Wrong.
Arthur hadn't just benched Maicon—he'd sent him to the reserves like a misbehaving schoolboy and publicly declared that Maicon would never play for Leeds again. And just when Calderon thought he had Arthur cornered, the man opened the floodgates.
Leeds United's website practically shouted: "Willing to listen to ALL offers."
Premier League rivals? Sure, come on in.
Spanish giants? Yep.
Martians with euros? Why not.
And now United had entered the fray with a €32 million offer—just three million shy of the hard floor Arthur had set. It was a tactical masterstroke. With the price climbing and the media frothing at the mouth, Calderon now found himself caught in a bidding war he had no intention of starting.
Capello wasn't interested in the politics of it all. The Italian coach just wanted a functional back line. "So what now?" he asked bluntly. "Do we pay the 35 million and get it over with?"
Calderon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass, gears turning behind his furrowed brow.
Capello, growing impatient, prodded again. "Ramon?"
"Let me ask you something, Fabio," Calderon finally said. "What if we didn't go for Maicon?"
"What?" Capello sounded like someone had slapped the espresso out of his hand.
"I'm serious. What if there's another option—cheaper, younger, and less of a circus?"
"You mean… not Maicon? After everything? You told me we needed experience on the flanks. We've been exposed there more than once."
Calderon ignored the tone and pressed on. "I'm sending Lopetegui to Brazil tomorrow. There's a kid—Marcelo. Plays for Fluminense. Only eighteen. Fast, technical, fearless. He could be the next Roberto Carlos."
Capello snorted. "Every young Brazilian is the next Roberto Carlos. Half of them end up being the next Djimi Traoré."
Calderon chuckled. "That's why we're sending Lopetegui. To see if he's the real deal. If he is, maybe we spend the money there instead."
Capello was silent.
"Think about it," Calderon continued. "Do we really want to let Arthur dictate terms to us? Maicon's value is sky-high now, and he's not even playing. If we fold, everyone will know Madrid pays ransom money. Let Ferguson and Arthur fight it out. Meanwhile, we find a gem in Brazil."
Capello exhaled, clearly annoyed but not entirely dismissive. "So you're backing out?"
"I didn't say that," Calderon replied coolly. "I said I'm exploring options. If Lopetegui gives Marcelo the thumbs up, we pivot. If not... then we return to Maicon. And maybe by then, Arthur's bluff has run its course."
Another pause.
Capello muttered something unintelligible in Italian. Then, with a resigned sigh, he said, "Fine. But make it quick. I don't want to start the second half of the season still playing Cicinho."
"I'll handle it," Calderon said with all the confidence of a man who had just been thoroughly outmaneuvered.