The shooting schedule had moved to England, where the dramatic chases and escapes through the forests were being filmed around Ashridge Estate in Hertfordshire, England.
Despite the intense schedule, Alex took a much-needed break to spend the weekend with his family.
On Saturday, September 26, 1987, the entire family—Alex,John, Martha, and Sofia—found themselves traveling to Vicarage Road, the home stadium of Watford Football Club.
Martha, who had watched the game growing up in Mexico before her family moved to America, had insisted on the outing. They were currently standing near the main gate, waiting for their contact from the club, observing the teeming crowds around the stadium.
"I can't believe we're here for a football match," Martha exclaimed, looking at the passing fans.
"It's soccer, Martha," John tried to correct her, peering at a handheld map.
Martha jabbed him sharply with her elbow. "Keep that word to yourself, John! You'll get us thrown out before kickoff. This game was called football long before Americans decided to invent a different one."
Alex and Sofia exchanged an amused look. "Let's just agree it's a beautiful day for a game, regardless of what we call it".
As they approached the VIP entrance, an immediately recognizable, cheerful man in a vibrant, sequined suit stepped forward, his face framed by large, iconic glasses. It was the legendary owner of Watford FC at the time, Elton John.
Martha immediately stopped dead in her tracks, clearly starstruck. "Alex, that's... that is him," she whispered excitedly to Alex.
Elton John stepped up and greeted Martha with a theatrical flourish and a warm smile. "Martha! So wonderful to see you. I hear you are a great fan of mine."
"It's an honor, Mr. John. I... I've been such a fan of your work for a long time," Martha stammered, which was rare for the usually composed woman.
Alex stepped forward, shaking Elton John's hand. "It's an absolute pleasure, Mr. John, and thank you for taking the time to come and greet us personally. That's very kind of you."
Elton John waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense, Alex. It's not a big thing at all. Having a star of your magnitude—the Alex Hayes—come to Vicarage Road to watch a match will give us exactly the kind of international publicity we need! We are thrilled to have you."
He personally escorted them to the VIP section, the crowd around them murmuring with excitement, equally thrilled to see their famous owner and the movie star.
The atmosphere inside the ground was a sensory explosion unlike anything Alex had experienced in American stadiums. The crowd wasn't just loud; it was vocal, emotional, and intensely localized. Every cheer, gasp, and chant felt deeply personal.
During the match, a young club staffer sat near them and patiently explained the structure of the English football league.
"The fundamental difference is this: your American leagues are 'closed shops.' You can't be kicked out, and if you're bad, you get the top draft pick—it's a system built on competitive balance," the staffer explained, gesturing to the pitch. "Here, we have a football pyramid. If you finish in the bottom three of the First Division, you are relegated. You drop out of the top flight and into the Second Division."
"Conversely, the top teams in the lower divisions are promoted up the ladder. Every single match has a consequence, not just for a title, but for survival."
Alex absorbed this, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Wait. So, instead of being rewarded for failure with a high draft pick, a bad team is punished with financial ruin and the loss of their top-tier status?"
"Precisely," the staffer confirmed. "The fear of relegation is more powerful than the hope of a championship. It means it's life and death every season, even for the teams in the middle. That's why the atmosphere is so intense."
Alex found the whole concept brilliantly brutal. In American sports, if you finished last, you were rewarded with the first draft choice to ensure competitive balance. Here, failure meant actual ruin, forcing continuous, high-stakes competition.
Unfortunately for their host, the match concluded with Watford losing 3–0 to the visiting Chelsea side. Despite the home defeat, the sheer passion of the fans never wavered, solidifying the experience in Alex's mind.
Later that night, back in the quiet luxury of his Hertfordshire hotel suite, the chaos and commitment of the football crowd still buzzed in Alex's mind. He began to think not of the sport, but of the structure—a high-stakes, globally visible business model driven by intense local loyalty.
A club in this environment, he hypothesized, had nowhere to go but up in valuation, especially if the global TV market ever caught up to the local obsession.
He picked up the phone and dialed his primary investment banker at Goldman Sachs, George Slater.
"George? Alex here. Sorry to call so late, but I had an idea. I want to buy an English football club."
George Slater paused, a long, stunned silence stretching across the transatlantic line. "A... a football club? Suddenly, Alex? What sparked this?"
"I just got back from a Watford match, and I liked the atmosphere," Alex said simply. "And I thought... It's a good investment. These things are going to be worth a fortune one day."
"I hear the enthusiasm," George replied dryly. "But I need to do some serious inquiries, understand the league structure, and gauge the financial health of the league before I can advise you. "
"Take your time, George. Just let me know what you find."
Two weeks later, after a long day of filming, George Slater called back.
"Alex, I've done the digging," George began, skipping the small talk. "The league presents a genuine financial inefficiency. The clubs are currently valued strictly as regional entertainment venues. Because the commercial deals and television contracts are so underdeveloped right now, the English Football League is significantly undervalued by current market standards. You could acquire a mid-table First Division club, complete with its entire infrastructure and fan base, for around £8 million."
"That low?" Alex asked, genuinely surprised.
George explained the market reality of 1987. "Yes, that low. The top club like Liverpool might graze £40 or £50 million, but the rest? The problem is advertising. The league lacks good commercial deals, and critically, the television deals are terrible. They don't provide the income boost that would naturally raise valuations."
"Got it. So, a distressed asset with massive, untapped potential," Alex concluded. "Have you found any clubs that are specifically in need of funding or available for purchase?"
"I have one," George said, his voice dropping slightly in professional anticipation. "A historical giant that has been struggling financially, despite its massive fanbase. The owner, Martin Edwards, has been quietly trying to sell a majority stake."
"Which one?"
"Manchester United."
Alex paused, struggling to recall their exact position. He knew the name, of course—a club steeped in glorious history and known worldwide for its legendary players and enduring legacy. However, they hadn't won the English First Division title since the era of George Best in 1967. They were, despite their size, in a two-decade-long drought.
"How much is he asking?" Alex asked.
"The asking price for a controlling stake is around £20 million," George stated. At the 1987 exchange rate, that's approximately $32.4 million US dollars."
Alex fell silent, running his own mental arithmetic. "Do I have that much liquid cash?"
"No," George was blunt. "Your net worth is close to $75 million, Alex, but most of that is tied up in long-term stocks, real estate, and your production company holdings. The massive earnings from Platoon and Top Gun take time to filter through Hollywood accounting and into your accessible accounts. Right now, you have about $8 million in cash."
Alex processed the number. He was thirty-two million dollars short. "So... I need a loan."
"Your name has that value," George confirmed immediately. "Goldman Sachs is willing to help you buy it. With the projected future growth of the league and your earning potential as collateral, we can arrange the financing for the remainder."
Alex didn't need any more convincing. The opportunity was immense, and the risk seemed small compared to the future potential George had outlined. He knew this was the time to act before the rest of the market woke up.
"Okay," Alex said, his voice firming up. "We buy it. But here's the condition: purchase 80% of the club. Let them keep 20% so that the existing managers and local people have a vested interest in running the football side of the business. We provide the capital and the future vision, but they manage the day-to-day."
"Understood, Alex. We'll draft the formal offer to the club immediately. Be prepared, though—the league still has to approve the sale, and there's always a risk of rejection."
Alex paused, the gravity of the regulatory hurdle settling in. He nodded to himself, accepting the challenge.
He then hung up the phone. He picked up the scripts Nancy had sent him for selection, shifting his focus back to the future of his acting career.