The God of Football Starts With Passive Skills

And yet, when the moment finally came, he couldn’t remain calm.

The heart that had been beating for sixty-one years was still as vigorous and powerful as ever.

On the wall of Wenger’s office hung a team photo of the 03/04 Arsenal squad, the one that won the title undefeated.

That was Wenger’s pride.

He could still vividly recall every single person in the photograph.

It all felt as if it had happened only yesterday.

Back then, who could have imagined that Arsenal would fall to such a state?

A sudden knock came from the door.

"Come in."

Wenger knew who it was and slowly turned around.

Arsenal CEO Ivan Gazidis pushed the door open. He clutched a recently received transfer plan in his hand, his face a mask of disbelief. In a rushed, nervous, and even slightly trembling voice, he questioned Wenger.

"Arsene, are you serious?"

Wenger didn’t seem to mind the accusatory, almost offensive tone in Gazidis’s voice. Instead, he elegantly and calmly gestured toward the armchair opposite him, inviting the man to sit.

Everything was just as it always was.

"No, seriously, Arsene. Are you sure about this?"

This was the second time he had asked him to his face.

But Wenger still didn’t answer directly. He offered a restrained smile instead. "Have you spoken to Dick Law about this?"

"Of course. He’s as spooked as I am," Gazidis said, his words rushed.

"What is going on? You know if this plan gets out, the fans will go absolutely insane. How are we supposed to sell season tickets then? They’ll tear us apart!"

"They’re already furious that the team hasn’t won a trophy in years. Their patience has worn thin."

Wenger waited patiently for Gazidis to finish his outburst. Then, in a calm but commanding tone, his eyes sharp as lightning, he stared at Gazidis and said, "Listen, Ivan. What I’m about to tell you is far more important than anything you’ve just said."

"What?" Gazidis was taken aback.

Wenger didn’t answer directly. He rose from the sofa, walked over to the wall beside them, and pulled out a large tactics board, flipping it around.

Only then did Gazidis realize that the other side of the seemingly blank tactics board was covered in a dense web of arrows, dotted lines, and circles...

And at the heart of it all was a single photograph.

Dortmund’s number 9, Wang Shuo!

"You know who this is?" Wenger asked, pointing to the photo.

"Of course. Wang Shuo. The best forward in the European Football Scene right now. He scored fifty-four goals in the Bundesliga this season. The man’s been playing out of his mind!"

Gazidis suddenly realized something and shot up from the armchair, unable to contain himself.

"Wait, Arsene. I’m telling you, we can’t possibly go after Wang Shuo. You know we..."

"And why not?" A near-fanatical glint flashed in Wenger’s sunken eyes, set deep in his deeply lined face.

Gazidis was at a loss for words.

’Yeah, why not?’

’A powerhouse club, a perennial top-four finisher in the Premier League, can’t afford Wang Shuo?’

’Is it that we truly can’t afford him?’

’Or is it that Arsenal just *thinks* we can’t afford him?’

Gazidis forced himself to calm down. He looked at Wenger. "Arsene, I have to say, in theory, it might be possible. But in reality, we can’t afford to take that risk!"

Hearing this, Wenger let out a chuckle, which then turned into a laugh.

The laugh made Gazidis’s stomach churn with unease.

He had a feeling. Everything Wenger had said during this meeting, everything on that tactics board—it wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment impulse. It was the result of long-term preparation and planning, maybe a year, or even two.

"Ivan, do you know how the media and the fans mock me?"

Gazidis fell silent.

"From 2005 until now... for six years, we haven’t won a single trophy!"

"Liverpool’s results have been up and down, but at least they’ve won the Champions League, the FA Cup, and the Community Shield! And they consistently perform well in the Champions League."

"And us?"

Wenger looked at Gazidis. The expression on his face resembled a smile, but his tone was razor-sharp.

It was more like self-deprecation.

"Every year, come March or April, everyone says the same thing: ’Ah, there goes Wenger and his Arsenal, ending their season early again.’"

"Every transfer window, no matter what player we’re linked with, the media and fans refuse to believe it. They all assume it’s just another ’beautiful misunderstanding.’"

"They joke about it, teasing me about which star I almost signed, about all the players I’ve missed out on."

"But, Ivan, you know that none of this is what I want!"

At this, Wenger suddenly raised his voice.

"You want to talk to me about reality? Then let me tell you what reality is, Ivan!"

"The reality is that for years, all the club’s financial data has told me we have zero room for error. A single bad transfer, one mistake in the 10 to 20 million British Pounds range, would put us at risk."

"The reality is that because of these finances, we’re always overly cautious and hesitant when trying to sign players in that ten to twenty million pound range, and we end up losing out to other clubs every time."

"The reality is that every time I propose signing a player, the finance department comes to me with budgets and analysis and says, ’Boss, we have the funds to make the transfer happen, but the risk-to-reward ratio is unclear. If we spend this much on a single player and he doesn’t perform, we’ll be in deep trouble.’"