The following transcript is based upon a conversation that may or may not have taken place over the course of the last week. No names have been changed in order to protect the innocent. Because the men involved are guilty of gargantuan levels of greed.
*Phone rings.
“Jota is that you my old friend? It’s your agent here, Jorge Mendes. Long time no speak.”
“Jorge? Is this really you? You haven’t answered a single call or a text since I signed my last contract! You even blanked me on Whatsapp. Hold on, is this a new number?’
“Yeah, sorry about all that kiddo. I’ve been up to my eyes in it with CR7. I love him dearly but by God the man needs constant attention. It’s exhausting. Anyhow, how’s Glasgow? Is Stevie G still keeping you on your toes in training?’.
“Actually Jorge, he was the manager at Rangers. We signed for Celtic. Remember?"
“Oops! Yeah, whatever mate. Anyhow, here’s the thing. How do you fancy doing a Cristiano?
“Doing a what?’
“Moving to Saudi Arabia mate. Joining the big man out there,"
“Saudi Arabia? To tell you the truth Jorge, I’ve never even thought about it,"
“Well, I’ve got a bit of news for you. You’ve already signed a contract with Al-Ittihad. It’s all done and dusted. Just some minor details to thrash out. Like telling Celtic. And probably bunging them £25m to keep quiet. Just details, no biggie.”
“Hold on, I’ve signed for Al who? And you haven’t told Celtic yet? Jorge, how did you get permission to speak on my behalf without telling the club that owns me. Or even just letting me know?”
“Relax son. Old Uncle Jorge has got it all sorted,”
“Look, I’m really not sure about this. I’m happy here. The fans have made up a song for me, we’re winning s***-loads of trophies and we’ve got the Champions League again next season. I grew up dreaming of this stuff as a kid.’
“Get your head out of the clouds son. This is the big league we’re talking about.”
“Yeah, what’s it even called?”
“Who cares. It’s just details. Look, Cristiano loves the place. They even gave him a house of mirrors.”
“Like the ones at the carnival?”
“No, his entire house is literally made of mirrors. I’ve never seen him so happy.”
“But, what about the human rights issues? I’ve heard some terrible things.”
“Ach, it’s just local customs and quirks mate. You’ll get used to it.”
“Are you coming out with me?”
“Me? Don’t be daft. The whole Sharia Law thing is not really good for business.”
“Sharia what?”
“Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“Jorge, how much are they going to pay me? And do they even get my whole George Michael vibe?”
“£10m a year. Tax free. And, no, I was going to have a word with you about the other thing.”
“Never mind. £10m? Tax free? Where do I sign?”
“I told you, you already did.”
OK, so some - or all - of the above might have been completely made up for the purpose of this column. But you get the idea. What is going on here with the abomination of the Saudi Pro League is actually an affront to almost everything we ever cherished or believed this game of ours was supposed to be about.
Surely, no kid in the history of the world ever picked up a ball for the first time and thought, ‘You know what, I could make a killing if I could only learn to kick this thing around’. No, it’s supposed to be about the chasing of dreams. Of emulating heroes and following in their footsteps
And yet now we have one of the most talented players in our own top flight preparing to cash it all in to bank a sum of oil money so enormous that it will be almost impossible to spend in one lifetime. Of course, the obvious temptation is to blame it all on Ronaldo. After all, he did set himself up as Pied Piper of The Arabian Peninsula when he made the move there after spitting his dummy out all over the theatre of dreams at Old Trafford.
And, between them, Cristiano and his agent are proving to be as good as their word where this obscene sportswashing exercise is concerned. The grand plan appears to be the overseeing of a recalibration of the country’s global image by ploughing endless amounts of money into all manner of different sports.
It’s not designed to convince people of our age that Saudi Arabia is a changed place overnight. We are not the target audience because that particular ship has long since sailed. No, it’s about selling this vision to our kids. And then their kids.
In the hope that one day one of them might actually pick up a ball for the first time and begin dreaming about becoming the next Ronaldo or Jota. Or sampling the atmosphere of the world famous Riyadh derby. Yes, Jota will be set for life by then. But he’ll also have to live with the regrets of never knowing just what he might have been able to achieve had he not upped sticks to play his football in a desert just as he was entering his prime.
What if he had stuck it out in Glasgow for long enough to earn himself a move to England’s Premier League? Why not earn £200k a week down there than pocket it in the Middle East, even if the tax man isn’t taking his slice to pay for stupid little things. Like hospitals and schools?
But now that his mind has been made up, the worry for Celtic’s supporters will be that some of his mates might fancy it too. It should be hoped that they won’t be so easily persuaded because - even though the club might like the money involved - there is nothing to be enjoyed about seeing the game’s top talent be drained off and spirited away.
On the contrary, there’s a mouthwatering battle for domestic dominance to focus on as Michael Beale gets all tooled up on one side of the city and Rodgers wades through Celtic’s ginormous cash pile on the other, while plotting his next series of moves in the market.
This is what real football and age old rivalry feels like. And Jota is about to learn that no amount of money in the world can recreate it.
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