Ferran Soriano strode purposefully up to Passport Control at Changi Airport and, though not used to waiting in queues, dutifully placed himself behind a gaggle of Japanese students arriving in Singapore for the All-Asia Ladies Touch Rugby Finals.
Having completed the formalities of entry, and having helped himself to a handful of the free Fox’s Fruit Candies placed invitingly in a crystal bowl, Soriano headed through the air-conditioning towards the taxi ranks.
Soriano was in a hurry.
As Vice-President of Barcelona Football Club, he was used to making big decisions, but few were bigger than the issue weighing on his mind this balmy Saturday, and which had convinced him to half circumnavigate the globe when he should have been taking his two sons to watch the touring NBA basketball team back home in the Catalan capital.
After weeks of high-level wheeling and dealing, ramping up his Iberian Air Miles and sitting through endless meetings with spivvy agents, Soriano was, he thought, finally on the verge of capturing the last Great European to complete his own collection of Galacticos. Samuel Eto’o had been a steal, Lionel Messi had been more of a struggle and Deco’s arrival had given him sleepless nights for a month. Ronaldinho, of course, had been his coup de grace, and the biggest thumbing of noses to the high and mighty in Madrid.
But, having finished the season limply, beaten by Liverpool in Europe and surrendering the domestic league title to rivals Real, Soriano knew he had to pull out the Big One, to generate season ticket sales for the new season and ensure Barca would again dominate both at home and in the European club competitions. Eto’o had committed the cardinal sin of saying he would be interested playing elsewhere and Ronaldinho was showing signs of mortality, looking sluggish at the end of a World Cup season that had clearly taken its toll.
Soriano had done his homework, and was helped by an army of informed scouts, many of whom were decent former professional players, fanned out across all parts of Europe, Africa and, increasingly Asia, checking on local talent, talking to people in the know and hoping to unearth the next Ado.
The Barca VP was about to announce one of the biggest signings of his career when one of the team of Asian scouts alerted him to someone he was told, enigmatically, was a ‘must-see’, in person, no less. Hence the overnight flight to Singapore and the uncomfortable cab ride during which Uncle had insisted on asking him all sorts of tiresome questions about Real Madrid and King Juan Carlos, the Brazilian left-back, and asking whether Spanish people still ate the bulls they killed, and why did everybody go to sleep in the afternoon. He noted that Singapore was hotter than Spain, but you wouldn’t find anyone here having a siesta. That was a missed opportunity to be making money-lah.
Eventually, via one wrong-turn by MacRitchie Reservoir, Soriano arrived at Bukit Timah Fields. The agent had e-mailed his apologies earlier in the week – he had to be elsewhere for a religious festival, not to be missed, more than his life’s worth … but he’d attached a photograph of the potential target and included a map of Singapore with the BC’s Bukit Timah pitch circled in red.
Soriano, feeling a little out of place in his crumple-free, Continental-cut suit, crisp white shirt and 750 Euro tan loafers, tried to mingle inconspicuously with the crowd, moving slowly among the WAGS, who were talking babies, the youngsters, who were quietly hatching plans to sabotage the Racquets Bar changing rooms, and some older gents, who it later transpired were the Corinthian subs.
Soriano discreetly took out the photo from his inside jacket pocket and scanned the face; boyish, tanned, a hint of a goatee, and that peculiar Teutonic sculpting of the cheeks and jaw. He ran his eyes quickly over the team in red shirts to see if he could see his man.
He saw a lot of huffing and puffing by old blokes with beer guts, some energetic, but ultimately fruitless, running by some young Japanese guys, but he could see no sign, categorically no sign, of the “outstanding” striking talent that had brought him all this way at the 11th hour.
While he watched, with increasing dismay, the BC, looking the stronger, took the lead when marauding full-back MJ followed up a long, raking free-kick from AP to poke the ball home. Soriano perked up. No, no goatee.
After a couple of scares in defence, the BC, finally getting into some cohesive shape and stride, doubled their advantage when MB put some use to all his months of speed-running and weight-training by chasing a ball down the left flank and miscuing a shot that ran invitingly into AL’s path. The saronged crooner controlled, pirouetted and slammed the ball unceremoniously past the keeper.
Soriano studied the scorer with interest, looked again at the photo and shook his head. Too bulky.
He again took out the photo and scanned the pitch, resting his troubled gaze on a forlorn figure up front for the BC. No, surely not, it couldn’t be …
NG was having a bad day. He’d been up since 3 a.m., hadn’t sold a single bagel as a he cycled his rickshaw around clubland in the early hours, and now he’d cocked up pretty much anything that came near him. His timing was out, worse than having two left feet, he didn’t have any feet, and he was struggling to stay onside and in tune with his team mates and weigh up the future prospects of his bagel business. Worse, he had a cramping attack of the equivalent of a pro-golfer’s yips. The ball came towards him; he stretched out a booted leg, the ball bounced away. A lofted ball played him into space, he tripped. A shooting chance, one of many … a scuff, a miscue, a horribly misplaced, dragged effort for which ‘shot’ is too kind a word.
Soriano made notes with his miniature, gold-drilled propelling pencil, which he fussily preferred to the ornate club Blackberry with its BFC logo and Ronaldinho screensaver. He was closer to making his decision. If it had to be a toss-up between Player A or Player B, he’d go for A.
He pondered. Did anyone in Asia hate him so much to drag him all this way to witness this cruel joke? Did he have new, unforeseen enemies in this part of the world? He would have to be careful. The world of sport politics was a dangerous one. Survival of the fittest and Soriano had been a survivor.
The half-time whistle was blown. Soriano had seen enough. This could only have been a hoax, an utterly pointless wild goose chase. He strode over to behind the BC cricket pavilion, took out his mobile and dialled a London number.
It rang three, four, five times before a professorial Gallic voice answered.
“We’ll take Henry. Sixteen million,” Soriano said and pressed the End Call button with a genuine smile of satisfaction spreading across his jowly face.
He hailed a taxi back to the airport.
J-Heat came out at the start of the second half like some stereotypical kamikaze flying squad, buzzing towards JL’s goal at terrifying speed and in hordes. For 10 minutes, the BC lost shape, passion and purpose, during which period the visitors scored one and could, should, have added two more.
Gradually, the home side regained some composure, with MJ and UN ruling the right and PR flitting from left to middle, to right, and back again, in front of the redoubtable JR, AP, IG and BC in defence. JR and GT completed the midfield engine room. A couple of AL half chances lifted the mood, and the BC pushed forward. JM battled gamely up front.
Ant’s Japanese Beginners course looks, or sounds at least, to be paying off, as he exchanged pleasantries in the local dialect with one prostrate J-Heat defender who had had the temerity to tackle him and then kick him.
PR jinked menacingly on the left, cut in and shot/crossed. The defence was AWOL. One solitary figure advanced. The ball span to a halt on the goal-line. The keeper was nowhere. Soriano was off in his taxi, oblivious to the rapid turnaround in the fortunes of the BC’s own Blitzkrieg Bomber. NG belted the ball.
Players, WAGS, BT, Eugene, the EFL guy and his girlfriend, drunk cricketers, even the Corinthians on the neighbouring pitch, hushed for a second.
The net rippled. The BC led 3-1.
A palpable sense of relief rose around Bukit Timah Field like a gentle, warming breeze, rustling the undergrowth and dispelling the graying clouds.
Three minutes later, and a real kick in the teeth for Soriano. If only he’d stayed. Football is a game for the patient.
NG latched on to a delightful through ball, skipped across the keeper and steered home for a goal that would have graced La Liga, and will have one senior Barcelona executive sweating when he sees the video.
J-Heat struck back, but never threatened to take the points.
Not a convincing performance, but three points takes BC closer to the EFL title, with two games to play.
MoM: It seems churlish not to award this to NG, who scored two goals, but he’ll know why. Ace-assist man PR gets the nod, cementing the decision by fetching two lost balls after Sunday’s ESPZEN game.
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