Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Carl was already at the café when Mateo arrived at five past five.

He'd been there since four, not waiting outside the ground this time, which he'd done once already and had found instructive. He'd chosen a table near the window, ordered coffee, and spent an hour reviewing his notes and watching the street. The café was quiet and well-lit and on the kind of street that served the professional class who lived near football clubs, sports agents, journalists, club staff.

Mateo came through the door still carrying the slight looseness of someone who had been on a training pitch for three hours. Carl stood and extended his hand.

"Mateo." The warmth was genuine.

"Carl." Mateo sat, he gave the laminated menu a cursory glance, then looked up at the waiter who had appeared at his elbow. "Just water for now, thanks."

Carl waited for him to settle. "I heard you had company this afternoon."

"Reinhardt came to meet me," Mateo said.

"With a retention offer?"

"Yes."

"How did it go?" Carl asked.

"He left without a signature." Mateo looked right at him. "Same result you had the first time.

"Carl smiled at that, actually smiled. It was the specific smile of a man who can appreciate a well-placed observation about himself.

"Fair," Carl said.

They settled into the slightly formal ease of two people who had met once before under awkward circumstances and were trying a second time with different energy.

Outside, in a parked Volkswagen across the street, a photographer named Sheldon was already working.

He'd been tipped off by a contact inside the club, not a planted source, just someone who had mentioned in passing that Schalke's new midfielder had been seen leaving the main gate at five in the direction of Wilhelminenstraße. That was enough. Sheldon had been covering football gossip in the Ruhr area for six years and had an instinct for the moments that became front pages.

He'd arrived before either of them and had positioned the car where the window angle caught the café table without the reflection. His colleague was already composing the caption.

"Manchester United scout," Sheldon said, watching through the lens. "That's Carl Weber. I know that face, he was here six weeks ago. Didn't come away with anything then."

"Who's the kid?"

"Mateo Silva. He debuted as Schalke's midfielder. You've been living under a rock." He took another shot. "He's at a café with United's scout. That's a story."

He sent the first frame to the desk before the coffee arrived.

Carl laid out the offer directly once they'd settled.

He didn't build to it. He'd learned from the first visit that Mateo didn't respond to preamble, and he wasn't interested in wasting either of their time on it.

"Ferguson's position," Carl said. He placed the headed notepaper on the table. "First-team consideration from day one. Genius clause active, which means you're eligible to play regardless of international clearance. Contract and compensation at your request within reason, he's given me full flexibility on figures." He paused. "And this." He tapped the paper. "He said to tell you he'll build around you if you earn the position."

Mateo read the single page. He read it carefully, which Carl appreciated, a player who actually read things rather than performing the gesture of reading them.

He set it down.

"This is a serious offer," Mateo said.

"Yes."

"The first one wasn't."

"The first one assumed you were a player who could be persuaded by standard incentives." Carl kept his voice even. "It was wrong about that."

Mateo looked at the page again. The framework was genuine, not a loan arrangement, not a development contract, not a squad place dressed up as something more. A starting position at Manchester United, contingent on performance, from a manager who had produced Giggs, Scholes, Beckham, Ronaldo.

He turned the page face-down on the table.

"I'm not transferring this season," he said.

Carl was quiet for a moment. Not deflated, he'd prepared himself for this. "Because of the development time?"

"Because I need more time at this level before the next level makes sense. I'm playing in the Bundesliga for the first time. My defence is poor. My physical game needs work. Going to Old Trafford now and finding myself on the bench because I can't hold my own in training doesn't help either of us."

Carl looked at him. The clarity of the reasoning was slightly startling in a seventeen-year-old.

"If I go somewhere at the wrong moment," Mateo continued, "I waste two years. I'd rather have two more Bundesliga seasons and arrive properly than go now and spend time catching up."

Carl nodded slowly. "And if you do decide to leave-"

"I'll contact you first. You have my word."

A pause. Then Mateo's phone vibrated on the table.

He glanced at the screen. A German number he didn't recognise.

He answered. "Hello?"

"Mr. Silva? My name is Matthias Sammer. I'm calling on behalf of Bayern Munich. I was hoping to arrange a private meeting at your convenience, entirely confidential, of course."

Mateo looked at Carl, who had heard every word through the quiet café.

Carl looked back at him.

There was a brief, specific silence.

"I'm in a meeting right now," Mateo said into the phone. "I'll call you back."

He ended the call, set the phone down.

Carl picked up his coffee with the expression of a man reassessing his position in a queue he'd believed was shorter.

"Bayern?" Carl asked.

"Apparently."

A pause.

"How many clubs have contacted you since Sunday?" Carl asked.

Mateo thought about it. "You, Bayern, and Reinhardt for Schalke." He paused. "Though Reinhardt wasn't technically a club contact, more of a retention attempt."

Carl set his coffee down. "The offer stands. Whenever you're ready." He signalled for the bill. "For what it's worth, Ferguson said specifically that if you wanted to wait a season, the offer would still be there."

Mateo nodded.

They shook hands at the door. Carl walked one direction, Mateo the other. Outside, Sheldon lowered his camera and reviewed the shots. Both men in frame, the café window between them, the handshake clear.

He sent the second batch to the desk before he'd started the engine.

Plz Drop Some Power Stones.

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