Football Dynasty-Chapter 577: So, Barcelona want Larsson too?

Camp Nou – Barcelona, 26 May 1999

1998–99 UEFA Champions League Final

The late May sun hung warm over Barcelona, casting a golden glow over the concrete ribs of Camp Nou. The streets around Les Corts buzzed hours before kickoff. Vendors shouted. Scarves fluttered. The air smelled of roasted almonds, tobacco smoke, and anticipation.

Richard read the financial pages over coffee in a quiet hotel near Avinguda Diagonal to make sure nothing had been overlooked — stadium construction costs, wage structures, and projected expenditures for his club.

By early afternoon, a driver dropped him near Camp Nou. Security was strict but not excessive — only paper tickets and physical stubs in those days. At the VIP entrance, a steward in a blazer checked his embossed ticket and nodded him through.

Richard was dressed casually — a linen shirt and dark trousers. David Silva wore a simple T-shirt and jeans, a scarf far too big for him wrapped around his neck. Busquets already had a Barcelona scarf draped proudly around his shoulders as they entered through the general admission gates.

Long lines. Metal turnstiles. The tearing sound of ticket paper.

Richard folded his ticket stub carefully and slipped it into his wallet before nodding toward the young boys and his three bodyguards. "Let’s go."

Inside the lounge, polished wood and glass tables reflected the sunlight. Spanish jamón was sliced thin behind a counter. UEFA officials, club directors, and former players engaged in quiet conversations in English, Spanish, and German.

Richard, Silva, and Busquets stood by the balcony overlooking the pitch. The seats were still mostly empty for now. Below them lay the perfect green grass, immaculate and waiting.

Just as Richard was settling into his seat, adjusting the Marca Magazine on his lap, someone stepped quietly into the edge of his view.

"Mr. Richard Maddox?"

The voice was calm making Richard turned slightly, surprised. The man standing before him was impeccably dressed in a dark navy suit, tie perfectly aligned.

"Yes?"

"Allow me to introduce myself. Raimon Carrasco, secretary to the Vice President of FC Barcelona. Our Vice President has been informed that you are in attendance this evening. He would be honored if you could join him briefly."

Richard blinked once.

So they knew. A foreign club owner sitting in the directors’ lounge during a Champions League final did not go unnoticed.

Carrasco continued smoothly, glancing at the two boys standing near Richard.

"You are welcome to bring the young gentlemen. I am certain the Vice President would not mind."

"..."

"No," Richard said politely, shaking his head. "That won’t be necessary."

What a joke!

Bring David Silva and Busquets into a private meeting with Barcelona’s vice president?

He definitely didn’t want to create trouble by putting the two talents he had worked so hard to bring to Manchester City onto the scouting radar of Barcelona’s vice president. That would be reckless. After all, everyone knew how Richard had built his Manchester City project from the ground up.

He handled the recruitment himself, identified the talent, negotiated the contracts, convinced families, structured the academy. He didn’t spend years building something carefully just to expose it casually in a VIP lounge at Camp Nou. No — he wasn’t that naïve.

Richard gave a short nod. He told Silva and Busquets to remain inside the lounge with the bodyguards he had brought along. Then he followed Carrasco down a quieter corridor. They entered a private suite overlooking the pitch from a higher vantage point.

Waiting inside was the vice president, Joan Gaspart, serving under president Josep Lluís Núñez — composed, impeccably dressed, his hands folded loosely in front of him. He was probably one of the most powerful executives at the club.

He was highly visible in the media and, based on circulating rumors, primarily handled institutional relations and was known for his strong public defense of Barcelona. The problem was... well, he was also known for occasionally making controversial statements.

"Mr. Maddox," he said smoothly. "A pleasure."

The formalities began.

"You’ve been busy in England," the vice president continued. "Your club’s transformation has not gone unnoticed."

Richard shook his hand firmly. "Likewise."

Neither man was a naïve businessman playing with money. Each understood power structures and the subtle language of influence.

"Television revenue is increasing. Transfer fees are escalating. The English market is becoming aggressive."

Richard only offered a neutral smile. "We’re building something long term."

Soon, the stadium began to roar as the players emerged for warm-up. With that cue, Gaspart quickly made his point.

"I’ve looked into Manchester City’s roster. Besides your primary striker, Trezeguet, this season, your usual substitute is that Swedish lad. If you don’t give him more game time, he’ll waste away at Manchester City. He needs experience to develop as a striker."

"..."

What a way to start a conversation!

Richard sighed slightly. Though he knew Gaspart wasn’t wrong. Strikers like Larsson didn’t grow by sitting on the bench. They needed rhythm, confidence, mistakes, recovery, ninety minutes under pressure, not fifteen-minute cameos when the match was already decided.

The problem was players like Ronaldo, Henry, and Trezeguet. This season they had been almost freakishly good — so dominant that Mourinho naturally prioritized them, especially after Larsson returned from injury. The Swede rarely completed a full ninety minutes. Most of his appearances came as a substitute, tasked with maintaining tempo rather than defining it.

"How would you use him?" Richard asked calmly.

"If he joins our squad, I’ll build a strategy around him."

"Strategy? Can you elaborate?"

Gaspart leaned back slightly, fingers interlocked. "A striker like that," he began, "is not simply a finisher. He is intelligent. He presses. He links play. He understands movement between the lines. Sometimes," he added carefully, "a team benefits from variation."

Variation.

Richard nodded slowly, as if genuinely considering the tactical theory rather than the subtext behind it.

"But I heard Barcelona have already made contact with Ajax, Sporting CP, and Mallorca to strengthen your attack?"

Marca had already done its job by reporting that Barcelona wanted Jari Litmanen, Simão, and Dani — all of whom basically played in attacking positions. And now they wanted Larsson too?

Where exactly were they planning to fit players like Kluivert and Rivaldo?

Gaspart shrugged. "We value adaptability. In a long season, there are different battles. Some require speed in behind. Others require physical presence. Others require patience."

He allowed a faint smile.

"And depth," he added. "Depth wins titles."

Richard held his gaze steadily. He understood instantly. Variation plus depth = backup.

"But I don’t want to sell him," Richard replied instantly after he understood the gist of the conversation.

Ever since Miss Heysen informed him that Manchester City was facing liquidity problems, he had become more money-conscious — especially with the club’s heavy debt tied to the new stadium. For the past three years, he had already injected funds through a shell company he had created, and to be honest, he didn’t want to take that risk again.

Gaspart chuckled. "If you don’t sell him, he’ll just rot on Manchester City’s bench. And when you finally want to sell him, you won’t be able to," he said confidently.

Richard thought for a moment before replying, "How about this — I’ll loan him to you for half a season and we’ll see how it goes. Honestly, if I sold him outright, he might not even want to join Barcelona directly."

Because Larsson was different from other players who were dazzled at the sight of a big club. How could he put it? Larsson always looked at the bigger picture. As long as he saw something that didn’t benefit him, even if it was Barcelona, he would likely refuse.

Gaspart raised an eyebrow.

"You’re being crafty," he said. "I help you develop the player, and in the end he returns from the loan, disrupting the tactical system I worked so hard to build?"

Richard remained calm. "This is my plan: let him play for Barcelona for half a season. If he performs well and you’re satisfied, we can extend the loan for another half season. Next summer, if he’s willing to move, I’ll be sure that sending him to you is the right decision. Then we can sit down and discuss a permanent transfer."

Gaspart stared at Richard for a while before shaking his head with a wry smile. "In the end, you just don’t want to lose out. If he performs well for us, we negotiate a transfer next summer. Will the price still be the same as this summer?"

Richard spoke seriously. "You should look at it this way: if you spend money to bring him in this summer and he fails to adapt to Spanish football, that’s a failed transfer. Starting with a loan gives you reassurance. Even if you have to pay a little more next summer, it would feel justified because the value would be proven. Buying him outright now is a gamble. Can Barcelona afford that?"

He paused slightly.

"Or rather... can you? After all, you’re the one responsible for this transfer."

Gaspart set down his glass and sighed. "I’ve got to say, I’m impressed with you. You should consider becoming a salesperson. Here’s my offer: this summer, you loan him to us for half a season. You cover his salary, and the loan fee will be zero. How does that sound?"

Richard considered it carefully before replying, "For the sake of our friendship, Manchester City can take a small hit. But—"

He suddenly raised a finger.

"Everything still depends on Larsson’s decision."

Gaspart waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, come on, don’t be ridiculous—"

Done with the sudden discussion with Barcelona’s vice president, Richard immediately returned to the lounge.

When he came back, the match had already started.

Manchester United 0 – 1 Bayern Munich.

Richard knew the result already — everyone in football history did — but seeing it live still shocked him.

Manchester United were already one goal down? 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

The match had only been going for six minutes.

"You won’t believe this!" David Silva said excitedly before explaining how the Red Devils had conceded.

Six minutes into the match, Johnsen fouled Bayern striker Jancker just outside the penalty area. Basler stepped up and curled a low free kick around the United wall, catching Schmeichel flat-footed as the ball slid into the net.

"But United didn’t collapse though. Look — they’re actually dominating," Thiago Busquets said, his eyes never leaving the pitch.

Although they were now a goal down, United indeed began to dominate possession. The problem was that they failed to create any clear-cut chances. As half-time approached, Giggs — playing out of position on the right — sent a weak header toward Kahn from a Cole cross. It was the closest they came to scoring in the first half.

In the second half, the German team started more positively. Within a minute of the restart, Jancker forced a save from Schmeichel.

As injury time approached the 90th minute, it began to feel as if Bayern were destined to win... until Schmeichel ventured up into Bayern’s penalty area.

Beckham floated the corner just over Schmeichel’s head. Yorke headed the ball back into the crowded area. Fink failed to clear properly, and the ball fell to Giggs at the edge of the box. His right-footed snap shot was weak and poorly struck, but it went straight to Sheringham, who swung his right foot at it and guided the ball into the bottom corner of the net.

BOOM!

The goal came 36 seconds into injury time. It looked as if, after being behind for most of the match, United had forced extra time.

"Beckham, in towards Schmeichel. It’s come for Dwight Yorke. Cleared... Giggs with the shot... Sheringham! Name on the trophy! Teddy Sheringham, with 30 seconds of added time played, has equalised for Manchester United — they are still in the European Cup!"

Manchester United 1 – 1 Bayern Munich.

Less than thirty seconds after the restart, Manchester United surged forward as if pulled by destiny itself.

Teddy Sheringham barely had time to catch his breath before the ball was worked wide again. Ole Gunnar Solskjær drifted into space and clipped a hopeful cross toward the near post — and Samuel Kuffour, scrambling under pressure, stuck out a leg and deflected it behind.

Corner, another one. This time, Peter Schmeichel stayed in his own penalty area, finally following Ferguson’s frantic instructions. There would be no more heroics from the goalkeeper.

This was the last roll of the dice.

David Beckham walked over once more.

The Camp Nou air felt heavy. Bayern players shouted, arms raised, trying to reorganize. Kuffour thumped his chest. Matthäus barked orders. Oliver Kahn screamed from his line, fists clenched.

Beckham raised his arm. The delivery curled in — fast, dipping, dangerous and Sheringham attacked it. He didn’t try to score. He improvised. A glancing header across goal. The ball skipped through a forest of legs, bouncing waist-high inside the six-yard box.

For a split second, nobody reacted.

Then Solskjær did.

He stabbed out his right foot — pure instinct. The ball rocketed upward and smashed into the roof of the net from barely three yards out.

Time fractured.

Kahn twisted mid-air — too late. Kuffour collapsed to his knees. The Bayern defenders froze, staring at the net rippling above them.

Goal.

With just 43 seconds of injury time remaining.

Solskjær wheeled away, eyes wide with disbelief. He slid on his knees toward the corner flag — arms spread — echoing Basler’s earlier celebration in cruel reversal.

The United bench erupted.

Across the pitch, Schmeichel cartwheeled inside his own penalty area like an overgrown child, pure joy exploding out of him.

The game restarted, but many Bayern players were overwhelmed with despair. Some could barely stand and needed referee Collina to urge them back to their feet.

PHWEEEEEE~

At the final whistle, referee Pierluigi Collina later described the roar from the Manchester United supporters as sounding like a "lion’s roar."

Samuel Kuffour collapsed in tears after the match, pounding the turf in despair, while Carsten Jancker fell to the ground in anguish.

For Lothar Matthäus, the pain carried a cruel sense of déjà vu. He had captained Bayern Munich in the 1987 European Cup final and lost under similarly heartbreaking circumstances, when Porto scored twice late in the match. This time, he had been substituted with ten minutes remaining, with victory seemingly secure — only to watch history repeat itself from the sidelines.

"You have to feel this is their year. Is this their moment? Beckham into Sheringham... and Solskjær has won it! Manchester United have reached the promised land! Ole Solskjær! The two substitutes have scored the two goals in stoppage time — and the throphy looms large!"

Manchester United 2 - 1 Bayern Munich