In late January 2018, the air in North London, England, was damp and bitingly cold, at Arsenal's Colney Training Centre.
In Wenger's office, a fax from Germany lay quietly on his desk. The fax was precise and concise, conveying a message personally sent by Oliver, a representative of Hoffenheim. The main idea of the fax was simple: Oliver's first choice for a club to join in the summer transfer window would be Arsenal, conveying Oliver's intention.
After reading the fax, Wenger stood up and paced to the window; his frost-covered white hair and weary face were reflected in the glass. He recalled that a few days prior, he had personally finalized the last two significant winter signings, Aubameyang and Mkhitaryan, and the last available funds in the club's account were already depleted. But that name leaped into his mind: Oliver. He had been following this boy for a while; he was indeed a very talented boy.
Wenger's eyes flashed with the image of that agile dribbler, with broad vision, actively playing in the match video, and Oliver running, shooting, passing…
When Wenger saw Oliver in the video, he always felt there was something different in the boy's eyes. He recognized what it was: it was the early maturity and responsibility of a young Fabregas, the pure desire for a championship that Henry had when he first arrived in the Premier League. This was something called "competitiveness."
…
The next morning, Wenger proactively initiated a high-level meeting. Not many people were seated in the meeting room, but each held significant weight: Kroenke's most trusted son, Josh Kroenke, along with several core directors of the club, and key figures managing the transfer budget were all present. Wenger sat at the head of the table today, impeccably dressed in a gray suit.
"Alright, gentlemen, I will first report on Aubameyang and Mkhitaryan…"
The Coach's voice was steady, showing no ripples, reporting the final details of Aubameyang and Mkhitaryan's signings with clear words. When all matters were settled, he paused for a moment, and the only sound in the meeting room was the soft rustle of papers being flipped. The air solidified for a moment. Wenger raised his eyes, his gaze like quiet flowing water, slowly sweeping over each slightly relaxed face around the round table.
"Gentlemen, you have all received the news from Germany. Oliver," he articulated the name clearly,
"This boy who has shocked all of Europe in Germany, he recently clearly expressed his desire to join Arsenal."
Wenger finished speaking calmly, waiting for everyone's reaction. Kroenke was the first to shift his body, his stout back sinking into the wide leather chair, his fingers interlocked and resting on his bulging belly. He leaned back slightly, a habitual, thoughtful expression on his face.
When Wenger's gaze met his, Kroenke's eyes flickered, like a child who had done something wrong. His gaze briefly lingered on the white hair of the old Coach who had served Arsenal for over twenty years.
"Wenger, we certainly know that this boy… his talent is indeed captivating," Kroenke's voice was mixed with a professional composure, his pace of speech unhurried, "But the winter transfer window has indeed closed off the flow of funds. As for the summer transfer window, it's still far away, and the market is constantly changing. No one can say whether this boy will be worth 100 million, or even more, at that time, and whether it will still be a reasonable valuation? We still need… time, comprehensive evaluation, including risk tolerance models, future value curves, and so on… You understand, the overall view of club operations is paramount."
After Kroenke finished his last sentence, his gaze shifted to the documents on the table, not daring to look at Wenger's expression anymore. Wenger's Adam's apple moved almost imperceptibly, his gaze fixed on Kroenke's broad face, which was piled with almost "kind" difficulty. Wenger understood his meaning, understood it too well.
He understood the heavy subtext behind that phrase "overall view": it was the Kroenke family's core principle that had never changed in the past decade, self-sufficiency. Arsenal's management was like meticulous accountants, turning his championship dreams into profit and loss figures on a balance sheet. Ultimately, the nickname "Wenger's near misses" was branded on the forehead of Arsenal's Coach, Wenger. In an instant, countless similar yet chilling meeting scenes flashed before Wenger's eyes. Almost every meeting, Kroenke would use such excuses to fob off Wenger. This time, Wenger was no longer like before.
"Kroenke, he is worth it." Wenger's voice finally sounded, very hoarse.
The other people around the table exchanged glances, their eyes showing calmness, an imperceptible helplessness, and a kind of indifference towards "knowing something is impossible."
Kroenke's response carried a smooth smile: "Coach, we appreciate this boy's talent, but right now… we truly need to prioritize the integration of the newly acquired Aubameyang, that is the most urgent matter."
He paused, his voice softening further, with a hint of reassurance, "The market changes rapidly, we need multi-faceted judgment, but please rest assured, as long as it aligns with the club's long-term, healthy financial strategy, there is nothing that aligns more with our family's wishes than supporting Arsenal's revival…"
"Financial strategy?" Wenger asked in a low, deep voice, not loud, but it abruptly cut off Kroenke's words.
Kroenke froze, the smile on his face stuck there. Wenger slowly raised his head, his face devoid of color. He scanned the entire meeting room, his gaze no longer the usual gentle weariness; now, his gaze carried a resentment accumulated over many years of endurance. Wenger's body trembled violently, uncontrollably. He suddenly reached for the glasses he had worn for countless years, grabbing them from his nose bridge, then slammed them violently onto the long meeting table in front of him!
"Clang!"
The glasses bounced and spun on the smooth tabletop, the glass lenses detaching from the frame, the crystalline lenses almost shattering on the table. The entire meeting room fell silent due to the commotion. The senior director in charge of youth development next to Wenger recoiled half an inch, startled. He had never seen the Coach like this before. Kroenke and the Chief Financial Officer opposite him had their expressions frozen, the composure in their eyes suddenly drained, leaving only disbelief. Wenger's disheveled white hair trembled on his forehead, and his blue-gray eyes could no longer hide any emotion.
"Financial strategy…" he murmured, chewing on the word again.
"I, Arsène Wenger, have worked for Arsenal for twenty-one seasons." Wenger said, extending a withered finger, pointing directly at Kroenke, the family representative who presided over a wealth empire.
"I… how many captains have I sold? It was I, I personally sold off Arsenal's backbone, one by one!" Wenger's hand trembled violently.
"Vieira! Henry! Fabregas! Van Persie! How many times have you all sat here," he gestured around at the high-ranking officials, each staring blankly with bowed heads,
"You told me I had to sell the captain, for the books, for financial health! For your 'rationality'!"
Wenger suddenly propped himself up on the table, leaning forward, his bloodshot eyes burning into everyone at the other end of the meeting table.
Twenty years of suppression and humiliation now poured out: "And 'Wenger's near misses'… this humiliating, ridiculous nickname that will accompany me for life…"
Coach Wenger was practically roaring, every word steeped in the sediment of blood and tears, "Cristiano Ronaldo! Ibrahimović! Yaya Touré! Drogba! When they were shining elsewhere, was my vision too poor?"
Hidden in that self-mocking tremor was pain; he slammed his hand on the table and said: "No! It's because we couldn't afford the salaries they wanted! It's because we couldn't afford those damned transfer fees! Because every coin in our pockets was precisely calculated! I was like a fool with my hands tied and mouth gagged, watching those talents go to rival clubs! To build others' dynasties! My pain, my humiliation, I could only keep it bottled up! I couldn't even cry…"
His voice suddenly broke, like a bowstring stretched to its limit snapping,
"I couldn't even cry… I didn't dare to cry in front of others, because I am Arsenal's Coach!"
"I don't feel my own worth, I'm like… like a clumsy butler…" He bit hard on every word.
"You are all my colleagues, you all know. For so many years, the players I wanted to keep, I couldn't keep; the players I wanted to buy, I couldn't get! My coaching career has been put into this endless, ridiculous cycle, a huge, repeatedly mocked…"
"Joke…"
The last word finally left Coach Wenger's mouth, carrying all the unwillingness of his coaching career, all the unfulfilled efforts, all the unrealized desires for victory.
Wenger panted heavily, his tired gaze sweeping across the entire meeting room, the intensity in his voice considerably lowered: "Year after year, I take a Premier League tenth-place budget, yet I have to fight for that top four, to contend for that damned Champions League spot, just for those broadcasting revenues, just for that money! I am like an old machine about to be scrapped, patching and mending day after day, carefully maintaining a pathetic balance."
As Coach Wenger spoke, he raised a hand and fiercely wiped his cheeks and eye sockets, which were soaking wet. Tears flowed uncontrollably down his deeply etched wrinkles, mixed with twenty years of grievances and unwillingness, splattering onto the desk: "Every time the fans cursed me for being stingy! Every time the media mocked me for being cowardly! Did I ever argue? I bore all the blame myself! For what? To save you from embarrassment! To make the name Arsenal appear at least… decent in the eyes of outsiders!"
Wenger took a deep breath, he lifted his tear-stained face, and once again composed himself, saying: "Gentlemen, I am already 69 years old. Among Premier League Coaches, in terms of honors, no one is more of a failure than me, but in terms of my endurance, no Premier League Coach should be able to surpass me, right? I have been at Arsenal for 21 years, I am tired… truly… very tired."
Wenger slowly raised his head again, surveying the entire meeting room, looking at every face before him. The Chief Financial Officer dared not look at Wenger anymore, lowering his head to stare at the table, his face flushed crimson, fine beads of sweat seeping from his forehead.
"Consider it my plea to you, can you?" Wenger's voice suddenly softened, almost carrying a penetrating silence, "His name is Oliver, he is only seventeen, he has Fabregas's brain, Henry's legs, and a striker's instinct he shouldn't have at this age; he represents the next decade!"
Coach Wenger struggled to straighten his body, his back held erect, looking at Kroenke with a gaze that was almost a plea, but more like a final ultimatum, saying, "Don't let me reach the end of my professional career, only to look back and once again… once again miss him. This is the last player I… want, and you… are my last choice."
His utterly exhausted gaze swept over every silent face, "I will contact the boy, and I hope you… don't disappoint me."
Coach Wenger said no more. He slowly left the table, his steps unusually heavy. He walked through the heavy oak door and pulled it shut behind him.
"Click," the soft sound of the lock engaging, The sound was light, yet very heavy, like a cold boulder crashing into everyone's chest. Gazidis's face, which usually wore the mask of a professional diplomat, truly crumbled for the first time; his usually straight spine slowly softened, finally resting against the high-backed chair. Gazidis's lips trembled a few times before he managed to squeeze out a broken sentence:
"My God… what… what have we done all these years?"
The voice was as soft as a dream, yet it exploded like thunder in the dead silence.
"I seem… I have never seen Mr. Wenger like this, never…" the Chief Financial Officer stammered nervously.
Wenger, always known as a gentle Coach, had suppressed over 20 years of grievances for Arsenal, and they finally erupted today. Kroenke's palm pressed down on the open document, which bore Oliver's name and an astonishing transfer fee figure. His knuckles were white from the pressure, almost crumpling the paper. The shadow of his father, the club's commercial evaluations, and the stinging pain in his heart at that moment intertwined, making the young Kroenke representative's face as pale as the meeting room walls.
He suddenly looked up, his eyes fixed on Gazidis and the Chief Financial Officer, Hoss, his voice tight as he said: "This cannot continue… Hoss, no matter what method you use! Shareholder investment, selling off marginal shares, even if you have to divert the advance payments from the club's newly signed sponsors! The money for the summer transfer window must be in place! If this signing falls through…"
He suddenly cut himself off, not daring to say more, but the meaning was already clear. The cost of failure was the club's complete loss of its soul, and the irreversible collapse of a dynasty. Wenger's bloodshot, tear-filled eyes from moments before, and his trembling gesture of wiping away tears, replayed in his mind, like needles piercing through his proud commercial logic.
Hoss, the Chief Financial Officer, known for his calmness, even coldness, had a forehead covered in fine beads of sweat. He took off his glasses and repeatedly wiped the lenses with an expensive silk handkerchief, but his hands trembled violently, like a Parkinson's patient. A tremendous, unprecedented sense of shame and urgency overwhelmed him.
"Kroenke… Gazidis… give me time…" Hoss finally spoke, his voice hoarse, "I will immediately sort out financing channels; some early investment returns might arrive sooner than expected. I… I will immediately contact potential strategic investors… I will do my utmost…"
He frantically grabbed several documents and stuffed them into his briefcase, fumbling with the zipper several times, his movements clumsy. The meeting ended abruptly, without a final resolution document, without Wenger's usual polite farewell.
The remaining people exchanged brief glances, then hurriedly looked away, silently gathering their belongings. Wenger's choked voice, and the scene of him wiping away tears, echoed continuously in the minds of every Arsenal executive.
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