CHAPTER 443: ANOTHER SPAIN GEMS

Born in La Pobla de Segur, Lleida, Catalonia, Carles Puyol began his football journey at his hometown club—as a goalkeeper. However, frequent shoulder injuries forced him to give up the position and move further up the pitch as a forward.

In 1995, he joined FC Barcelona’s famed youth academy, La Masia, where he once again changed roles—this time to defensive midfielder. Two years later, Puyol earned his place in Barcelona B, often deployed as a right-back.

There was a particular reason Richard had his eyes set on Puyol for Manchester City. He remembered that, at one point, Barcelona had accepted an offer from Málaga to sell the young defender. At the time, Puyol was still behind Frank de Boer and Michael Reiziger in the defensive hierarchy, and his future at the club looked uncertain.

Richard didn’t know the full story of why that transfer eventually fell through—but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the opportunity. If Málaga had seen something special in the young Catalan, then Richard would do the same. This time, he intended to succeed where others had failed—to bring Puyol to Manchester City.

At that very moment, Barcelona B were in the middle of a friendly match against Valencia’s U18 squad. The late afternoon sun bathed the Mini Estadi in a golden hue, and the sound of shouting coaches, thudding boots, and cheering parents filled the air.

Standing at the training ground and watching the Barcelona youth training for a while, Marina asked Richard beside her, "What do you think?"

"His physique is excellent. As a center-back, his anticipation and leadership are on par with our own Fabio Cannavaro," Richard commented. It was his conclusion after just half an hour of observation. He hadn’t yet evaluated the rest of Puyol’s abilities—those he hadn’t seen. "Physically, I don’t think he’d have any trouble adapting to the English league. Who are our competitors?"

"As far as I know... Málaga, Valencia, and Atlético Madrid scouts are also here," Marina said, listing the three Spanish clubs present at the match.

Málaga, as expected, Richard thought. But Valencia and Atlético Madrid caught him by surprise. But he was not surprised. He nodded. "Of course." An outstanding player would naturally attract favorable attention from the best clubs. What interested him more was how Richard planned to compete against these three clubs for the player.

In terms of financial strength, none of them could compete with Manchester City’s deep pockets. But then again—this was Barcelona they were talking about. Trying to steal a talent from La Masia? Unless you were fully prepared, you might as well turn back.

Thankfully, Manchester City’s performance last season could serve as a powerful bargaining chip. And Richard knew something else—there was a loophole he could exploit to sign Puyol.

Spanish law was unique in that it stipulated no player under the age of 18 could sign a professional contract. This regulation, meant to protect minors, applied not only to companies but to football clubs as well.

Because of this, Spanish teams that invested heavily in developing young stars often found themselves in a precarious position. They could nurture a future national team player, only to lose him before he ever signed professionally. Clubs lived in constant fear of foreign scouts and recruiters lurking around their academies, ready to snatch away the talent they had painstakingly trained.

Without the ability to secure a player’s long-term future through a contract, the only thing binding a young talent to his club was loyalty—and that was fragile. If the club could offer him a clear path forward, the player would likely stay. But if it couldn’t—and another club came along promising opportunity and recognition—then losing that player became inevitable.

One perfect example was Cesc Fàbregas. He adored Barcelona with all his heart—his entire family were lifelong, loyal supporters of the club. Yet, despite his passion and promise, the young midfielder never received a formal call-up to the first team. For a long time, Barcelona simply couldn’t promise him a future, not with the likes of Xavi, Andrés Iniesta, and other established stars already commanding the midfield.

And so, the Golden Ball winner of the 2003 FIFA U-17 World Championship, the captain of Spain’s youth team—the pride of La Masia—left the club that had raised him and moved to North London.

At the heart of that move was Arsène Wenger, a man renowned for his shrewdness. Wenger had an uncanny eye for talent and an even sharper sense for loopholes.

Spanish law prohibited clubs from offering professional contracts to players under 18. But in England, the rules were different—clubs could sign players professionally from the age of 16. That two-year gap created a golden window of opportunity for English clubs hungry for young talent.

Wenger and others wasted no time. They scoured Spain, offering young players what their home clubs legally couldn’t: security, opportunity, and a professional career.

"Your club can’t give you a contract, can’t promise you a future," they would say. "But we can."

Wenger, in that sense, was like Christopher Columbus in the age of exploration—charting a new world for English football. He opened a path that many would follow.

Soon, English managers came to view Spain as a treasure trove of young, technically gifted players—free to sign, ready to play, and polished by the rigorous standards of La Masia.

And to Barcelona, Fàbregas’s success at Arsenal was both proof of their academy’s brilliance and a painful reminder of their vulnerability. For every gem they polished, there was always a risk that someone else—better prepared, better positioned—would claim it.

While Richard was deep in thought, Marina suddenly nudged him.

"Richard, look at that," she whispered, pointing toward the entrance of the stadium.

A small group of Caucasian men had just entered, carrying sports bags and moving with a certain deliberate confidence. Richard recognized it instantly—the posture, the alert eyes, the quiet air of focus.

They were scouts.

Marina leaned closer. "Do you know them?"

Richard’s gaze settled on one of the men. He nodded slowly. "Jim Lawlor. Manchester United."

He wasn’t surprised to see English scouts at Barcelona’s training ground. He knew that among the incognito crowd, there were others besides Manchester United—each looking to uncover the next bright talent from Barcelona.

"Forget about him," Richard said with a small shake of his head. "He’s not here for Puyol."

"How do you know that?" Marina asked.

"I just know," he replied.

If he was right, their target was Gerard Piqué.

"Let’s head back," Richard said. "Please talk to his agent first—and ask him to have dinner with us tonight, if possible," he instructed.

Marina nodded.

After Manchester City’s press conference, the article published by the Manchester Evening News caused quite a stir.

The headline read: "The Second Generation of the Blues Is Taking Shape — Manchester City’s Five Star Players Head in Different Directions!"

Over the past four years, Richard had built the first generation of the Blues, leading them to glory with both Premier League and Champions League titles. That golden era had established City as a true European powerhouse.

Yet now, change was inevitable.

Surprisingly, the City fans reacted with calm acceptance. After all, they had witnessed history. It was only natural that some players, having reached the pinnacle of their careers, would seek new challenges elsewhere. The fans understood that this was part of football’s endless cycle—the end of one Chapter and the beginning of another.

And now, it was time to test Richard’s skill once again—as he began to build what the media called "City’s Second Generation".

There were still familiar faces in the team—Ronaldo, Pirlo, Cannavaro, Zidane, and Makélélé—but the composition was shifting. The system that had once dominated Europe would inevitably evolve.

Back to Richard scene~

By five o’clock in the afternoon, Richard and Marina had already arrived at the restaurant, where Richard was prepared to meet and negotiate with Puyol’s agent. The table was set, the documents neatly arranged, and Richard’s expression was calm yet focused—everything was ready.

But as Marina returned from a brief phone call, the look on her face told him something was wrong. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice low.

"Richard... bad news."

Richard immediately turned to her, concern flickering across his face. "What’s wrong?"

Marina hesitated, glancing down before meeting his eyes again. "It’s Puyol... he refused to meet us."

"What?" Richard’s brows furrowed. "Did something happen? Did he already talk to another club?"

Marina shook her head slowly. "No. At least, not that we know of. His agent just said Puyol isn’t interested in discussing any transfer right now. He said... he wants to stay in Barcelona."

Richard leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply. "Did he say anything?"

Marina shook her head. "No, he didn’t speak to me directly. But his agent said Puyol’s made up his mind. Apparently, he was thinking about leaving before... but everything changed after his best friend made his first-team debut."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "Best friend?"

"He said his name is Xavi Hernández."

For a moment, Richard said nothing. Then he let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair. Xavi Hernández... Of course. Now it all made sense.

The missing piece of the puzzle clicked perfectly into place. Puyol wasn’t staying for the club’s promise or even the badge — he was staying for friendship. He had watched Xavi, the boy he’d trained and grown up with, step onto the pitch wearing the same colors they’d both dreamed of.

Richard pushed his chair back and stood up, "Forget about Puyol," he said flatly.

Marina blinked in surprise. "Are we... giving up on him? Where are we going next?"

Richard turned toward the window, the glow of Barcelona’s sunset reflecting off his sharp gaze. "For now, you stay here in Barcelona. Do your best to secure a player named Cesc Fàbregas for me."

"Cesc... Fàbregas?" Marina repeated, already reaching for her notebook.

"Yes," Richard nodded. "He’s still young, but his vision and control of the midfield are unlike anything I’ve seen. After that, head to UD San Fernando Maspalomas. There’s another gem I want — a boy named David Silva. Secure his signature at all costs."

"And you? What will you do?"

Richard smirked, slipping his coat over his shoulders. "I’m heading north — to the Basque Country. There’s a club called Antiguoko. They’re the feeder for Athletic Bilbao, so it won’t be easy to negotiate. That’s why I have to go myself."

He paused, his voice low but charged with purpose. "The boy’s name is Xabi Alonso."

Richard was already prepared. If Barcelona had Sergio Busquets, Xavi Hernández, and Andrés Iniesta, then he would build his own trinity to rival them — just in case. His eyes gleamed as he imagined it — the foundation of a new era.

Xabi Alonso — the deep-lying playmaker, the mind that dictates the rhythm.

Cesc Fàbregas — the creative force, the link between defense and attack.

David Silva — the magician in the final third, the spark that makes everything come alive.

Together, they would become the heart of the next generation — the midfield of Manchester City’s future.