It’s the international break, which means I have more time on my hands than I’d like.

And this break has been long. Too long, especially for United fans.

I’ve spent days rewatching highlights, even going as far as sitting through Serie A highlights out of sheer boredom. I’ve monitored Madrid’s channels like a hawk: every update, every video posted. I miss those lads.

However, I’ve seen rumours online that Madrid want to sign Rodri, and I’ve never been so annoyed at my club.

One thing I learned about football transfers from a newsletter I read, The Long Play, is that transfers are far more complex than they appear in FIFA Career Mode. It’s not just about throwing money at whichever football star you want and building a super team that wins titles for years on end. No, life isn’t that simple. Football, as a mirror of life, isn’t either.

There’s a technique used by agents, clubs, and even players themselves to push transfers in their favour.

For example, if Reagan wants to sign for Madrid, but Madrid hasn’t made an official bid yet, Reagan can use bloggers and agents to spread word on social media that there’s “growing interest” or “tension” between him and Madrid, even if no talks have actually taken place. By the time preliminary discussions begin, the media speculation has grown so much that both parties are almost forced to find a middle ground.

If a club wants to sell Reagan to Madrid for the highest possible fee, they’ll use bloggers, insiders, and sometimes even agents to suggest that a move is imminent. This not only increases the pressure on the buying club but also often increases the player’s or selling club’s leverage during negotiations.

It’s what dictator Mbappé did for years.

Every summer, there was speculation that he would finally move to Madrid. But it never happened. This allowed him to negotiate higher wages with PSG year after year, with the constant threat of leaving. It’s what eventually led to his famous lawsuit with PSG over unpaid wages. He leveraged the media not only to increase his salary, but also to shape his eventual move to Madrid on his own terms, almost like a fairytale.

And I think that’s exactly what the fraud Rodri is doing.

I don’t like the guy. Never liked him. Not since his days at Villarreal and Atlético. Beyond what I consider his overrated footballing ability (if he has any), and the fact that he once said Ronaldo “doesn’t have natural football talent”, I can’t stand the way he tucks in his shirt into his shorts. It would look terrible in a Madrid kit.

Plus, we already have a world-class CDM in Tchouaméni, and Rodri clearly stole the Ballon d’Or from Vini. If Madrid signs him there may never be a bigger villain at the Bernabéu.

No. That guy cannot come to Madrid. No chance. I hope it’s all just speculation.

In a recent radio interview last week, when asked if he could ever see himself returning to Spain—possibly to Madrid—he said “you can’t turn down the best clubs in the world.” He also spoke about how intimidating the Bernabéu is, and how Madrid always knocks them out of the Champions League. Flattering words, clearly meant to sweeten Florentino’s ears.

I’m not buying it. He can stay with his corrupt club and his corrupt ways at the Empty-had.

This international break also reminded me of something.

You know how, back in school, some classmates would go off to drama festivals or events, and suddenly half the school would be empty? I imagine that’s how players who aren’t called up for international duty feel.

You’re left training for days with no matches in sight, working alongside academy kids, all while carrying the feeling that maybe you’re not good enough, not just for your club’s first team, but for your country too.

I see Trent training at Madrid while Jude is away with the England squad, and I can’t help but feel for him. His move to Madrid hasn’t gone as smoothly as he might have expected: injuries, time on the bench. And now no national team call-up. The halls at Ciudad Real Madrid must feel incredibly empty right now.

I’ve felt that way before.

I wasn’t much of a drama or arts person in primary or high school. I was a scout, but our camps usually happened after school closed, or from Thursday to Sunday. Not many people were called up for the camps, so the school never really felt empty because of us.

Other clubs though, were different. In my primary school the drama club was practically every girl in our class of forty, plus a handful of boys. They’d even pull students from other classes. When they left, it felt like half the school had disappeared.

In Class 7, about three-quarters of my class went to a drama festival, leaving only a few of us behind. At first it felt great—less noise, freedom to sit wherever you wanted, and teachers who barely bothered teaching. Except, of course, the math teacher. The rest just checked in to make sure we were studying instead of “beating stories”.

It felt good watching the bus leave the gate, enjoying extra cups of tea during break. But once the novelty wore off the reality set in: we were the outliers in a class full of talented arts students. Nowadays my generation calls it FOMO. That sense of being left behind, of being an outsider, even when it’s not really your fault. We can’t all be scouts, and we can’t all be drama students.

The first time I stayed behind it felt strange, like I was a reject, not good enough to make the cut. And among us “outliers” were those who had been dropped from the teams entirely. The outcasts. We became a mix of both—outliers and outcasts.

Probably how Trent feels right now.

The outcasts must have felt it the most watching people they had trained with leave without them. Especially in primary school, where wivu chokes the throat like a hot potato.

It was worse in high school because there were girls at those events. More fun. More mingling without teachers’ oversight. Staying behind in a boys’ school while your classmates went off to places like Chania Boys for music festivals left a bitter taste in your mouth and of course, your throat. You’d imagine all the girls they’d meet: baddies from Pangani and Kenya High, even the sophisticated ones from Riara.

You also definitely didn’t want to be the guy sending sticky notes through someone else to your girl in Maryhill just because you couldn’t attend. That note could get intercepted and read aloud in some classroom, and your name would be ruined forever. Or worse, it could reach her and she ends up liking the messenger instead. Or it might never arrive at all.

Honestly, thank God for WhatsApp and instant messaging. Being a pen pal was fun and all, but it came with far too many risks.

✍🏽Reagan.