Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

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***

After the final whistle blew on Saturday, Sebastian Deisler felt it—that same dull, heavy fog pressing in again. It had crept up on him slowly over the past few weeks, but now it was unmistakable. Something was wrong. Something deep.

The moment he got home, still in his training gear, he didn't even bother changing. He picked up the phone and called his agent, Neubauer.

"Come over," was all he said.

Neubauer arrived less than an hour later. And as soon as he saw Sebastian's face—pale, drained, eyes dim and lifeless—he knew.

"This isn't just fatigue," he muttered to himself as he stepped inside. "This is worse."

They didn't say much. Deisler didn't need to explain. Neubauer had seen this before, years ago when Sebastian was first diagnosed. The way he slumped into the couch, the way he stared through the wall rather than at it, it was all too familiar.

They made the decision quickly.

The next morning, on Sunday, the two drove quietly to a local clinic on the outskirts of Liverpool. They didn't want any attention, no headlines, no cameras. Just answers.

But the truth was, Sebastian already knew.

Even before the checkup, he could feel it in his bones. That awful weight in his chest. The numbness that wouldn't leave. He didn't need a doctor to confirm what he already felt deep inside.

Still, he went—because a part of him, that last flicker of fire that still loved football, hoped there was a way to keep going. To fight it. Maybe it wasn't a relapse. Maybe it was stress, fatigue, something temporary.

That hope was shattered within twenty-four hours.

On Monday morning, the day after Benítez and David Moores had their private discussion at Melwood, Neubauer returned to the clinic to collect the results.

The diagnosis was printed in bold, clinical terms: moderate depression.

Neubauer stared at the paper in silence for a long time. He didn't even know how to hold it in his hands. It felt heavier than it should've, as if the weight of a career—maybe even a life—was inside that single page.

He drove straight to Sebastian's house. When he handed over the report, Deisler didn't flinch. He just stared at it for a few seconds, read the words once, and then lowered the paper gently onto the table.

There was a flicker of something in his expression—disappointment, maybe, or just the final loss of something he'd been clinging to.

Then, without a word, he stood up, walked out of the living room, and closed the door to his bedroom behind him.

Neubauer remained seated, frozen in the silence.

He wanted to say something, anything. But what could you say to a man who had already been through this before? A man who had fought, climbed back, and dared to hope again—only to be dragged down into the same darkness?

Sebastian had been through hell and somehow returned to the pitch. He'd lit up the Bundesliga. He'd starred for Leeds United. He'd carried Germany through the World Cup with grace and composure. He wasn't just a talent—he was a genius with a football at his feet.

And now this.

Neubauer sat for a while longer, debating what to do. He knew what this meant for Liverpool. The club had invested heavily in Deisler. They'd traded away Alonso for him. There was money, contracts, expectations. And now this bombshell.

After a long stretch of silence, he reached for his phone.

This wasn't something he could hide.

He had to call Moores.

It took him a moment to find the words, but when he finally spoke to the Liverpool chairman, the news came out in a low, steady voice. The depression had returned. It was official.

Moores didn't say much. He just listened. After the call ended, he sat at his desk the entire afternoon, weighing his next move, trying to calculate how much damage this would do—not just to the club, but to Deisler himself. There were insurance policies, clauses, perhaps even medical retirements to consider.

And then, as the evening crept in, the phone rang again.

It was Sebastian.

His voice was quiet. Calm. Almost peaceful in a strange way.

And then came the words David Moores hadn't expected—not this soon, not like this.

Sebastian Deisler, the once-bright star of German football, had made his decision.

He was going to retire.

***

On the morning of September 5, a quiet, almost somber atmosphere settled over Anfield as Liverpool held a press conference. The red seats in the media room were filled with reporters from all over the country, murmuring among themselves, waiting for confirmation of what many already suspected.

Sebastian Deisler was not present.

Instead, it was Liverpool's club owner, David Moores, who stepped up to the microphone. His expression was pale and drawn, his hands gripping the podium tightly. There was no need for dramatic build-up—everyone knew why they were there.

With a deep breath, Moores spoke.

"Today, I regret to inform you that Sebastian Deisler has officially retired from professional football following a medical diagnosis of moderate depression."

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the rapid clicking of camera shutters. It was the kind of announcement that hit harder than a transfer or a loss—it felt like a goodbye too soon.

Though brief, the statement carried a weight that echoed far beyond the walls of the stadium. Within minutes, news outlets across England and beyond picked it up. The headlines spread like wildfire: Deisler Calls It Quits. German Star Retires Due to Depression.

For fans, it was more than just news. It was the end of a story they thought still had chapters to write.

Meanwhile, across the city, Arthur was in his office browsing the football headlines. As he scrolled through the top stories of the day, the headline popped up—front and center. He clicked instantly.

There it was: the press conference at Anfield, and Moores' grim face frozen mid-sentence in the thumbnail image.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, reading the article quietly. For a few moments, he said nothing.

A part of him couldn't help but feel satisfied, especially remembering the negotiations last season, when Moores tried to pry one of Arthur's players away and lowballed him in return. The look on Moores' face now? That was some cold comfort.

Still, Arthur wasn't heartless.

He exhaled slowly and murmured to himself, "So even if he crossed paths with me… Deisler still couldn't outrun it."

It was a strange mix of triumph and sympathy.

But football moved fast.

In the whirlwind world of English football, even shocking retirements didn't hold headlines for long. Within a day or two, talk shifted back to the Premier League. The league would resume this weekend—and everyone's focus returned to that.

****

Thorpe Arch Training Base – Leeds United Headquarters

"Bang!"

The heavy stack of medical reports slammed down on the desk with a loud crack, papers scattering across the surface like shrapnel. Arthur stood over them, fuming, his jaw clenched so tightly that the veins in his neck bulged.

"Are they insane?!" he snapped, eyes blazing. "It's a friendly! Just a meaningless bloody friendly! Why the hell are the national team coaches running our players into the ground like it's the World Cup final?!"

Lina, who had just stepped into the office with a fresh cup of coffee, froze mid-step. It was the first time she'd seen Arthur this angry. Normally cool and composed—even under pressure—he now looked like he was about to hurl a chair across the room.

She silently bent down to gather the scattered reports from the floor, keeping her eyes lowered. Arthur had never raised his voice at her, but she didn't want to take the chance.

Arthur didn't even notice. His fury was laser-focused.

And it wasn't just about the general chaos of the international break—though that alone was enough to give any club manager a headache. No, this was personal now.

Six of Leeds United's players had come back injured from international duty.

Six.

Mascherano and Kompany were among the more fortunate. Their knocks weren't too severe—maybe a week on the treatment table. Not ideal, but manageable.

Then there were Podolski, Bale, and Touré. Their situations were worse. All three had suffered muscle strains or impact injuries that would sideline them for at least two weeks. Maybe longer, depending on how quickly they responded to rehab. Whether they'd be match-fit in time for the upcoming Champions League group match against PSV Eindhoven was anyone's guess.

But the one that pushed Arthur over the edge—the one that made his blood boil—was Sun Jihai.

The Chinese fullback had been called up for a completely pointless friendly against South Korea. No context. No stakes. Just 90 minutes of football sandwiched between two crucial club fixtures. And what did the national team do? They didn't even bother checking his fitness when he landed.

They just threw him in.

The result?

A bad tackle midway through the second half. Sun stretchered off. Ligament damage. Out for at least four months, maybe more.

Arthur had stared at the medical report in disbelief. Then the disbelief turned to rage. And that's when the report went flying.

"He didn't even need to play!" Arthur barked, pacing in tight circles like a caged animal. "What kind of backwards organization sends a player halfway across the world, ignores his physical state, then runs him into the ground in a friendly?"

He turned back to Lina, eyes burning. "They don't care. Not one bit. They're not the ones paying his salary. They're not the ones who'll be scrambling to fix the lineup on short notice."

Lina carefully laid the collected reports back on the table. "Should I—should I call the press office to say something boss?" she asked quietly.

"Damn right you should," Arthur said, pointing sharply. "We're releasing a statement. Tell them Leeds United condemns the Chinese Football Association's reckless handling of player welfare. Say it plainly—they put their own player at risk, and they should be banned from calling anyone up until they fix their protocols."

He paused for a breath, then added coldly, "Also include that Leeds will not release any Chinese players for international duty until a formal apology is issued and proper safeguards are in place. Until they fix their methods, Leeds will ban any chinese players for unprofessional behavior and won't allow any chinese investment or business. When the commercial things get hit, that will wake them a little."

Lina nodded, scribbling frantically.

Arthur turned away, his fists clenched at his sides.

"This isn't about patriotism," he muttered. "This is about greed. Corruption. Idiots hiding behind flags while they gamble with players' careers. They're stealing money, mishandling talent, and pretending it's for the good of the game."

It was a feeling shared by many across Europe. International matchdays were a constant source of tension. Clubs spent millions on scouting, development, and salaries—only to see their players overused and broken in meaningless friendlies.

Back in 2006, there was no protection, no compensation. If your player came back injured, that was just tough luck. It wouldn't be until 2012 that FIFA would roll out the "Club Protection Program"—an initiative that promised to reimburse salaries for players injured during official international matches.

But that was still years away. For Arthur, and every club manager in Europe, the frustration was immediate and raw.

Still, frustration or not, time wasn't on their side.

Leeds had a match in two days.

Then it was straight to the Netherlands for the opening round of the Champions League group stage against PSV Eindhoven.

And now, with half his squad bruised or benched, Arthur had no choice but to improvise.

When Leeds United lined up against Portsmouth that weekend, it was a patched-up, makeshift team. A strikerless setup, relying entirely on midfield overload and slow build-up play. Arthur's hope was to dominate possession, keep the ball on the ground, and create openings with smart passing rather than direct attack.

But Portsmouth weren't having it. They pressed high, crowded the middle, and pounced on every mistake. Without a forward focal point, Leeds struggled to break lines. Their movement looked sluggish, and the passing lacked rhythm.

Every time Arthur rose from the touchline to yell instructions, he looked more exasperated.

By the final whistle, it was 1–0 to Portsmouth.

Leeds United had suffered their first defeat of the new season.

And for Arthur, the bitter taste had nothing to do with tactics.

It had started long before kickoff—with a stack of medical reports and one utterly reckless national team decision.