The Club: How the English Premier League Became the Wildest, Richest, Most Disruptive Force in Sports

Contents

Title Page

Contents

Copyright

Frontispiece

Dedication

Authors’ Note

Prologue

Breaking Away

1

2

3

4

Rise and Rise

5

6

7

8

9

Invaders on the Shore

10

11

12

13

14

15

Premier League Inc.

16

17

Photos

18

19

20

21

Britain’s New Empire

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Selected Bibliography

Cast of Characters

Index

About the Authors

Connect with HMH

First Mariner Books edition 2019

Copyright © 2018 by Joshua Robinson and Jonathan Clegg

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

hmhbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Clegg, Jonathan, 1980– author. | Robinson, Joshua, 1986– author.

Title: The club : how the English Premier League became the wildest, richest, most disruptive force in sports / Jonathan Clegg and Joshua Robinson.

Description: Boston, Massachusetts : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2018. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018028248 (print) | LCCN 2018058114 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328506474 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328506450 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780358213055 (pbk.)

Subjects: LCSH: F.A. Premier League—History—1992– | Soccer—England—History—1992–

Classification: LCC GV943.55.F36 (ebook) | LCC GV943.55.F36 C55 2018 (print) | DDC 796.334/640941—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018028248

Cover design by Brian Moore

Cover photographs: Pornchai Kittiwongsakul / AFP / Getty Images (crown), Getty Images (lion); Shutterstock (soccer ball)

Author photograph © Rob Stothard

Map by Carly Miller

v2.0819

To Daniella

and

to Katie and Evie (who is exactly as old as this book)

Authors’ Note

On a recent morning, amid the daily hullabaloo at London’s busiest transit hub, the commuters at Waterloo Station went about their Underground rituals, demonstrating some of the vital skills of living in their city—how to carry a smartphone and a cup of hot tea in the same hand; how to open an umbrella without causing a public-safety emergency; and how to absolutely, positively, never, ever make eye contact with anyone else.

And down by the newsstand near the escalators, the dozens who stopped to pick up their daily newspaper showcased one very particular everyday skill essential to British life: how to read a tabloid.

Like almost everything else in this country, it turns out there’s a right and a wrong way to do that. The page numbers are merely a suggestion.

The right way starts with a glance at the headline pun on the front and an obligatory sigh for the state of humanity. Situation normal—all is not good.

But these Londoners didn’t stop to read on. They knew what they were doing. Without batting an eye, they took a quick sip of tea and flipped the entire paper over to find the news that really mattered.

Starting from the back, over dozens of pages—almost one-third of the entire newspaper in some cases—they found stories dripping with urgency, intrigue, outrage, and absurd amounts of cash; a breathless global pursuit of billions of dollars driven by an ensemble of outsize talent and ego, the stakes of which, readers are assured, are nothing less than the fates of cities, regions, and nations.

This was the stuff they really needed to start their days: the latest from the English Premier League. From West London, where a Russian oligarch keeps his club in a state of permanent revolution, to North London where warring factions are locked in a spiral of endless one-upmanship, to Manchester, the country’s old industrial hub, where a sudden and dramatic power shift is rewiring the dynamic between two ancient institutions. Caught in the gears between these empires are the smaller teams in market towns and mining counties where soccer is the only thing that keeps them from falling off the map. And this whole world is constantly animated by oligarchs, sheikhs, American tycoons, Asian Tiger titans, and a bunch of high school dropouts who have been millionaires since their teens because of their skill with a ball at their feet.

All of which combines for a pretty full day of reading, more than enough Premier League excitement to compete with the stuff in the front of the papers about the latest parliamentary crisis and all that.

Far beyond the morning scramble at Waterloo Station, the speculation and vague nuggets of truth contained in the red-tops also powers an international rumor mill that, on a daily basis, captivates a dizzying number of fans around the world, reaching over to the other side of the Atlantic, clear through Asia, and all across Africa, with a few researchers in Antarctica probably keeping tabs on it all, too.

The rise of the English Premier League is a story about the sports world’s wildest gold rush. In the span of twenty-five years, the league’s twenty clubs have increased their combined value by 10,000 percent, from around $100 million in 1992 to $15 billion today. During that time, the league has also exported its product to every corner of the planet.

How this happened is a tale of how the country that invented the world’s favorite game reinvented it and how a handful of secret meetings in 1992 spawned a crazy quarter century in which money, ambition, and uncommon drama turned an ancient league into the most obsessively followed sports product on planet Earth.

The story of how English football took over the world is a business and entertainment saga for the global age. It’s a familiar one, at that. It begins with a bright idea. What follows is a period of supercharged growth and frothy ambition, which leads to thrilling highs and unimagined riches. If you know anything about the dot-com boom or subprime mortgages, you know where this is heading.

The cracks start to appear. Lured by outlandish valuations, investors from far-off places pitch up to grab a slice of the action. Competitors emerge. Short-termism replaces sound judgment. And pretty soon the whole enterprise has degenerated into a tawdry mixture of peacock egos, pathological greed, and shocking profligacy.

The Premier League is a timeless tale of boom and bust, no different from all those other bubbles they warn you about in business-school textbooks. Except, that is, in one crucial respect.

In football, the bubble never burst.

As any British train station newsstand will prove, here and now in the twilight of the newspaper era, one rule seems to be enough to keep no fewer than nine national dailies in business: There is no such thing as too many soccer pages. On any given morning, those nine newspapers will generate roughly one hundred pages of copy on the Premier League between them. And that’s only in print media. Britain’s fanatical coverage of its most popular product this side of the sandwich also buttresses twenty-four-hour sports-news channels and fills the airwaves 24/7, 365 days a year. Even in the off-season.

And that’s only in Britain.

Considering the fact that the Premier League is chronicled in such minute, neurotic detail every day of its existence, the idea of a complete history would be both impossible and laughable. It would be like trying to chronicle the ins and outs of stock-market fluctuations over a period of twenty-five years—a lot of numbers, a lot of lunatics in pinstriped suits, and not at all fun to read.

But there is one aspect of English soccer’s modern history that hasn’t quite been unpacked: the inside story of how the Premier League became the Premier League Inc., not just a football product but the global sports, business, and entertainment behemoth it is today. This is the story we want to tell.

English soccer didn’t begin in 1992. But that year, which marked the foundation of the Premier League, became the sport’s BC/AD milestone, the defining moment when nothing would be recorded the same way again.

So how to tell the crazy story of everything that’s happened since?

We started, unwittingly, by living through it. We were both raised in the UK in the 1980s, 1990s, and 2000s—the same period when English soccer transformed from a hyperlocal community activity into a worldwide entertainment monster. Robinson, who is half French, fell for the Gallic charms of Arsène Wenger’s Arsenal and has yet to recover. Clegg, who grew up in Essex, succumbed to the more roguish qualities of Harry Redknapp’s West Ham. Our contrasting soccer afflictions independently led us to the same career as sportswriters.

And as we obsessively followed the Premier League’s rise, something else was unfolding 3,500 miles from any English soccer stadium that would transform the league’s global reach. America started paying attention. Our coverage, informed by soccer conversations on both sides of the Atlantic, led to our charting an impressionistic, episodic history of the major inflection points in the league’s history. Right in front of us was an impossible-not-to-tell version of the Premier League’s first twenty-five years.

You couldn’t talk about the founding of the league in 1992, for instance, without telling the story of Rupert Murdoch, Sky TV, and a dramatic breakaway by a handful of English club owners who had the radical idea of making money from soccer. And you couldn’t track the league’s explosive commercial growth without digging into those owners’ secret obsession with the NFL while English soccer’s weaponized merchandising and money-spinning brilliance had to be traced back to Manchester United’s marketing revolution. There was also the confluence of stadium tragedies, fan behavior, and economic factors that turned the matchgoing experience upside down and led to the construction of Arsenal’s Emirates Stadium, the first of the Premier League’s modern monuments to its own success. And all of that simply laid the table for foreign money to pour in, with two owners in particular irreparably altering the landscape: Russia’s Roman Abramovich, who bought Chelsea in 2003, and a member of the royal family of Abu Dhabi, who acquired Manchester City five years later. In between them, of course, also came the invasion of American owners who learned the hard way that doing business in the cutthroat Premier League is nothing like running a hedge fund back home.

Any of those turning points could fill volumes by themselves. But take them collectively and the arc of the whole league emerges, from deeply parochial cultural concern to global phenomenon.

This book is not an exhaustive history of English football. This book is not about who won the league when or a catalogue of the greatest moments on grass. This is a tale of empire building.

In our telling, there are a collection of inflection points that have, in turn, set off subsequent successive waves in the Premier League’s global conquest. And the book is organized around those moments, using each one to bring to life the characters who made them happen and probe the history, culture, and commerce that has accelerated the league’s growth or, at times, has stood in desperate resistance to it.

For more than one hundred years in towns across England and Wales, football supporters have turned out to champion their local teams. These aren’t franchises in a league in any American sense. These are deeply ingrained territorial and regional markers to the English, more like Americans’ emotional bond to college football rather than the crass flash of the NFL. No English club ever moves—they are too rooted in their communities; and if they ever die, it’s basically of old age (or financial ruin).

But when the top division of English football became the Premier League, and as the deals blossomed and the money started to flow in, more foreign players started to follow that money to England; more foreign managers came across the Channel with less rugged, more refined styles; bigger stadiums shot up, and with them, so did the ticket prices, putting a financial and emotional hurt on even the most committed of supporters.

So this is the story of how the Premier League built one of the great global entertainment empires of our era, how it sustained its astonishing growth, and what it’s willing to give up to keep plowing ahead.

Beyond our own attachment to the league, this book grew out of a combined decade of covering the English Premier League for The Wall Street Journal. Clegg became the Journal’s first European sports correspondent in 2009 and was succeeded by Robinson, who returned to Britain in 2012 after nine years in the United States. Clegg went on to edit the paper’s soccer coverage from New York, and Robinson is still in London and press boxes around the UK. Having followed the Premier League our entire lives, we were now in a position to tell its stories firsthand, and because we have covered all of the major U.S. sports, we were also practiced at translating it for American audiences. That said, we have chosen to recount this one in the language of English soccer. That means we have referred to clubs by the plural as the British do, employed the terms football and soccer interchangeably (without venturing into that tiresome debate), and stuck to the names people actually use when talking about their teams—for instance, Manchester United or Man United, not the Red Devils.

In order to wrap our arms around a story of this size—and tell it through original reporting rather than combing through newspaper archives—we did the only reasonable thing and started at the beginning: the clandestine meetings that created the Premier League and the people who were in the room. The key players in those days were Arsenal vice-chairman David Dein, Manchester United chairman Martin Edwards, and Tottenham Hotspur owner Irving Scholar. After speaking to that trio, we sat down with nearly one hundred other key figures from across the league’s history, gaining unprecedented access. And for the first time in any retelling, we were able to secure rare interviews with decision-makers and executives from each of the so-called Big Six clubs—Manchester City, Manchester United, Chelsea, Liverpool, Arsenal, and Tottenham. Those include sit-downs with a veteran of twenty-two years of management in the league, Arsène Wenger, and conversations with the billionaire owners of Liverpool (John W. Henry), Arsenal (Stan Kroenke), and the famously reclusive chairman of Tottenham (Daniel Levy).

We also tracked down dozens of less visible figures who were nonetheless crucial—and present—during major turning points in the Premier League’s arc, from the signing of Cristiano Ronaldo by Manchester United, to Abramovich’s acquisition of Chelsea, to the arrival of Emirati royals in Manchester.

Every scene in the book is reconstructed from direct accounts and our conversations with the people who lived them. And in several cases, we were able to retell those moments because we attended them in person as English soccer underwent its most radical upheaval in a century.

Joshua Robinson and Jonathan Clegg

London, May 2018

Prologue

LONDON, NOVEMBER 2017

One by one, they pulled up to the Churchill Hotel in Mayfair in black taxicabs, chauffeur-driven town cars, and one silver Rolls-Royce.

They strode into the marble-floored lobby, sidestepped the tourists wheeling too much luggage, and briskly turned left toward the private meeting room where they were due at 10 a.m., hoping to look casual as they clocked which of their colleagues and nemeses had already arrived. These get-togethers were never simple. The last one had devolved into an argument about who contributed more to their little club and who deserved—no, who had the God-given right—to make the most money. They hoped this time that they could talk to one another with a bit more civility. This was a fancy place after all.

A cosmopolitan collection of millionaires, billionaires, and CEOs, they came from worlds as far apart as Wall Street, professional poker, and the greeting-card business. Most of this crowd would never have had any reason to cross paths. Nor did they particularly want to. They never chose one another—they barely even trusted one another—and yet here they were, on a Thursday morning in November, committed partners in the most popular live-entertainment business on the planet.

They were the owners, executives, and resident plutocrats of the twenty soccer clubs in the English Premier League. And they were meeting to make sure that their collective cash cow, which generates more than $5.6 billion a season, kept fattening at the same astronomical rate as it had over the past quarter century. Since 1992, the Premier League’s combined revenues have increased by an obscene 2,500 percent. Not bad for a group of guys who mostly loathe one another.

But before this summit could begin, before the suits could get down to the business of England’s most successful export this side of the English language, there was another age-old British ritual they needed to endure: milling around awkwardly at a social gathering.

By the hotel entrance, Liverpool Football Club’s principal owner, the bespectacled hedge-fund billionaire John W. Henry, was making small talk with the gray-haired former sales rep in charge of the whole show, Premier League chief executive Richard Scudamore. Henry was fresh in from Boston to take stock of Liverpool’s revival under a German coach whose horn-rimmed glasses, scruffy beard, and gray sweatpants meant he could easily pass for a Brooklyn dad. The team’s only problem is that its owner knows plenty about winning, but in the wrong sport—Henry’s other major hobby is running the Boston Red Sox.

Strutting past them without so much as a buenos dias came Ferran Soriano, a Catalan former rugby player, carrying himself with the swagger of a man whose club is in the process of running away with the Premier League title. That’s because Manchester City was, in fact, pantsing all-comers—though technically it wasn’t Soriano’s club. He was there representing the interests of his boss, an Abu Dhabi sheikh who spent $200 million to buy the team, another $1 billion on players, attended one game in Manchester in 2010, and then never came back. But with Pep Guardiola, the sport’s eccentric philosopher king and self-styled genius from Barcelona running the team back in Manchester, the club was in good hands.

Soriano wasn’t alone on this morning. Trotting alongside him was Ivan Gazidis, a bald, Oxford-educated lawyer, standing in for his own absentee boss, the Arsenal owner known as Silent Stan Kroenke, a rarely seen, never-heard real estate mogul who married a Walmart heiress and now seems less interested in owning sports teams—his portfolio also includes the NFL’s Los Angeles Rams and the NBA’s Denver Nuggets—than he is in owning the buildings they play in.

Those two made for a slightly awkward pairing since Manchester City had spent most of the past decade on a personal mission to usurp Arsenal, signing away their best players and appropriating their gimmick of playing beautiful football above else—with only one minor tweak. City actually won.

This had been a point of some consternation at the staid old Arsenal FC (known as the Gunners because the club was formed in 1886 by a group of blacksmiths who literally built cannons). The team’s manager, a sixty-eight-year-old Frenchman with a professorial air and a PhD in late-season chokes, was desperately trying to pull off one last coup before retirement. But Arsenal’s fans didn’t want to give him that chance. They’d staged protests and flown airplane banners over the stadium urging Arsène Wenger to beat it—and take Silent Stan with him. The joke had been running for so long now that WENGER OUT signs had become practically de rigueur at any gathering of more than twelve people. That same week, one was spotted at an anti–Robert Mugabe protest in Zimbabwe.

Soriano and Gazidis wasted no time in heading to the meeting room. Tony Bloom, the poker savant and professional gambler, took a little longer. Bloom, the owner of Brighton & Hove Albion, the seaside club whose name sounds like a Shakespearean battle cry, was briefly waylaid by a detour into the hotel restaurant to peruse their selection of cakes.

By the time Bloom was ready to enter the meeting, he was joined by Steve Parish, the fast-talking, exuberantly coiffed, bespoke-suited advertising millionaire who likes to race Porsches when he isn’t putting out fires at his club, Crystal Palace. They entered through the thick white double doors and moved inside, at which point Parish took a seat directly next to Bruce Buck, the chairman of Chelsea. It wasn’t because the two men were particularly close, but because the league still gets its owners, these billionaires, titans of business, and type-A personalities, to sit in alphabetical order, presumably to prevent any nasty cliques from forming.

Parish’s Palace needed to pay close attention to the day’s discussion of projected revenues because he was a little short of cash right then despite annual payouts of more than $200 million to each club. He was about to ask his business partners in New York, a pair of private-equity giants, to stump up millions of dollars to spend on new players as his team steeled itself for a battle in the second half of the season. (If results kept breaking against Palace, they faced being booted from the league, meaning somebody else would be sitting next to Chelsea the following year.)

For Chelsea, the league’s defending champions, the money would make less of a difference. The club is sometimes known as Chelski on account of its owner, a free-spending Russian oligarch named Roman Abramovich, who is worth more than $7 billion. A fact that comes in handy when one of your more expensive habits is impulsively firing managers and then paying out handsome severance packages. Even as the meeting unfolded without him, Abramovich was weighing the fate of his operatically mannered Italian coach, who was set to become the oligarch’s twelfth managerial victim in fourteen years. Still, Abramovich took a keen interest in the proceedings from a distance. For a forcefully discreet man, few things happen inside his team or around the league without his knowledge.

During the next two hours, the clubs in the room thrashed out the newest terms of their most valuable source of income: the Premier League’s television broadcast rights, which were heading to auction in three months’ time.

For twenty-five years, that sale had formed the backbone of the league’s business. Its games now air in 185 countries—the United Nations recognizes only 193—and every weekend they are broadcast to a potential TV audience of 4.7 billion people. This wasn’t a gathering of twenty soccer clubs. This was somewhere between a shareholders’ conference and a production meeting for a reality-TV show that shoots each episode with a rotating cast of twenty-two men before a live studio audience.

So no one in the meeting batted an eyelash when Ed Woodward excused himself halfway through to take a pressing phone call. New York was on the line. As chief executive of the New York Stock Exchange–listed Manchester United, he needed to lead the first-quarter earnings call with investors and financial analysts. As a former J.P. Morgan investment banker, this was right in Woodward’s wheelhouse. The business of actually running a successful soccer club is a task he’s less comfortable with. Woodward was terrified of upsetting Manchester United’s own impulsive overlord, though he wasn’t one of Woodward’s direct bosses, the Florida-based billionaires who own the club. It was one of his own employees, the man he personally hired as the team’s manager, an irascible Portuguese named José Mourinho, whose reputation for lifting trophies is matched only by his knack for driving opponents—and club chairmen—up the wall.

Mourinho, of course, never attended these meetings. He was still in Manchester, where he had lived in a luxury hotel for the previous year and a half instead of moving his family up from London. As far as that day’s conference was concerned, the foremost needler of club chairmen in the room was the short, quiet man in glasses with a stake in one of the few English soccer clubs whose nickname—the Lilywhites—may be less ridiculous than its actual name: Tottenham Hotspur. That man, chairman Daniel Levy, drives the hardest bargain in the league. He has proven so gifted at wringing out every penny from selling players to his opponents that Tottenham could afford to tear down the stadium where it had played since 1899 and move into a new $1 billion complex situated exactly twenty yards away—with twice the capacity and a removable turf field. The goal was to accommodate NFL games on any given Sunday and provide a fitting stage for Tottenham’s star player, a twenty-four-year-old wonder boy with a silky touch and vacant expression who was being touted as the latest savior of English soccer.

No one in the room knew more about how difficult Levy could be than David Gold, the co-owner of West Ham. He sat a few seats down from Levy though he was easy to spot in the row of dark business attire. Gold was the white-haired eighty-two-year-old who rocked up in the silver Rolls-Royce Phantom sporting a green tartan suit, looking as if he’d just stepped out of a P. G. Wodehouse novel. And that wasn’t the only thing that distinguished Gold from his fellow owners. He was also the only owner in the room to make his fortune in the one form of entertainment more popular among young men than pro soccer: porno mags.

By Gold’s side was the lone female executive in the room, Baroness Brady of Knightsbridge, better known as Karren Brady or by her nickname, the First Lady of Football. The West Ham vice-chairperson was among the most feared executives at the table, not just for her ruthless professionalism—she famously married one of her own players and then sold him to a rival club, twice—but because she authored a weekly column in Britain’s best-selling tabloid, where she routinely bad-mouthed rival Premier League executives.

But on this morning, everyone seemed to be on their best behavior. They tolerated one another’s presence because there was one fact they could all agree on: The Premier League wasn’t merely the most watched sports league in the world. It was No. 1 and nothing else came remotely close.

None of the people in the Churchill Hotel on that November morning were particularly responsible for any of this. But without any real genius or acumen, the motley cast of characters that created the modern Premier League in 1992 had stumbled onto the sports equivalent of the iPhone. Pretty soon everyone everywhere wanted a piece. And in a remarkably short period, a small group of owners discovered the alchemy that turned aging industrial cities and obscurely named clubs into the focus of compulsive global attention.

It would be generous to call too many of the outcomes in this story planned or credit genius to many of the individuals who pulled them off. But with packed stadiums, millions of viewers around the world, and TV money pouring in, life in the Premier League today was sweeter than anyone ever imagined.

Or it was in the executive boxes, at least. The business realities that weigh down other industries hadn’t caught up to the Premier League just yet, but the owners were starting to realize that the league’s octopus reach across the globe was beginning to strain ties at home. As the windfalls of worldwide television and licensing contracts, jersey sales, merchandise, and international tours stacked up—and as the league sold itself off to the highest bidders—ticket prices soared, global football tourists flooded in (upsetting the parochial roots of English football fandom), and the irresistible logic of commercial interests trumped the irrationality that had bonded people and cities to teams that were, in many pockets of England, the only constants since before the First World War.

The result was an increasing tension between the aspirations of one of the world’s biggest entertainment businesses and the native fans of English soccer—its original customers—whose identity is deeply intertwined with the product. This business, ultimately, embodied the challenges of globalization, of the push and pull between expansion and identity, about the universalization of a product that is steeped in decidedly nonuniversal customs.

When the meeting in the Churchill wrapped up, everyone in the room agreed to keep what they’d just discussed secret. But they headed back to the four corners of England and the wider world beyond with a complimentary cold sandwich in their hands and a smile on their faces. Because they were all convinced that by the time they got together next, Scudamore, their favorite employee, would have sold the next raft of television rights at a healthy profit.

And the millionaire and billionaire members of this elite circle would all come back a little richer.

Part I

Breaking Away

You could see the future.

—irving scholar, tottenham hotspur

1

It was a little after 4 a.m. on May 18, 1992, when the phone rang in a twenty-fourth-floor apartment at Hampshire House, the New York co-op overlooking Central Park, and woke up the world’s most powerful media magnate.

Rupert Murdoch groggily reached for the receiver and placed it to his ear.

The voice barked at him from 3,500 miles away, far too loud for this hour of the morning. We’re going to need to put another £30 million on the table.

Murdoch let the information sink in.

The thick twang on the line belonged to Sam Chisholm, a cantankerous New Zealand–born executive Murdoch had installed to turn around BSkyB, his fledgling British pay-TV network. And the table in question belonged to the owners of England’s top soccer teams, who were negotiating the sale of live TV rights to their matches. Thirty million was a sum that Murdoch could ill afford.

He closed his eyes and took a breath in the dark. The past few months had been some of the most draining of his life. Turnover at Fox in Los Angeles meant that he’d personally been running the network since February. Only weeks before, he had also emerged from a frantic two-year refinancing to dig out of a debt crisis that threatened to force his News Corporation newspaper operation into liquidation. And all the while, he was locked in a fruitless struggle to get BSkyB off the ground in Britain. He felt like the whole ordeal had aged him twenty years.

Is that okay? Chisholm asked.

Murdoch exhaled. He was determined to make BSkyB a success—and not just because he had already plowed £2 billion into it. More than anything, he wanted BSkyB to shut up the ghastly London dinner-party set, who reliably informed him at every social event that British television was simply the best in the world. This in a country with a meager four channels, at least two of which seemed to be forever showing snooker. Murdoch had given up trying to argue. He knew exactly what the best television in the world looked like—he watched it every night at his home in the United States.

It had more channels. It had mass appeal. And it definitely did not involve bloody billiards.

But despite his expensive efforts, the British public had been slow to come around to his satellite offering. It had been five years since he had launched the pay-TV network, and BSkyB was still losing £1 million per week and was 500,000 subscribers short of breaking even. Now Chisholm was asking him for an extra £30 million to trump a rival offer for the rights to broadcast a sport that he distinctly didn’t care about.

English soccer games.

Murdoch ran through the numbers in his mind. He winced.

In the years to come, signing off on an extra few million dollars for a prime piece of sports programming would become a no-brainer to Rupert Murdoch. By 1997, he would have spent some $5 billion on acquiring sports rights, brazenly signing megadeals for NFL, NHL, Major League Baseball, and NCAA college football games. But at 4 a.m. on that May morning in 1992, parting with a fortune to screen live English soccer didn’t feel like a no-brainer. It felt absurd. The truth was, he didn’t even like sports.

On the other hand, Murdoch sensed in his gut that if anything was going to put BSkyB on a path to growth it was live soccer. He of all people knew what the sport could do for a struggling business.

In 1969, Murdoch had acquired a failing leftist paper called the Sun and quickly transformed it into a populist tabloid filled with lowbrow gossip, topless models, and . . . at least a dozen pages of soccer every day. Within three years, it had become Britain’s biggest-selling daily newspaper. Now, nearly a quarter century later, could soccer bail him out again? He and Chisholm had spoken many times about using the game’s broad appeal to stick satellite dishes onto more middle-class homes. But how much were they willing to bet on it?

In the last few days, Chisholm had begun to express doubts about whether they could really afford the rights at all, that perhaps it was time to jump off this treadmill. The company’s advisers, Arthur Andersen, had expressly cautioned against this kind of suicidal bid, arguing it was impossible to make money on such ludicrous terms.

Well? Chisholm prodded.

Murdoch paused to consider his options one final time. There would be no call to the BSkyB directors or other members of the board in London. Their opinions would have to wait. With Chisholm hanging on the line, Murdoch weighed a decision that would upend English soccer and redefine the world’s media landscape. In the Manhattan predawn, it all came down to one simple question.

How high would he go?

Standing in the lobby of an upscale West London hotel with a sheaf of documents under his arm, a sealed envelope in his hand, and a look of weary bewilderment on his face, Rick Parry was asking himself the exact same thing.

Parry had arrived at the Lancaster Gate Hotel that morning ready for the most important moment of his professional life—and arguably the most important moment in English soccer since a group of Oxbridge graduates met in a Covent Garden pub in 1863 to approve the laws of the game. He was here to finalize plans for a new breakaway league composed of the country’s top professional clubs, which would soon become the most popular enterprise in world sports. There was just one last piece of business to hash out before they could usher in this glorious new future. In an upstairs conference room at 10 a.m., Parry was due to address the twenty-two team owners—a crowd of self-made millionaires, small-time tycoons, and freewheeling entrepreneurs—and deliver his recommendation on which broadcaster should be awarded the television rights to their new enterprise.

This was no picayune detail. For more than a decade, the men who ran English soccer had been squabbling over how, when, and where their games should be shown on television—and, more than anything, how much they should be paid for the privilege. Figuring out a solution to this problem once and for all had persuaded twenty-two men who couldn’t agree on much of anything to put their differences aside and band together. This joint effort would upend the way English soccer had been structured for more than a century, result in legal action from the sport’s apoplectic governing body, and spark accusations of greed from Britain’s disapproving press, not to mention widespread hostility from soccer fans up and down the country.

Now, after two years of clandestine meetings, courtroom drama, and more late nights than Parry had worked during his two decades as an accountant, they were ready to put the finishing touches on something they called the Premier League.

All they had to do was pick a broadcaster for the Premier League’s inaugural season. One proposal came from ITV, one of Britain’s major terrestrial networks. The other came from Murdoch’s BSkyB, better known as Sky. No matter which way they went, their soccer teams were set to make more money than at any point in their history.

It was Parry’s job as chief executive of the new league to advise this group of owners on which bid to accept. At that moment, no one in England had a firmer grasp of the details of the Premier League’s fate than he did. For months, Parry had been in discussions with the key players from the rival camps. For weeks, he’d been running the numbers. For hours the night before, he had stayed up late in his hotel room drafting the presentation he was due to deliver that morning. But with hundreds of millions of dollars at stake and mere minutes to go until he was due to begin speaking, it dawned on Parry that he now had no earthly idea what he was going to say.

From across the hotel lobby, John Quinton, the bespectacled former head of Barclays bank and newly installed chairman of the Premier League, caught his