Football Dynasty-Chapter 23: Rewriting the Narrative

Richard let out a deep sigh, tilting his head back in defeat, resignation etched across his face. Watching his expression, Shearer sank into despair.

Alan Shearer was born in the Gosforth area of Newcastle upon Tyne to working-class parents. Encouraged by his father, he began playing football from a young age and continued to develop his skills throughout school.

He attended Gosforth Central Middle School and Gosforth High School, spending much of his childhood playing football on the streets of his hometown.

Shearer eventually captained his school team and helped a Newcastle City Schools team win a seven-a-side tournament at St James' Park before joining the amateur Wallsend Boys Club as a teenager.

It was while playing for Wallsend that he caught the eye of Southampton scout Jack Hixon. Later, City's scout Peter Pettigrew also developed an interest in him.

What followed was a quiet tug-of-war between the two scouts for Shearer's signature, though the battle was never particularly intense.

"Rather than being about the player, it seemed more like a personal conflict," David hinted.

And that's what shocked Richard the most.

Alan Shearer was the epitome of a classic English center forward—dominant in the air, physically strong, and with a keen eye for goal. He wasn't flashy or elegant on the pitch, but his robust physique and instinctive finishing made him one of the most lethal strikers of his era.

Southampton scout Jack Hixon was definitely interested in him, having been the one to discover Shearer. Unfortunately, his movements were noticed by his nemesis, Peter Pettigrew.

Soon, both of them found themselves in an unspoken confrontation over Shearer's signature. Every promise Hixon made, Pettigrew countered with something even better for Shearer.

Southampton actually had the upper hand, playing in the First Division, unlike City, who had been relegated. But Pettigrew was cunning.

He argued that at Southampton, Shearer wouldn't get enough playing time—speaking from his experience as an experienced scout. The young Shearer felt intimidated by this.

He hesitated. His father and mother also hesitated to make a decision. And this was exactly when Richard entered the fray. He absolutely couldn't allow Shearer to end up on Pettigrew's scouting list—no way!

The fact that Pettigrew had the audacity to slap a glaring "C" rating on Alan Shearer...

Was absolutely insane!

Where is the issue?

So, he thoroughly read Pettigrew's scouting reports and soon understood the problem—and why Pettigrew slapped Shearer with a bold "C".

Alan Shearer

Date of Birth: August 13, 1970,

Nationality: English

Preferred Foot: Right

Height: 6'0" (183 cm)

Position: Midfielder

Midfielder...? Midfielder...?!!

So, in the report, his weaknesses are very clear.

Passing: ★★★☆☆

Adequate short passing but tends to focus on direct play. Not a playmaker but can hold up the ball well for teammates.

Pace: ★★★☆☆

Decent acceleration but lacks top-end speed.

Overall Rating: C

1. Lacks flair and creativity

2. Limited pace, which may hinder effectiveness against high defensive lines.

3. Minimal defensive contribution.

Ridiculous!

After reviewing the report, Richard didn't waste any time and quickly contacted Southampton's scout, Jack Hixon, leaving the older man dumbfounded.

"Why are you looking for me? Are you also trying to persuade me to give up on Shearer?" Hixon scoffed, bewildered, before snorting at the young man standing in front of him.

Richard didn't mind the contempt. He asked seriously, "Sir, from the bottom of your heart, do you truly want Shearer to play football and succeed or not?"

"Of course I do! Are you kidding me?" Hixon snapped, growing angry. 'Does he doubt my credibility as a scout? How dare he?!'

He was a scout to the core, and seeing a gem like Shearer—with his robust physique that allowed him to outmuscle defenders and hold up play effectively—he knew the boy could thrive in English football.

"Then, sir, you need to let me contact him and his family! I can't let Pettigrew get to him first. He's planning to make an all-in offer. Did you know he slapped a C rating on Shearer's report? If Shearer goes under his guidance, it could ruin his development and hold back his progress!"

Hixon's expression turned serious, but suspicion lingered in his eyes. "Aren't you from the same club as that mouse? Why are you telling me this?"

Richard didn't hesitate. "Sir, you and I are the same. We both can't stand Pettigrew. I hate his nose—I don't trust him, and I certainly don't like that mouse."

Hixon was speechless for a moment. Everyone knew Pettigrew and his reputation. That mouse—his talent-spotting skills were among the worst. But what he lacked in ability, he more than made up for with his uncanny, rodent-like instinct for sniffing out opportunities.

Almost every player under his name wasn't discovered by him but rather "borrowed" through his well-timed, nosey little interventions. This was exactly why he hated him, but it was the first time someone had openly said it to his face!

In the end, Richard made Hixon an offer he couldn't refuse.

"I'll let Shearer have a trial at Southampton. I promise!"

Hixon was eventually persuaded, and along with Shearer and his family, he agreed to come. Under Hixon's watchful eye, Richard assured Shearer and his family that he would cover their meals, housing, and other necessities. Once Shearer succeeded, he could pay it all back.

And the final guarantee?

Richard took out £1,000 in cash right then and there to convince the family!

Back to the Present.

Shearer was dejected. When he came with Richard, he had been promised a place as a City player. But what he didn't expect was that Richard had failed to get him into City's youth academy.

"Don't worry, there's a trial next week. I've already signed you up, so no need to stress," Richard reassured him. But deep down, guilt gnawed at him—he hadn't expected to break his promise.

Shearer's expression softened slightly. He nodded, feeling a bit better, and was about to head back to his room when Richard stopped him.

"Come with me," He said without offering any explanation.

Shearer assumed Richard was taking him out for a meal—to make up for failing to secure the apprenticeship contract.

Touched and a little excited, he licked his lips and followed. But soon, he realized they weren't heading toward a restaurant. Instead, they stopped in front of a local video rental store.

In an era when entertainment was limited, people often relied on VHS tapes to relive their favorite moments or watch shows they had missed. Richard didn't even own a VCR, but that wasn't the point.

He had brought Shearer here for something different—to watch tapes together and teach him how to become a great striker. They spent hours analyzing the movements of legendary forwards like Ian Rush, Marco van Basten, and Careca—players who shared a similar physical build to him.

Richard wanted Shearer to grasp what it truly took to be one of the best—to shape his mindset before the youth academy had the chance to mold him. So they watched match footage relentlessly, studying every detail—positioning, movement, shot selection, and ball trajectory—breaking down the art of goal-scoring piece by piece.

Days turned into weeks, and finally, the big day arrived—the trial at Manchester City.

The Trial.

"Are you sure about this?" Shearer asked nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

"Yes, trust me," Richard replied confidently.

He had already given young Shearer strict instructions: "No matter what happens today, you're a striker. If anyone asks why you switched positions, just say you realized your true calling. If you can't beat them with pace, then bulldoze right through them."

If you can't negotiate with speed, let strength do the talking.

When they arrived at Maine Road, Richard and Shearer felt hopeful—until they spotted their nemesis, Peter Pettigrew, lurking nearby. He wasn't alone; he had brought along another player, his supposed "hidden gem."

The moment Pettigrew noticed Richard and Shearer together, his eyes widened in shock—then a sly smirk spread across his face.

Without a word, he spun around, his coat flaring dramatically—like a villain in a soap opera who had just uncovered a secret plot.

Barnes, the chief scout, gathered the youth players in front of him. "Strikers, hands up!" he called.

A few kids raised their hands, including Shearer.

Watching from the sidelines, Richard felt a wave of satisfaction seeing Shearer's confidence. '

'Good lad. Stick to the plan.'

But just as he allowed himself a moment of pride, a familiar sneering voice interrupted.

"Oh, so changing positions now, huh? You really think that's gonna work?"

Pettigrew had slithered over, arms crossed, his trademark smug grin plastered across his face.

Richard didn't even turn to look at him. "Well, I actually believe in Alan."

Pettigrew chuckled, shaking his head. "Believe? Or are you just making things up as you go? That kid's built like a brick wall—you think he's gonna magically turn into Van Basten overnight?"

Richard finally faced him. "Tell me, Peter, how's that last 'wonderkid' you scouted? What was his name again? Oh right... Nobody's Heard of Him Since."

Pettigrew's face turned red, but before he could retort, Richard beat him to it. "Ah, the weather is so nice," he said, looking up at the sky, which was as gloomy as his morning coffee.

Pettigrew huffed in annoyance and stormed off.

Barnes blew the whistle, and the trial began.

The player Pettigrew had brought—Jordan Beckford—jogged onto the field with confidence. Richard squinted, trying to place the name. Nothing. He had never heard of him.

"Jordan Beckford," Pettigrew muttered proudly, as if the name carried legendary weight.

Richard raised an eyebrow. "Who? Sounds like a name you picked out of a hat."

Pettigrew scoffed but said nothing.

Meanwhile, Shearer waited on the sidelines, nervous yet determined.

Finally, in the 76th minute, Barnes called him over.

But things weren't easy.

Every time Shearer made a run, he got muscled off the ball. When a cross came his way, he mistimed his jump. Another shot went embarrassingly wide.

Richard stayed silent, arms crossed, letting Shearer figure it out.

Pettigrew, of course, was less restrained. "Oh, brilliant plan, Richard! He's really dominating out there," he sneered. "Tell me, is flailing around part of the strategy?"

"He just needs time," Richard muttered.

Pettigrew chuckled smugly. "Sure. Maybe in the next decade he'll figure out how to control the ball."

Richard ignored him, keeping his eyes on Shearer. The kid was struggling, but he wasn't giving up.

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Post-Trial.

The final whistle blew. Shearer trudged off the pitch, his boots feeling heavier with each step.

Sweat dripped down his face—not from exhaustion, but from disappointment. He couldn't even bring himself to look at Richard. His chest tightened. His stomach churned.

'It's over,' he thought. 'I blew it.'

Then, unexpectedly, a firm hand landed on his shoulder.

"Good job," Richard said, his voice calm and steady.

Shearer's eyes widened. 'Good job?'

He finally looked up, searching Richard's face for sarcasm—but there was none. Richard's expression was genuine, his lips curled into a faint smile.

"But... I was terrible," Shearer muttered. "I couldn't even control the ball properly."

Richard snorted. "Of course you were terrible. You're a midfielder who just played as a striker for the first time. What did you expect? A hat trick?"

Shearer's face flushed in embarrassment.

Richard leaned in slightly, his voice softer now. "You tried. You kept going, even when it wasn't working. That's what matters. It's not about being perfect—it's about starting."

Shearer let out a shaky breath, the weight on his shoulders lifting slightly.

Richard smiled. "So, what do you think about being a striker? You wanted to be a midfielder to control the game, right? But think about it—imagine being the striker who scores the winning goal. Isn't it ironic? You wanted control, but in the end, it's the striker who decides everything."

Shearer hesitated... then a reluctant smile tugged at his lips.

Maybe... just maybe, it wasn't over yet.