Chapter Two: "The Room Where It Happens"
Manchester United Boardroom – Carrington Training Complex, May 14, 2013
The walls were lined with silver. Not mirrors—trophies. Glinting under the soft light, they stood like silent sentinels, watching over the room as if daring anyone to forget what had come before.
Mason Grant sat alone on one side of the long oak table. Straight-backed. Unfazed. He had declined the offer of water. His notes remained untouched in front of him, hands resting calmly on top.
At precisely 9:00 a.m., the door opened.
David Gill entered first, flanked by a small procession of power: club directors, board members, and two Glazer representatives in sharp suits and sharper expressions. No introductions. No pleasantries.
They sat. A half-moment passed.
Then a voice broke the stillness—dry, clipped, doubtful.
"So," said Richard Arnold, "you're the man who thinks he can follow Sir Alex Ferguson."
Mason looked him in the eye. "No one follows Sir Alex Ferguson. You only walk the path he cleared—and then find your own."
A few eyebrows rose. One of the Glazers gave a sideways glance to Gill.
Gill cleared his throat. "Mason, this isn't a conventional hiring process. We've interviewed experienced managers. League winners. You don't have that."
"I know."
"No big-name playing career. No Champions League finals. No silverware."
"I'm not here to be a name. I'm here to win."
A murmur. Someone scribbled a note.
Another voice—Ed Woodward leaned in. "Tell me, Mr. Grant. Why you? What do you see that we don't?"
Mason opened the folder in front of him and passed out documents—clean, minimal, concise. Player development charts. Predicted peaks. Tactical shifts in European football. Age curves. Fatigue trends. Even media narratives plotted over ten years.
"I see what's coming. Klopp to Liverpool. Guardiola to City. Chelsea cycling through chaos until they find a ruthless rhythm. Spurs nearly becoming something—and failing, unless someone stops them."
"And you're saying you can stop them?" asked Joel Glazer, his tone somewhere between amusement and boredom.
"I'm saying I understand them before they understand themselves. I know which players break. I know which ones bloom. I know which formations will be obsolete in three years."
Arnold scoffed lightly. "And how exactly do you know all this?"
Mason smiled. "Because I've been paying attention. While everyone else was chasing names, I studied patterns. While they were dazzled by stars, I looked at systems. United isn't broken yet. But it's standing on the edge. One wrong appointment... and you fall."
A silence fell over the room.
David Gill leaned back, steepling his fingers. "You've clearly done your homework. But this isn't just a game of theory. What do you do when Rooney storms off the pitch? When the press turns on you after two losses? When Ferguson calls you out publicly?"
Mason met his gaze.
"I remind myself why I'm here. And then I make the right decision—whether it's popular or not."
Ed Woodward nodded slowly. "Who would you sign first?"
Mason didn't hesitate. "Toni Kroos. If not this summer, then January. And I'd sell Anderson. Possibly Valencia. If Wayne Rooney demands to leave, let him go. Don't beg. Build."
The board buzzed now—this wasn't what they expected. Not hesitation. Not deference. Clarity. A sharp, cold certainty.
Arnold folded his arms. "And if we say no? If we go with Moyes?"
Mason stood, collecting his papers. "Then I wish you luck. But you won't just be hiring the wrong manager. You'll be changing everything that comes next."
He paused, meeting each eye in the room.
"And one day, when you ask yourselves 'where did it all go wrong?', you'll remember this room."
He nodded politely. "Thank you for your time."
He turned and walked out, leaving silence behind him.
It lingered.
[End of Chapter Two]