Chapter 494: Chapter 494

He trained at Manchester City, where the club covered all his living expenses, education, and anything else he needed.

In fact, Richard had even arranged an English tutor for Drogba. Since Drogba often arrived late to training on the field, Richard figured that studying directly with a private tutor would at least be more effective than having him isolated during training.

Not only that, he had also signed him to an apprentice contract with a salary—though it was only two hundred pounds a month.

What Richard didn’t know was that Drogba insisted on sending that modest amount straight home every month.

And what Drogba didn’t know was that Richard had secretly given his family five hundred thousand pounds when he first got contracted at City, and had even helped his brother escape a drug addiction.

It was all just pure misunderstanding.

After his brother recovered, Drogba’s family managed to start a small business in Vannes, France, and their lives improved dramatically. All from Richard, after he learned about how tough Drogba’s situation was and his family’s.

So the question was: the boy was clearly in a pinch for cash. Why not ask his family for it?

He must have thought they were still struggling financially.

Curious about the situation, Richard finally asked, "What do you need the money for?"

Drogba, nineteen, clearly needed more than just a drink or a snack.

He hesitated again, and Richard was starting to lose his patience. Drogba looked like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. He knew his situation, and it was painfully uncomfortable.

Seeing that this would go nowhere, Richard finally said, "Tell me how much you need."

"Three hundred pounds... Two hundred pounds would be fine too," Drogba finally said, gathering his courage and replying quietly.

Richard was speechless. The future African King was suddenly so bashful over a couple hundred pounds.

"Where do you plan to spend this money?" Richard asked.

Drogba, like an anxious little ant, answered sheepishly, "I want to buy a cassette... a cassette player. A good one. The expensive kind."

Richard was taken aback. "Sony Walkman?"

It was the most iconic cassette player of its time, and Drogba quietly nodded. The source of thɪs content is NoveIꜰire.net

Richard chuckled at this—he understood. A Walkman could take up a big chunk of a family’s monthly income. And Drogba wasn’t the type to ask his family for anything expensive. He was shy about money and hated the idea of burdening others.

Since he had come to him for help, he must have been desperate. After all, he was alone here at the facility. Music could help him relieve stress, and Richard definitely didn’t want Drogba becoming homesick again.

He was a young guy, after all. It wasn’t hard to see why he wanted it so badly—he had the makings of the typical handsome, music-loving teenager, even if the world hadn’t noticed him yet.

"Wait here," Richard said.

He stepped into his bedroom. If he remembered correctly, when he had visited Japan, Honda’s president, Mr. Kiyoshi Kawashima, had given him a limited-edition MiniDisc Walkman as a gift during the Honda–Rover cooperation talks.

It didn’t take long for Richard to find it. Fortunately, he had slipped it into his bag just in case he ever needed it.

A moment later, he returned with the MiniDisc player and placed it gently into Drogba’s hands.

"It’s already unboxed, but still basically new—I only used it once. It’s a gift from Honda’s president. If anyone asks, feel free to brag about it," Richard said with a smile. "You can play with it for a few days and get used to all the features."

Drogba stared at the Walkman in front of him. He fiddled with it delicately, almost reverently, clearly mesmerized.

He admitted he could be a little showy sometimes—but maybe that was just his way of coping. Life here was tough. Everything was unfamiliar. He was alone most of the time. He just wanted a music player so he wouldn’t feel so bored and isolated.

"S-Sony MZ-E10... ultra-thin... playback-only model," Drogba whispered, reading the writing on the back. Then, after fumbling with the buttons a little more, he asked, "How much did this cost?"

Richard shook his head. "It’s a gift—you don’t have to pay for anything. If you need something else, as long as it won’t lead you into trouble, just tell me. I know you’re really lonely here. Having a hobby will help you a lot."

Drogba nodded silently, clearly appreciative. He rose from his seat, holding the sleek silver Walkman as if it were made of aluminium.

Just as he was about to step toward the door, Richard suddenly called out.

Drogba paused mid-step and turned around, confusion flickering across his face. His hand tightened slightly around the device, unsure of what Richard wanted next.

Richard leaned back in his chair, studying him for a moment. Then, in a calm but pointed tone, he asked,

"How about football?"

Unlike many professional players, Drogba had never attended a formal football academy. Most of his peers entered structured youth systems at age eight, ten, or even younger. He, on the other hand, went straight into playing for Le Mans without the years of foundational training the others had.

"I am good," Drogba replied quickly.

Richard raised an eyebrow. "Don’t lie."

The words got stuck in Drogba’s throat. His gaze fell to the floor, shoulders tightening. For a moment, the room was silent.

Richard didn’t push. He simply waited.

Finally, Drogba exhaled. "They... they said I could cope. That I could kick the ball well enough," he whispered. "So I believed them."

Richard’s expression darkened—not in anger, but in concern. "’Coping’ isn’t the same as thriving, Didier," he said evenly. "You’re not here just to kick a ball."

Drogba swallowed hard. "I know."

Richard leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Listen. You came here late. You didn’t get all those years of academy training like the others. Physically, tactically—you’re still catching up. It’s normal to struggle. But if you want to stay in professional football... if you want to earn real money, help your family, change your life—then you can’t just ’cope.’"

He tapped the table lightly for emphasis.

"You need to grow. Every week. Every day. And you can’t do that by pretending everything’s fine."

Drogba looked up, eyes uncertain.

"So," Richard continued, his voice softer now, "don’t tell me you’re ’good.’ Tell me what you need. If you want to succeed, you can’t shoulder all of this alone. That’s why I’m here."

Drogba inhaled slowly, the tension easing slightly. "I want to improve," he admitted. "I know I’m behind. I... just don’t want to disappoint anyone."

Richard gave a small, firm nod. "You won’t disappoint anyone—not if you’re honest and willing to fight for it."

"..." Richard sighed when he heard this.

To be honest, if he asked O’Neill to play him now, it would probably only make things worse. Drogba wasn’t ready, and forcing it could backfire.

Richard racked his brain, trying to figure out a way to help Didier—his instincts told him the young man had potential, but he needed guidance.

After a moment, he leaned forward and asked, "Do you want to play? Properly?"

Drogba nodded before shaking his head slightly, unsure of himself.

"I don’t mean in the league," Richard clarified. "I mean a friendly match. I’ll give you a chance. Not now, not next week... but next season in a friendly. You’ll have to prove yourself. I can give you the opportunity, but it’s up to you to grab it."

Drogba’s eyes widened slightly. This was about earning his place, step by step.

Richard letting the weight of responsibility sink in, "No shortcuts. You want to play at City? You earn it. Every day. Training. Discipline. Focus. That’s how you get your chance. Next season, in the friendly match, I hope you’re ready. But for now, focus on your training."

He paused for a moment, as if weighing his next words carefully. "I will assign a private coach for you. I hope you’re ready."

Drogba’s eyes widened slightly. This was serious.

A private coach meant tailored training, extra hours, and no excuses. But it also meant someone would push him harder than anyone else had.

Could he really turn this raw, unpolished talent into something extraordinary? Even Richard didn’t know. But from what he know about him, Drogba was a naturally strong striker—and he was willing to bet on it.

Wasn’t this exactly why he had recruited a fitness coach?

Antonio Pintus. Renowned for pushing players to their absolute limits.

Even Richard felt a surge of excitement at the thought. What kind of monster could they create together? He didn’t know yet, but he was ready to find out.

The combination of Drogba’s raw power and Pintus’ methodical training promised something extraordinary.

Seeing the intensity in Richard’s gaze, Drogba swallowed hard. A lump formed in his throat, a mix of nerves and excitement. He nodded slowly, determination steadily replacing his earlier anxiety.

Watching Drogba’s eyes flicker with determination, Richard felt a thrill of anticipation.

This was the start of something big.