Family First

"Mom, Dad, here's the money."

The total amount of money he received was £15,000. Once the Maddox family settled, Richard took the initiative and gave £7,500 of his earnings, including his salary and compensation, to his parents. He also set aside £2,500 for his brother.

"Brother, I heard you want to start a business. Here's £2,500 for the capital. I hope you can run the business wisely."

The reason was simple: as someone who could be considered a "peek into the future," Richard knew that the future wasn't just a mystery—it was an opportunity for him. With his knowledge, he understood that money, in itself, was easy to come by.

What he needed was confirmation—proof that everything he saw aligned with reality. He had already set a target for himself, a way to test his predictions for the future.

1986 FIFA World Cup. Mexico.

If his prediction turned out to be true, he could be sure that everything he had seen about the future was accurate.

"No, you take back your money!"

It felt like he had stepped on his parents and older brother's toes. They anxiously pushed the money back into his hands.

'You're kidding me, right?'

Bryan was frustrated, but also deeply sad.

As a father, he wanted nothing more than for his son to succeed. He had always been proud of Richard, especially when he managed to make a name for himself and achieve great things. But the injury had shaken him to the core.

With the injury, his son's future now seemed uncertain. Bryan knew his son could no longer pursue heavy labor, and he feared the long-term effects of the injury would make it impossible for him to hold down a regular job.

In his eyes, his youngest son was too fragile at that moment.

Harry Maddox, Richard's older brother, shared similar concerns but viewed things differently. He had intended to follow in their father's footsteps, working at the warehouse.

Though the pay was modest, Harry believed he was still young, strong, and had many years of work ahead of him, which gave him a sense of stability and purpose. So, when Richard offered him money, Harry rebuffed him harshly, saying he didn't need it.

Richard was speechless. 'Brother, I want to invest! Invest!'

But in the end, he gave up. If he insisted, he feared his brother might think he was undermining him.

Originally, when he handed Harry the £2,500, it wasn't meant as a gift—it was meant to be an investment in his business.

He also tried giving the money to their mother to manage, but she refused. "It's your money, Richard. You manage it. I believe in you." Her words were firm, filled with both love and trust.

In the Maddox family, Richard had always been the most successful—at least before his forced retirement. His decision to focus on football rather than academics had been met with skepticism, but he had proven everyone wrong.

"Do you still want to build your own supermarket?" Richard couldn't help but ask his brother.

Harry, his elder brother, had always had a knack for business.

He remembered it clearly—when they were kids, Harry used to complain about how difficult it was to buy things in Islington.

The lack of convenience frustrated them both, and at one point, they had even joked, "It's like we're stuck in the stone age—no supermarket, no convenience."

When Richard was unconscious and wandering as a ghost, he spent his days either watching over his family from afar or observing how the world was changing—wars, crises, and the gradual transformation of society.

Football matches were usually held on weekends, sometimes on wednesdays, thursdays, and fridays. If there was no football, he had time to see how the world moved forward without him.

Everyone knew that Islington had been in a state of decline. Traditional industries were disappearing, local shops were shutting down, and the population was shrinking.

At one point, it was considered "too poor to even have a supermarket."

What Richard hadn't expected was the arrival of Sainsbury's, one of the most well-known supermarket chains. But they had only agreed to open a store in Islington on one condition—it had to have a car park. They believed most of their customers would be driving in from wealthier parts of London.

This was just one of many changes. The Thatcher government's economic policies, combined with progressive local efforts, reshaped Islington forever.

Hearing Richard bring up the supermarket dream, Harry nodded seriously and placed a firm yet gentle grip on his younger brother's shoulder.

"Don't worry. The money you earned is the result of your hard work. Don't think about me—I've already accepted a job at the warehouse. Before long, I'll be working, saving, and building our own supermarket. It won't just be mine—it'll be our family's supermarket!"

Richard felt a warmth spread through him at his brother's words.

Yeah, the Maddox family rule number one—family always comes first. No matter what happened, they were a unit. And when it came to money, they had always been taught to be careful.

Even as kids, their parents instilled discipline in them. Their allowance was given at a set time, and once it was spent, that was it—they had to wait until the next day. No asking for more, no borrowing, no exceptions.

Money had the power to create division. That was something they had learned early on. Unless it was an emergency, you never borrowed or took money from others—not even from your own family. Because money, no matter how small, could be dangerous.

"Richard, Harry, come for dinner!"

Their mother's voice rang through the house.

"Coming, Mom!" Harry shouted back before turning to his younger brother with a grin. "Alright, no more chit-chat. Let's go—I'm starving."

Richard rolled his eyes but smiled, pushing himself up carefully. As they made their way to the dining room, Harry instinctively placed a steadying hand on Richard's back.

"Take it slow, Richard."

Richard sighed. "Brother, I'm okay now."

"I know, just making sure."

The kitchen was small and outdated, but it had always been the heart of their home. The linoleum flooring was slightly worn, the old cabinets had chipped paint, and a well-used gas stove stood in the corner. At the center of the kitchen was the dining table, a simple but sturdy piece.

Tonight, it was set with care.

The table was already set, a comforting sight of home. A steaming pot of stew sat in the center, its rich aroma filling the room. Freshly baked bread was neatly stacked beside it, and a bowl of mashed potatoes glistened under the warm kitchen light.

Richard blinked at the spread. "So much food?"

His father, Bryan chuckled from his seat at the head of the table, his eyes lighting up as he looked at his two sons. "Hahaha, don't worry about it. Come sit down, don't just stand there. You need to eat well if you want to heal properly."

Their mother motioned for them to sit as she gently placed a plate in front of Richard. "I made extra tonight. You need strength."

Richard chuckled, touched by the attention. "Mom, I'm not dying, you know."

"No, but you gave us all a scare," she replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

Harry smirked as he tore off a piece of bread. "He's right, though. You being home like this? Feels weird. Shouldn't you be out there kicking a ball?"

The room fell into a brief silence. Harry's words lingered in the air, an unspoken reminder of what Richard had lost. Realizing his mistake, Harry quickly tried to backtrack.

"Richard, I didn't mean—"

But Richard simply raised a hand, cutting him off with a small, reassuring smile. "Brother, it's okay. Really."

He glanced around the table, noticing the worried looks on his family's faces. With a gentle smile, he reassured them, "I promise, I'm okay. If this were the end of the world for me, I wouldn't be here enjoying Mom's stew and mashed potatoes."

Harry exhaled a quiet breath of relief, though a flicker of guilt still remained in his eyes. Their father, sensing the shift in mood, decided to steer the conversation in another direction.

"Richard, now that you'll be home more often, maybe you could help out around the house a bit?" Bryan suggested, setting down his newspaper.

Richard chuckled. "Of course, Dad. Just don't ask me to lift anything heavy—I don't want to give Mom a heart attack."

Anna laughed as she ladled stew into their bowls, shaking her head. "Oh, please. You boys act like I'm fragile."

Dinner went on with easy conversation—talk of the neighborhood, everything that had happened while he was unconscious, and the usual family chatter.

His mother fussed over his portions, making sure he ate enough, while Bryan casually slipped an extra slice of bread onto his plate when he wasn't looking. It was a simple dinner, but it felt like home.

For the first time since his injury, Richard felt at peace.

The house they lived in was modest, with only three bedrooms—one for Bryan and Anna, one for Harry, and one for Richard. It wasn't spacious, but it was home. Every creaky floorboard and faded patch of wallpaper held years of memories.

Richard stepped into his room and let out a quiet sigh. Everything was just as he had left it—the small bed pushed into the corner, the wooden desk by the window, and the old wardrobe that never quite closed properly.

He shut the door behind him and sat at his desk. The air inside was damp and cold, and the single-glazed window had dark stains creeping along the edges—signs of moisture seeping through over the years.

Damp stains like these were common in council housing. Poor insulation, narrow layouts, and steep staircases were all typical of these homes.

He remembered being barely six years old when a government official stood on a stage, explaining how families could apply for housing.

Housing charities had long blamed the deteriorating conditions on a lack of investment in social housing.

In response—or perhaps to quiet public dissatisfaction—the government had pledged to build more affordable homes. That promise led to the construction of council houses and flats.

The choice between a house and a flat came down to affordability.

Those who wanted more space and a small kitchen could opt for a standalone or terraced house. But even with government discounts, many families either couldn't afford one or hesitated to spend the extra money.

For them, flats were the better option—cheaper, though smaller and more cramped. They were part of larger buildings, similar to apartment blocks, but priced at just £30 at the time, making them far more accessible.

As a result, nearly 90% of people chose flats, leaving many council houses sitting empty. That's why he had said earlier—it felt too empty, too vacant.

Thanks to his father's decisive action at the time, he had immediately purchased a three-bedroom house, making life at least a little easier for the Maddox family. It proved especially valuable in moments like this—when Richard needed privacy.

What he was about to do might shock his family if they saw him. 

£15,000.

That was all he had—his salary, compensation, and savings from his football career. Now, he was left with one pressing question: how to stretch that £15,000 as far as possible in the shortest amount of time.

With that thought, Richard reached for the newspaper he had borrowed from his father.

He had already been informed about what happened while he was unconscious.

After the sickening collision, the thing that truly stunned him was another tragedy that occurred shortly after. It seemed as if his soul was somehow tethered to the moment, so close to the event that he had missed it.

However, the result of it left him completely shocked. English teams were banned from participating in European football competitions for five years!

What was meant to be a night of European glory turned into a tragedy that shook the footballing world. A large-scale riot broke out, and chaos followed. English football faced one of its darkest moments—the Heysel Stadium disaster.

The disaster was blamed on hooliganism, mistakes by officials, and structural issues with the stadium. The consequences were severe. In response to the tragedy, UEFA imposed a blanket ban on all English clubs from participating in European competitions for five years.

Richard scanned the newspaper, flipping through pages filled with outrage, analysis, and political rhetoric. Even until now, people were still talking about it.

He shook his head. Despite the differing opinions, the media's goal was the same—to assign blame.

This was more than just a sporting crisis; it had become a political issue. The government, desperate to restore order, sought scapegoats, and the cycle of accusations was relentless.

Uninterested in the endless debate, Richard turned the page, his eyes finally landing on the section he had been searching for.

[...Mirror Sport: Copa Mundial de Fútbol México '86 – Here we go!...]