7. The First Roar

Back in Munich, Neil Goyal and Kunaal Thakur awaited Luca Toni's decision. The Parma trip had been a whirlwind—Buffon's tentative interest, Neil's bar fight, and Toni's unexpected rescue.

Now, the former Bayern Munich striker, a World Cup legend, was considering their offer to join Munich 1860 as sports director, akin to Deco at Barcelona. Kunaal's pitch had been bold: a lucrative salary and a chance to become a German legend again.

At the Thakur Hotel's sleek lounge, Kunaal sipped chai, reviewing emails. Neil, bruises fading, paced restlessly. "Toni's taking forever," he grumbled.

Anna Weber, organizing schedules nearby, glanced up. Her LMU scholarship demanded discipline, and Kunaal's work ethic resonated with her. Neil's impulsiveness, less so.

"Patience," Kunaal said. "Toni's email just landed. He's in—starts next month."

Neil grinned. "Legend secured! He'll get us Ibrahimović." Kunaal nodded, cautious. "Toni's connections are gold, but Zlatan's tied to Milan. We'll need his insight for German talent too."

Anna, inputting Toni's contract details, admired Kunaal's foresight. With Toni onboard, Munich 1860's summer transfer window looked promising, a step toward their Bundesliga dream.

The club's first 3. Liga match under new ownership loomed—a home clash against Freiburg II at Grünwalder Stadion.

Neil, chairman with 51% ownership, and Kunaal, general manager with 44%, had reclaimed the 12,500-seat venue, built in 1911, through Neil's financial muscle.

Once shared with Bayern Munich's youth teams, it was now Munich 1860's true home, free from Allianz Arena's shadow.

Match day buzzed with anticipation. Fans packed the stands, eager to see Neil and Kunaal, who'd saved the club from bankruptcy.

Banners waved—some thanking the new owners, others flashing racist slurs from extremist holdouts.

The scrapped 50+1 rule still stung for purists. Neil, waving a Munich 1860 scarf on the pitch, heard boos drown out applause. Kunaal, beside him, whispered, "Results will silence them."

In the VIP box, they watched Freiburg II, second in the league, take on their squad. Munich 1860's forwards, Vones and Lakenmacher, pressed hard, hungry to impress.

The team's 25-man roster—midfielders like Dressman and Moll, defenders like Flat and Steinhart, goalkeepers like Schiller—fought fiercely. But Freiburg II's defense held firm, and the match ended 0-0. Neil sighed. "We're… bad."

Kunaal nodded grimly. "Mid-table talent won't cut it. Half this squad's gone by summer." With no chance of promotion in this season. The next season, four months away, was their real shot.

Kunaal felt the weight—his childhood, marked by his parents' bankruptcy struggles and constant moves, drove his relentless work ethic. Unlike Neil, whose wealth cushioned his whims, Kunaal saw Munich 1860 as a legacy, not a game.

Post-match, Kunaal reviewed the roster: Vones, Lakenmacher, Lex showed promise; others, like Schiller and Willsch, lagged.

Toni's hiring was timely—he'd scout replacements, leveraging his Serie A and Bundesliga ties. Neil, meanwhile, focused on Anna, who'd translated fan chants during the match.

"Dinner tonight?" he asked, grinning. Anna shook her head. "I'm updating Toni's onboarding files, Mr. Goyal." Her focus mirrored Kunaal's, leaving Neil charmed but frustrated.

Kunaal's mind was on networks. Munich 1860 needed allies to thrive in Germany's football ecosystem. Three stood out: Bayern Munich, the Munich city government, and the German Football Association.

Bayern, their arch-rival, was a giant—Europe's elite, with unmatched resources. But fans loathed the idea of cozying up. Kunaal met with fan leaders, seeking their pulse. "Bayern helped us before," he said. "Shared Allianz Arena, bailed us out. Could we collaborate?"

The response was fierce. Bayern's aid had come with condescension, their fans treating Munich 1860 as lesser. "They hate our blue jerseys," one leader spat.

"Think it betrays Bavaria's flag, which is blue." Kunaal understood—the rivalry wasn't just sport; it was pride. Bayern fans' arrogance had scarred Munich 1860's faithful, who felt humiliated by past dependence. Cooperation risked alienating their base.

Still, Kunaal weighed options. The city government offered stability—permits, funding for Grünwalder Stadion's planned doubling in capacity. The German Football Association could open doors to youth academies and referees.

But Bayern's network was unmatched for player loans or scouting. Kunaal decided to tread lightly, prioritizing local ties first. "We'll scout Germany's lower leagues," he told Neil. "Toni can help. Then we look abroad—Spain, maybe."

Neil nodded, half-listening, his eyes on Anna as she coordinated with Toni's agent via email. "Spain's got Hazard, Isco, Ramos," he said.

Kunaal sighed. "Focus, Neil. We need German talent to win fans over. Foreign stars come later." Luca Toni's role would be pivotal—his Bayern Munich past could bridge gaps, despite the rivalry. His first task: identify a young goalkeeper to complement Buffon, if signed, and a striker to rival Ibrahimović's aura.

Back at the hotel, Kunaal pored over spreadsheets, mapping summer transfers. Neil, restless, joined him with beers. "Toni's a coup," Neil said, clinking bottles. Kunaal agreed. "He'll bring credibility. Fans might forgive his Bayern history if he delivers."

Anna, finishing her tasks, overheard. Kunaal's dedication—late nights, meticulous plans—echoed her own grind. Neil's charm, though persistent, felt fleeting by comparison.

The 3. Liga season trudged on, Munich 1860 stuck in mid-table limbo—safe from relegation, far from promotion. Pressure mounted for the summer, when Toni would start, Buffon's decision would land, and Ibrahimović's pursuit would intensify.

Kunaal's vision—a Bundesliga club nurturing Indian talent—burned bright. Neil saw himself as its face, Anna by his side. For now, Munich 1860's first roar at Grünwalder Stadion was a draw, but with Toni onboard, the next season promised fire.