“My name is Jose Luis Armando Godal,” said the coach of Barcelona Football Club, speaking perfect English as he stretched out his hand to meet Jamie’s.

There had, of course, been no need for Godal to introduce himself. He was one of Jamie’s biggest heroes in football.

Godal was a very short, dark-haired man who, even as a coach, looked as fit and young as any Barcelona player. He had brought a new breed of football to the club when he’d taken the helm three years prior, and the style and panache with which his team played had bewitched the entire football world.

Jamie worshipped the way Godal’s Barcelona team played, and he had memorized, word for word, his post-match interview following their magical Champions League victory at the end of last season.

“I give my players three simple objectives,” Godal had said that day. “Firstly, they must be the more sporting team, committing fewer fouls and being less aggressive. Then they must try to win by playing very well, more creatively than the opposition, with attacking football. And finally they need to win on the scoreboard. But we don’t want to win without the first two aims being fulfilled.”

For Jamie this was a new vision of the beautiful game. It wasn’t just about winning football matches. It was about doing it with style.

Jamie detected the scent of aftershave as they shook hands. Godal oozed style both on and off the pitch.

“I have come to London,” said the Barcelona manager, supporting his handshake with a Hollywood smile, “to sign you for the best club in the world.”

Jamie almost fainted on the spot. He would have signed anything at that precise moment, such was the power of Godal’s charisma.

“Er – yes, well, we will see about that, señor,” said Jeremy, suddenly piping up. “We haven’t agreed to anything just yet and as Jamie’s … advisor … I am hardly going to suggest we simply accept the first offer that comes our way. You may be a very good soccer team but you are by no means the only club out ther—”

“Please,” said Godal, completely unruffled by Jeremy’s interjection. “Why don’t you have a look at the offer first and then we can talk more?”

Godal pointed to a collection of papers that lay on the table in front of them.

“Fine,” said Jeremy, taking out his glasses and flattening out the lapels of his suit jacket as he marched across the meeting room of the plush London hotel. “But, like I said, Barcelona are not the only football club in the world and I doubt very much that … whooahhh … hoooo … hoooo!”

Everyone in the room stared at Jeremy as he continued to produce a series of noises that were not only completely incomprehensible but also unlike any other sounds Jamie had ever heard him make.

“He… Ho… Ha… Hooookayyyyyy!” Jeremy finally said, fluttering the papers in front of him, producing a sound like a mad moth caught in the light. “Right, Jamie … I think this is probably acceptable… Yes, I think I’m happy with the negotiations…”

“Jamie,” said Godal, ignoring Jeremy for a second, who was now making squawking noises again as he showed Jamie’s mum the contract that was on offer. “Let me talk to you alone for a second.”

Godal put his reassuring arm around Jamie and walked him to a corner of the room. “We have a saying about Barça. We say: mes que un club. Do you know what this means?”

Jamie shook his head.

“It means more than a club … and this is what Barcelona is. It is a spirit … a movement … a way of life. In our team, we have very many brilliant young players that we have trained in the Barça way of football since the age of four. And every year we search for one player from outside of Barça to come and join us. This player must have grace, glory and guts. He must be skilful, fast and brave. He must have the desire to win and, above everything else, he must share our spirit.”

As Godal paused to allow Jamie to understand his words, Jamie’s mind echoed the Spanish words that he had just heard.

Barcelona: Mes que un club…

Barcelona: More than a club…

“Jamie,” smiled Godal, his voice full of certainty. “This year, we want that player to be you.”