At this hour of night, the halls of Arsenal's training complex in London Colney were quiet. Only one office had light pouring through its window.
Inside, Arsène Wenger adjusted his glasses and leaned over his desk.
The scout standing beside him inserted a USB stick into the laptop and double-clicked the video file. It was the full match from the League Cup: Wigan Athletic vs. Morecambe.
"Watch this," the scout said. "Start to finish. You'll want to see all of it."
Wenger said nothing, just sat back, pen in hand.
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Within five minutes of kickoff, Wenger was already leaning forward.
Morecambe weren't playing like a lower-league side.
They weren't lumping it long. They weren't sitting back. They were patient, poised—dictating the tempo with the ball on the ground.
"This isn't normal," Wenger muttered. "This side... they're coached. Properly coached."
He scribbled a note.
A few more minutes in, a midfielder in red caught his eye—lean build, balanced on the half-turn, skipping past challenges with effortless control.
Samba rhythm. Eyes up. Always a solution one step ahead of pressure.
Wenger circled the number on the screen and asked quietly, "That midfielder—who is he?"
"Ronaldinho. Brazilian. Just turned twenty."
Wenger jotted the name down instinctively.
Then the goal came—Morecambe's No. 9 receiving a split-second through-ball after a clever positional switch from the same midfielder. One touch. One finish.
Wenger blinked in surprise.
"That striker," he asked. "The big one?"
"Ibrahimovic. Another new signing. Nineteen."
Wenger watched the replay again. The sequence had rhythm—disguise, timing, verticality. And most importantly: intentionality.
"Who's managing this side?"
The scout hesitated.
"That would be... Juninho D'Alessandro. Brazilian-Chinese. Age: twenty-two."
Wenger turned his head slowly. "You're joking."
"Not at all. He owns the club, too. Bought it, took over as head coach, built the squad himself."
Wenger said nothing for a long moment. He just kept watching the screen.
He was thirty-five when Monaco gave him his first break. Even then, it had taken years of groundwork—technical director jobs, youth coaching, analysis.
And this kid, this... Juninho—was already stamping a style onto a League Two side that played better positional football than most in the Championship.
Possession. Rest defense. Triggers in midfield.
This wasn't a fluke. This was blueprint football.
By halftime, Wenger had stopped thinking about the result. He was watching patterns. Overloads. Movements. The off-ball cohesion. It was systematic.
He said quietly, "This side doesn't just play. They rehearse."
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When the second half began, the game turned into a showcase.
Ronaldinho ran the midfield like a concert pianist, while Ibrahimovic twisted himself into taekwondo shapes to score a flying volley no striker had any business attempting.
By the time the final whistle blew—Morecambe 4, Wigan 0—Wenger sat motionless in his chair.
"This could have been a Premier League side," he said.
"They're fourth division," the scout replied.
Wenger finally spoke again. "And these three? The midfielder, the forward, and their center-back—how old are they?"
"All around twenty."
Wenger handed over his notepad. "Find out what it would take to get them."
The scout hesitated. "Sir... that's the thing."
"What?"
"We can't afford them."
Wenger furrowed his brow. "They're in League Two."
"They signed all three this summer. The combined transfer fee? Twenty-one million euros."
Wenger sat still.
"Even if we offered double that," the scout continued, "Morecambe won't sell. The owner is the coach. He's not flipping them—he's building something."
Wenger leaned back and exhaled slowly.
Twenty-one million. In League Two.
He looked down at his own scouting report. Clean diagrams. Starred names.
Then quietly, almost to himself, he said, "Are we really at a point where Arsenal can't buy from League Two?"
The scout didn't answer.
Because they both knew the truth.
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