There comes a point in every man’s life when he’s faced with tough decisions:
Should I stay at my unfulfilling desk job to slowly sock away money for impossibly priced Austin, Texas real estate . . . or do I take my body to the streets and whore myself to achieve the goal faster?
Do I share my phone passcode with my spouse?
It’s been ten minutes. Should I take another bite of this edible?
Is it worth offing myself the next time a South Park marathon switches to Trevor Noah?
Do I continue to support a morally bankrupt futbol empire?
The answer to all of these questions . . . is no.
I became a fan of the sky-blue side of Manchester a few years prior to the 2008 Abu Dhabi cash injection that skyrocketed the team to levels of success Mancunians only ever dreamed of whilst wearing red. Watching Manchester City escape Manchester United’s shadow and become a world-powerhouse proved one hell of a ride.
If I was drafting up a writing sample for my ESPN resume, this is where I would spew some typical garbage like “...the City skies weren’t always so clear...”, but I'm no sellout — not yet. I’ll say instead, I found it difficult to ignore City’s underhanded methods and impossible to root for a team rigged for success. It was a radical journey, but I felt increasingly dirty along the way.
Once the oil money started flowing in 2008, we were introduced to Sheikh Mansour, a UAE royal who effectively owns Manchester City and has been to the Ethiad Stadium only once. I don't mind an absentee owner so much. Occasionally, life gets in the way and you can't fly the PJ to go watch a team you just purchased for $360m dollars — busy times. But I am bothered by an owner turning the game into a public relations vehicle for their corrupt home nation.
Sin Number One
There's nothing new to share about The Sheikh Mansour Story; he and his family rule the UAE like a gulag, thinly vailed by astonishingly tall buildings and other shiny shit. Behind the curtain, their glimmering oil-made mirage is filled with terrible horrors: false imprisonment, slavery, torture — and Manchester City was only purchased to distract the civilized world from these things so we would do business with the UAE and sometimes vacation there. This was sin numero uno.
I feel ashamed to have overlooked City’s nefarious means of wealth because the on-pitch spectacle was so striking. This, at least partially, makes me an asshole.
Sin Nummer Zwei
After the German publication/footy-leak machine, Der Spiegel, released incendiary emails from City brass in 2018, the world learned of the mechanisms used by the team to hoard expensive talents at an alarming rate. Manchester City's ownership sold their image rights and sponsorships back to themselves for unheard of sums of money, falsely inflating City's revenue and allowing them to spend more on player transfers while still “complying” with FIFA's Financial Fair Play Rules.
I believe it when the media claims Manchester City have become a self-sufficient business, capable of actually creating the revenue they spend against, but I don’t believe they would be there by now if they didn’t artificially fund their meteoric rise. Not every team can leverage a nation’s wealth to manipulate the rules and afford the best legal counsel when the heat turns up. UEFA and the Premier League have both launched investigations into the team's violations but only a $10m dollar sanction has been brought against them so far. Big dent for an ownership group worth trillions . . .
I knew they were guilty and still didn't change course. This, at least partially, makes me an asshole.
The Final Sin
Creeping dangerously close to our divorce, Manchester City’s willingness to join the European Super League finally brought me to this existential crisis of sport. City and their oil-rich owners never needed the financial stability most ESL members claimed to necessitate the league’s formation. This was Manchester City’s one opportunity to show a moral backbone by standing in solidarity with the thousands of less wealthy European clubs who would be excluded and damned by the ESL. This was their chance to become a virtuous darling. They did nothing.
Fans who praised City for being one of the first clubs to rescind their place in the ESL are just selfishly accommodating apologists looking for any excuse to hang on. I get it — supporting a winning team feels good, especially when that team hires the best manager on the planet and surrounds him with the best talent on the planet. Manchester City fans have become spoiled rotten over the past decade, and I don’t see them relinquishing the Dominance Teat any time soon — not while you can keep buying wins, anyway.
This was the final death-blow to my Manchester City fandom. I had to say goodbye. So, I did. After supporting this team for over 15 years and shelling out thousands of dollars to their merchandise department, I can finally rest easy knowing these words totally absolves me of my transgressions. I am a beacon of righteousness.
If you grew up in Manchester supporting City your entire life, I can tolerate reluctance to ditching a club so engrained in your being — but what of the fans in my country, watching games from their couches, tuned into Peacock, ESPN+, or whichever paid app is necessary on the day. What’s their excuse?
That question doesn't come from a place of judgement. I'm genuinely curious. Ignorance could play a big part in all of this, because for every social cause I've seen City champion over the past decade, I don't recall them ever brining up human rights violations in the UAE or admitting to any wrong-doing within the sport. No — they always claim innocence.
I wish Manchester City paid some debt in all of this. Something like 2006 Juventus’s penalty for match-fixing would suffice, where the Italian giants were stripped of titles and relegated. I would gladly watch most of City’s talent walk after activating their relegation clauses, and seeing City battle their way out of the Championship would provide a whole new kind of thrill. Competing in England’s second tier wouldn’t stop the the outrageous signings, but I could proclaim to detractors “They’ve paid their debt to society and they’re going to do it the honest-to-goodness way this time! The Sheikh is a swell guy. I know he’ll see to it!”
Any sort of significant penalty could almost make the club charming again, but alas. They recently purchased a top English (and world) attacking commodity in Jack Grealish for a humble sum of $100m dollars, so the machine shows no sign of slowing . . . or spending.
F that noise. I’m out.
* * *
But let’s not forget the good times, eh? I had a real connection to the club and its players, even before the Abu Dhabi cash showed up.
I could drivel on about all of City's superstars you already know but the thought bores me and would certainly bore you. Oh, you think Kevin De Bruyne is amazing? Cool cool. Me too.
What about the Claudio Bravo's of the world. I remember him shitting the sheets for far too long — and it wasn't even that long. There was never a net-minder more dedicated to the high-possession game than this big-browed renegade and his stats suffered greatly for it. People often forget Bravo and Spanish forward Nolito were two of Pep Guardiola's first signings for City and they both sucked horribly. That was a $40m pair I'll never forget it.
But before Pep, the trophies, and even before Manchester City's bench became a thing of envy across the globe, there was the original squad of players I fell in love with. They looked something like this:
The old squad. Looking at an old picture like this brings back so much joy. Naivety is bliss.
Where Bravo’s eyebrows were abundant, Joe Hart didn’t have any. Micah Richards and Martin Petrov remind me of scanning the City website back in the mid 2000’s, searching for any respectable swag to purchase. I could only find “pencil toppers” of Micah and Martin’s likenesses which felt too odd to pull the trigger on. I was fascinated to learn how Micah was “somehow” at starter at only 19 years old. Stephen Ireland still had a decent crop on his dome. I had an unspoken belief that all Brazilians were blessed with some kind of special innate skill, so I was quite fond of Elano. I vaguely remember Nadum Onuoha but I see him on ESPNFC every week now. Great times.
The very start of the 2008 takeover was one of the most exciting times in sport. I was suddenly transported to the rollercoaster's first drop along with the familiar and exciting "oh, fuck" feeling that only comes after the lift hill. This mid-table team somehow spent a shocking amount of money to purchase Robinho in the dying minutes of the summer transfer window.
I didn’t know much about Robinho other than he was coming from Real Madrid and expensive, so I figured he was good. He came on as a substitute in his first game to take a free kick, and in a beautiful convergence of poetry and sport, the commentator exclaimed “INSTANT HERO!” as the ball passed the keeper. What a thrill. I’ll never forget it.
The next watershed goal was Sergio Aguero’s in the dying moments of the season to steal a title away from United. There were smaller and less relatable moments I can recall but they all still hold weight — something I’m going to have to let go of. But even if those fond memories were being viewed through a haze of ignorance, they were still good times.
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