"Actually, I've been thinking about this constantly the past few days. Just going back to say a few words, deliver some cliches about hard work and dreams—it feels hollow. Too superficial.
I came from Fontenay-sous-Bois Town. I know that place. I know how much those children love football. And I know exactly what they lack."
On the other end of the line, Pierre's breath caught. A pause stretched out, filled with surprise and sudden understanding: "You mean—"
"I want to establish a dedicated fund," Julien said, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "We'll call it the Fontenay-sous-Bois Town Future Football Fund."
He'd been thinking about this for weeks, really. Ever since the first interview when a journalist had asked him about his hometown. The idea had started small but it had grown into something bigger, more meaningful. The initial plan was already fully formed in his mind.
He continued, words coming faster now, energized by the vision:
"I'll provide the first capital injection myself—a substantial amount, enough to actually do something. After that, I'll set up an automatic donation system: a portion of my goal bonuses and win bonuses from each match goes straight into the fund. Every goal I score, every victory we achieve—part of it goes home.
The fund's purpose needs to be absolutely clear, properly structured. Beyond the gravel pitch we already have—you know the one, where I learned to play—we need to find some nearby land and build a proper artificial grass pitch. Full-size or close to it. Plus, two complete sets of training equipment.
Just one gravel pitch isn't enough. Not even close. Kids need proper surfaces to develop technique without destroying their joints. They need equipment that doesn't fall apart after a month.
Then we hire a full-time football coach." Julien's tone became more emphatic here, because this mattered crucially.
"Doesn't need to be someone who played professionally or has UEFA badges hanging on the wall—though those would be nice. But they absolutely must know how to teach children specifically. How to make training fun while building fundamentals. How to coach systematically, with age-appropriate progressions.
Additionally, every year we'll select the two most talented kids, the ones showing real promise, and sponsor them to attend a short trial period at Liverpool's youth academy. Let them train with elite coaching for a week or two.
Let them see what higher-level football actually looks like, feel the standards expected, understand the gap they need to bridge. Maybe some of them make it. Maybe none do. But they'll return with knowledge, with raised expectations of themselves."
Pierre's breathing had become audibly rapid, his excitement was crackling down the phone line. Clearly the scope of what Julien was proposing had hit him full force:
"This—this is wonderful! Extraordinary! Julien, do you realize what this means for the children of Fontenay-sous-Bois Town?"
"There's more," Julien said, a smile creeping into his voice now because Pierre's reaction told him the idea had hit exactly as he'd hoped.
"I want to establish what we'll call the Green Field Hope Scholarship. Not just based on football talent—that's important but not sufficient. We base it on academic performance and football ability combined.
Because football can't interfere with studies. I've seen too many kids drop out of school chasing football dreams that never materialize, leaving them with nothing. So, the scholarship rewards children who excel academically and love football. They get an annual grant that helps ease their families' financial burden—textbooks, supplies, tutoring if needed, whatever helps them stay in school and succeed.
Also, I'll contact Liverpool's club shop—I've got good relationships there already—to donate a batch of brand-new kits, boots, and footballs.
Every child who loves playing football gets a complete set. Shirt, shorts, socks, boots, shin guards if we can swing it. So, they can take the field in proper equipment, feel like real players. You have no idea what that does for a kid's confidence—wearing actual kit instead of torn t-shirts and trainers with holes."
He continued building the vision, details were tumbling out because he'd thought this through so thoroughly, his tone was full of anticipation,
"And I want to build something I'm calling the Starlight Library at the town's primary school. We'll stock it with general reading books obviously—fiction, non-fiction, whatever broadens young minds. But we'll also add football-specific materials: tactics books, player autobiographies, coaching manuals, history of the game.
Let the children broaden their horizons and learn something meaningful—doesn't matter what exactly, just that they're learning, growing, seeing possibilities beyond their environment.
Maybe they read about Messi's childhood in Rosario and realize poverty doesn't determine destiny. Maybe they study Guardiola's tactical philosophy and start thinking about the game differently.
Maybe they learn about Cristiano Ronaldo growing up in Funchal, pushing through hardship with discipline, and understand that obsession with improvement can turn talent into greatness.
Oh, and this is something I'm really excited about—I'll communicate with Liverpool to set up online football classes. Proper produced content, not just me rambling into a phone camera. We'll make instructional videos specifically for the Fontenay-sous-Bois children: proper technical movements, tactical concepts explained simply, conditioning exercises they can do with minimal equipment. Upload them to a dedicated channel they can access anytime. Build a whole curriculum over time."
He paused for breath, then continued with even more urgency:
"When I go back this time, I'll sit down properly with the mayor, school teachers, maybe some community leaders—we'll finalize everything. Draw up proper documents.
We'll put professional people in charge of managing the fund—accountants, administrators, people with actual nonprofit experience to ensure every penny goes to the children, not lost in overhead or mismanagement.
And from now on, every off-season, every summer break, I'll return for at least a week. I'll personally run a training camp for the kids—morning and afternoon sessions, work with different age groups. And I'll invite a few teammates to guest coach as well."
On the other end, Pierre had already lost the ability to compose himself, "Julien, what you're doing—it's more meaningful than any victory speech could ever be! When the children find out about this, they'll absolutely lose their minds!"
"I just want them to know something," Julien said as his voice softened slightly. "I want them to know that as long as they don't give up, as long as they work and push and refuse to accept that their circumstances define their ceiling—kids from small towns can have big dreams. Those dreams can actually come true.
Just like me back then."
He could see it so clearly, standing on that gravel pitch as a twelve-year-old, watching Premier League highlights on a neighbor's television through their window because his family couldn't afford Sky Sports.
"I never imagined—genuinely never allowed myself to imagine—that I'd be playing in the Premier League. It seemed impossible. Fantasy. Something that happened to other people from other places.
But now that I'm here, now that I have the ability, the platform, the resources—I should build a bridge for them. I must build a bridge. What's the point of making it if I just keep it for myself?"
In truth, though he didn't say this to Pierre yet because it felt too grandiose, too presumptuous this early, Julien harbored another ambition lurking behind this initial project.
He wanted to develop this Fontenay-sous-Bois Town fund into something much larger eventually—a global football charity organization. Start local, prove the model works, then scale. Fontenay-sous-Bois becomes the template. Then other towns. Other regions. Perhaps other countries.
Of course, that would require long-term planning, years of work, step by step expansion. Rome wasn't built in a day and neither would this be.
What he needed to do now was continuously expand his influence. Keep performing at the highest level. Keep his name in headlines. Keep building social capital. Because the bigger his profile grew, the more impact this kind of initiative could have. The more people would listen. The more resources he could mobilize.
After a few more exchanges with Pierre promising to set up a meeting with the mayor within next weeks, Julien hung up the phone.
Julien took a deep breath, air filling his lungs completely, then exhaled slowly.
He turned toward the training ground, visible through the window—those Melwood pitches where Liverpool's dynasty had been built decades ago and might be built again now.
The external praise swirling around him, the packed fixture schedule stretching into the New Year, the upcoming quarter-final against Stoke—none of it had disrupted his rhythm or knocked him off balance. If anything, the foundation project grounded him, reminded him what mattered.
For him, football wasn't just a profession, wasn't merely a path to wealth and fame—though those things were nice, he wouldn't lie.
It was a force that could change destiny. His destiny had been changed by it. Now he would wield that force to change others'.
And now, he would take that force back to that small town—that dusty, overlooked, easy-to-forget small town and pass it on to more children with dreams burning in their chests.
With the League Cup quarter-final preparation entering its final, crucial phase, the rhythm at Melwood Training Ground remained intense and focused.
After the afternoon fitness session ended—the players gathered in the dressing room rest area to catch their breath and let their heart rates return to normal.
Conversations started naturally, as they always did in these moments. Today's topic was: the hot news dominating British sports media for the past 48 hours.
Multiple major outlets had reported an unfolding scandal: six players, including former Premier League forward DJ Campbell and the notorious Sodje brothers, had been arrested on suspicion of match-fixing.
An undercover journalist had conducted a months-long investigation—posing as a betting syndicate representative and recorded crucial evidence.
These players hadn't just made mistakes or shown poor judgment. They'd run a bloody operation. Not only had they deliberately accumulated yellow and red cards for profit in League One and Championship matches—manipulating betting markets on disciplinary actions—they'd also boasted they could manipulate Premier League fixtures and even World Cup matches.
Hundreds of matches across Europe were now suspected of being compromised. The investigation was widening daily. More arrests seemed inevitable.
"Bloody hell, this is absolutely insane!" Sturridge held up his phone, scrolling through another article, his voice was full of genuine disbelief. "The Sodje brothers, Campbell—they've actually been arrested! Getting deliberate red and yellow cards for money! How stupid can you be?"
Suárez shrugged, his expression somewhere between contempt and bemusement. "Deliberately collecting cards for payment? I don't understand. That Campbell—he earns a million pounds a year. A million. And he still does this? Risks everything for what, thirty, forty thousand? It's an insult to football. An insult to everyone who plays the game properly."
Discussion gradually filled the dressing room—overlapping conversations, players pulling up articles on their phones, sharing the most outrageous details.
Julien leaned against his locker and absorbed the match-fixing scandal's details, piecing together the timeline and scope.
Two weeks ago, The Daily Telegraph—one of Britain's five major newspapers, the serious one that politicians actually read—had exposed an extensive match-fixing operation in the Championship and lower English leagues based on a covert investigation. Several suspects had been arrested immediately, though the full scope wasn't clear yet.
Then, two days ago, a reporter from the Sunday edition of The Sun—the tabloid, the one with the Page 3 girls and screaming headlines—conducted an elaborate sting operation. They posed as wealthy gamblers or syndicate organizers wanting to fix matches, offering money, asking what was possible.
They caught a much bigger fish than expected: Sam Sodje, a 34-year-old former Nigerian international who'd played for Premier League side Portsmouth before dropping down the divisions.
The reporter had used hidden cameras—spy-movie equipment, pinhole lenses in buttonholes and lapels to film Sam Sodje casually describing how he manipulated matches like he was discussing what he'd had for breakfast.
Sodje had claimed he'd made deals with current players—former Premier League players, some still active in the Championship. He'd ask them to deliberately get a yellow card in specific matches, offering clear instructions: foul this player in this minute, make it obvious enough to get booked but not so obvious it looks suspicious.
Thirty thousand pounds per card. Paid in cash, usually, or through cryptocurrency to avoid traces.
Sodje also revealed—and this part made everyone's blood run cold—that he'd deliberately punched an opponent during a match to guarantee a red card. He'd earned seventy thousand pounds for that particular performance.
The match Sodje referred to was easily identifiable: last season's League One fixture between Portsmouth and Oldham Athletic. Sodje had been sent off in the 50th minute for violent conduct—a punch thrown at an opponent during a set piece, everyone assumed it was just frustration from a veteran whose career was winding down in the lower leagues.
Except it wasn't frustration. It was business.
As everyone in football knew, major bookmakers offered extensive betting markets on disciplinary actions—things most casual fans never even considered gambling on: "total cards in a match," "first team to receive a card," "time of first card," "player to be sent off," even "booking in specific time periods."
These markets didn't attract huge individual bets usually, but they generated significant volume from in-play betting and accumulator bets. Enough volume that manipulation could be quite profitable if you had players on the inside.
Regarding these markets, Sodje had admitted—admitted, on camera, voice recorded clearly that he could arrange for other players to deliberately collect cards. His price list was: thirty thousand pounds per yellow card, fifty thousand per red card. Even negotiable for quantity discounts or particularly high-profile matches.
In the undercover interview—and Julien could only imagine how the journalist had kept a straight face during this—Sam Sodje had also mentioned his brother Akpo Sodje.
According to Sam, Akpo was prepared to deliberately collect cards in his next six matches, following a predetermined schedule worked out with betting syndicates. He stood to profit substantially—we're talking hundreds of thousands of pounds.
But Akpo Sodje's conspiracy could never be realized now, could it?
Shortly after Sam Sodje's revelations aired, both brothers were arrested simultaneously at their south London home by the National Crime Agency.
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