Broken Dreams

by Tom Bower

  Lured by easy money, the number of football agents in England had proliferated. In 1995, agents had been legalized but were required to be registered by FIFA. To qualify, applicants were required to deposit £100,000 in a Swiss bank account, complete an application form and answer twenty multiple choice questions. The questions included ‘What does FIFA stand for?’, ‘Tick the qualities required to be an agent’, and explain whether ‘an impeccable reputation’ was desirable. By 2002, there were 179 licensed agents in England, compared to 82 in Germany, 88 in France and 54 in Italy. Hundreds of others fluttered around as unofficial agents. Sharp dealers, operating from mobile telephones, encouraged players to initiate a transfer by feigning unhappiness or illness, with the assurance that the agent’s fees would usually be paid by the clubs, not the players.

  ‘All agents,’ quipped Graham Taylor, the unsuccessful England manager, ‘should be lined up against a wall and shot.’ Ever since the ‘Bosman’ ruling by the European Court of Justice in September 1995, players had been allowed free transfers at the end of their contracts, removing them as assets from the clubs’ accounts and permitting an unlimited number of foreign players to be employed in English teams. The Bosman ruling had encouraged transfers, spiralling wages for players and the reluctance of clubs to train young players. Since there were no controls, the finances of football clubs had destabilized. Supporters loyal to a century of tradition found that their clubs were more like anonymous businesses. At one end of the widening gap, smaller clubs had sunk into financial trouble, while the star clubs sought glory on the foundations of transient wealth. The principal beneficiaries of the jungle were the agents. Of all the agents earning millions of pounds from that mayhem, Dennis Roach was the most notorious and the natural target of Graham Bean’s pursuit.

  Graham Bean opened his investigation of Dennis Roach in August 2000 with notable optimism. Joe Royle, the manager of Manchester City, and Freddie Shepherd, the chairman of Newcastle United, had complained about Roach’s alleged unethical behaviour. Within two weeks, Roach had allegedly sought separate payments from four English clubs for the transfer of two English players, a clear breach of the FA’s rule forbidding payment by more than one party to an agent. Under the FA’s rules, Roach should have asked for his fee from the players, his clients, rather than the clubs. But that fundamental rule was invariably ignored. Football agents in England usually received their commission from the clubs, even though they were representing the players. That remarkable contradiction legitimized a conflict of interest, a common practice in the football business, despite the risk of unscrupulousness. Targeting Roach attracted sensational headlines and even glee among some chairmen of Premier League clubs, the same people who had bought his services. ‘FA versus Roach’ might be billed as a defining moment for football and the enforcement of Adam Crozier’s ‘fit and proper test’, but that was a misunderstanding of English football and Roach’s career. Investigation of his conduct rarely troubled Dennis Roach. Roguishly sharp and humorously articulate, Roach had become accustomed throughout his twenty-five-year career to scrutiny by the FA and the Inland Revenue.

  In 1992 and 1993, Inland Revenue officers seized documents from ‘PRO International’, Roach’s offices. They focused on Star Sports, the company based in the Channel Islands which had organized the soccer tour of South Africa. ‘The dodgiest deal I have ever done,’ confessed Richard Tessel, a participant in the tour. The deposit of £261,000 into a bank account in Guernsey had not been declared to the Inland Revenue, but the ownership of the account was disputed by Roach. ‘It’s not my account,’ insisted the agent. He nevertheless admitted, ‘I came to a compensation agreement with the Revenue.’

  Roach had suffered an earlier brush with the Inland Revenue. During his career, he had accumulated many enemies, especially rival agents. In his paperless business, some of his ‘agreements’ with other agents had been misunderstood, provoking grudges. Among his enemies was Ludwig Kollin, a Croatian agent living in Switzerland.

  In December 1989, Ludwig Kollin arrived at the Swallow Hotel in Waltham Abbey with Ludek Miklosko, a Czech goalkeeper owned by Banik Ostrava, a Czech club. Kollin possessed a letter signed by the club’s manager and general secretary bequeathing the authority to negotiate a sale on the club’s behalf. Kollin was optimistic about West Ham’s interest. Seeking instant success, England’s leading clubs were increasingly buying foreign rather than English players. Kollin’s disadvantage was his vulnerability as an unknown agent and trader.

  To Kollin’s surprise, he was telephoned in his hotel room by Roach. ‘I’m representing West Ham to negotiate Miklosko’s purchase,’ said Roach. Kollin was puzzled. Roach’s presence, according to Peter Storrie, was required because Kollin was not ‘a registered agent’, but in that period agents were not allowed by the FA or registered by FIFA. Roach was no different from Kollin, except that the Englishman enjoyed a friendly relationship with the club’s management. ‘Why is West Ham using Roach as its representative?’ Kollin asked Lou Macari, West Ham’s manager. ‘Roach telephoned and said he’s representing you,’ Macari replied. Kollin was puzzled but not surprised. Impenetrable contradictions were a staple diet of football. The transfer was agreed and Kollin was reassured that Roach would share the commission.

  The transfer price was deposited in an account of the Credit Suisse bank in Zürich. Shortly after, the manager of Banik Ostrava complained that £138,000 was missing. The air was full of claim and counter-claim. Kollin, the Czechs believed, had taken the money. Kollin vehemently denied any wrongdoing and alleged that the missing money remained deposited in Roach’s Swiss bank account. Roach ignored Kollin’s repeated requests to share the commission and claimed, ‘I brought Miklosko to West Ham. I was never paid by West Ham.’ To discover the fate of the money, Kollin filed an official criminal complaint in Switzerland. The investigation by Erich Leimlehner, a Swiss judge, did not trouble Roach. His eloquence and charm usually persuaded foreigners of his innocence. ‘Kollin’s the full shilling,’ smiled Roach, suggesting that the Croat was an unreliable witness. Leimlehner unearthed the deposited money in a Credit Suisse bank account number 175664 marked ‘KOL Attn 39 To Thomas Finn’, suggesting that Kollin had appropriated the money. ‘Roach opened the account using my name,’ countered Kollin. Roach denied the allegation. ‘The whole matter is disgusting,’ concluded Leimlehner, closing his investigation. Those involved in the football business, he decided, deserved each other. Roach was ebullient. Antagonism towards him was tempered by his indispensability. Few, it appeared, including the owners of football clubs, could resist his involvement in transfers, or his profits.

  In February 1996, Ludwig Kollin returned to West Ham to sell Slaven Bilic, a Croatian defender. Kollin, representing the player, anticipated negotiating directly with Harry Redknapp, but unexpectedly Roach telephoned Kollin and announced his involvement as the representative of Karlsruhe, Bilic’s club. ‘I’m the only agent West Ham will deal with,’ insisted Roach, ‘and you’re not registered.’ Kollin protested to Redknapp: ‘That’s not what we agreed.’ ‘I can’t do anything,’ replied Redknapp. ‘Peter Storrie insisted. I’ve made too many mistakes buying foreign players.’ Kollin appealed to Terry Brown, West Ham’s chairman. Even Brown favoured Roach. Any deal for Bilic, confirmed Brown, must be negotiated with Roach. Resignedly, Kollin told Roach, ‘I’ve lived for six years under suspicion of being a crook,’ referring to the accusation that he had secretly deposited money in a Swiss bank account. ‘Oh that’s normal in football,’ replied Roach. ‘But I suffered,’ countered Kollin. ‘I always pay the money I owe people,’ said Roach proudly, ‘so I’ll pay some compensation.’ The belated payment was not indicative of Roach’s changed behaviour. In June 1997, Kollin complained that he had not received any money from Roach for Bilic’s £1.4 million transfer to West Ham. Roach ignored Kollin’s demands. Kollin complained to Graham Kelly, but the FA ignored the letter. In revenge, the Croatian agent contacted Graeme Young at the Special Compliance
office of the Inland Revenue in Princess Gate in Solihull. ‘Roach has a Swiss bank account,’ confided Kollin in a bid to damage his rival. Roach shrugged off the allegation. He denied owing the Inland Revenue any money and obtained an injunction to prevent Kollin making personal threats or approaching within 250 metres of his property. He appeared immune to embarrassment. Roach’s problems with the Inland Revenue aroused little interest in either the Premier League or the FA. Neither believed that the finances of the agent ought to be controlled by their organization, not least because their members eagerly hired his services and his profits were discovered only by accident. At West Ham, Peter Storrie would decide to return Florin Raducioiu to Espanyol of Spain and asked for the return of the £2.4 million transfer fee. He was told that Roach’s commission of £300,000 would be deducted. ‘I dread to think how many took cuts from that money,’ sighed Storrie.

  Even Alex Ferguson fell before Roach’s intransigence. Ferguson had banned Roach’s involvement in the negotiations for the sale of Paul Ince to Inter Milan. ‘The deal’s dead if Roach is involved,’ said Ferguson. ‘Over my dead body, he will not go.’ But Martin Edwards had been compelled to use Roach to negotiate with Massimo Moratti. In the transfer of Mark Hughes from Barcelona, Ferguson had again swallowed his anger and negotiated with Roach. Similarly, Peter Ridsdale relied on Roach to deliver Olivier Dacourt, a French midfielder from Lens, to Leeds. During the flight to Lens, Roach had demanded a fee of £200,000 for his efforts. Ridsdale was outraged but judged that annoying Roach was counter-productive. ‘Leeds could not have got Dacourt without me,’ said Roach. ‘I was the only one in the room who could speak French so I deserved that for translations.’ Ridsdale reacted scathingly. ‘I spoke English to Lens’s manager. Roach didn’t translate.’ Roach was familiar with disputes about the truth. ‘I asked for £200,000 on the flight out,’ he explained, ‘and I got £200,000.’ The detail was more complicated.

  During the six months after Dacourt’s transfer, Roach and Ridsdale had argued about the payment. ‘What did you do for the money?’ asked Ridsdale. ‘Why should we pay you £200,000?’ Roach was insistent: ‘I came at David O’Leary’s request. He insisted I come. That’s my fee for arranging everything.’ Reluctantly, Ridsdale agreed to pay for the tip-off but only on receipt of a proper invoice. To his surprise, Roach sent two invoices, both for £100,000. Seeking an explanation in the Byzantine world of football was pointless, not least because Roach would casually insist that Ridsdale had requested two invoices!

  Notoriety and disputes stimulated Roach’s persistence. Through Roach clubs received information about foreign players who were cheaper, better disciplined and less trouble than British players. In his bid to find those players Roach formed a partnership with Vincenzo Morabito, an Italian he met at a match in 1992 in Switzerland. Morabito, Roach suggested, should be his representative in Italy.

  Morabito, like Roach, had become an agent by accident. While living in Sweden as a football journalist, he had been reporting a UEFA match between Inter Milan and Gothenburg. The Italian manager needed a translator and Morabito, intelligent and fluent in several languages, offered his assistance. That relationship introduced the journalist to the notion of selling Scandinavian players to the major European clubs. In 1993, he moved to Copenhagen from Germany. ‘I’ve had trouble with the tax authorities,’ he told Geir di Lange, a football scout living in the north of Denmark. Over the next year, Morabito used di Lange to find young players and forge relationships with other European clubs. Di Lange was impressed by Morabito’s close relationships with several managers, especially Walter Smith of Glasgow Rangers. After a friendly match between FCM and Rangers in Herning, di Lange sat with Morabito and Smith at the Hotel Eude. He claims to have seen Morabito hand Smith an envelope. ‘Just routine paperwork,’ explained Morabito. The Dane broke the relationship with Morabito after the Italian refused to pay for his work. ‘You’re a gangster,’ di Lange accused Morabito. The Italian vehemently denied any wrongdoing. Di Lange, he explained, circulated defamatory stories in revenge for Morabito protecting a local player from a pernicious contract favouring di Lange. Amid the wild allegations and mutual recriminations that characterized relations between agents, no one could be certain of the truth.

  Unconcerned, the Italian built a partnership with Boorge Jacobson, another Danish journalist turned unofficial scout who was willing to identify local footballers to be sold by Morabito. Within four years, the Dane also argued with Morabito about the payment of commissions. By then, Morabito had returned to Italy, developing a close relationship with Massimo Cragnotti, the son of Lazio’s owner. Living in the Umbrian hills with his Danish wife, Morabito was regularly asked to negotiate the transfers for the Roman club, especially to Chelsea and other English clubs. Like Roach, the Italian involved himself in deals and offered clubs his services to sell players, taking his profits in commission and whatever extra he obtained above the price requested by the selling club. His success provoked more arguments with Jerome Anderson and Paul Stretford, two equally ambitious and young English agents, amid accusations of failure to share commissions and attempting to snatch players. In Stretford’s version, denied by Morabito, they met by chance at Heathrow airport and Stretford launched himself forcibly on to the suspected predator.

  Agent wars were the background to Morabito’s decision to forge a partnership with Dennis Roach. Using Roach’s relationships with British club managers and chairmen, Morabito would find European players willing to transfer. Among their first joint deals was the sale of Mark Fish, a South African defender. Lazio’s price for the player was $1.8 million. Anything above that sum was pure profit for the agents. Roach and Morabito sold the player for $2.5 million, a healthy 40 per cent commission. While both agents professed loyalty to clubs and players, their credo was to earn on the transfer, making their own interests paramount. That formula influenced their joint operation to transfer Klas Ingesson from PSV Eindhoven to Sheffield Wednesday. Ingesson’s agent was Morabito, who told Roach that his client wanted a transfer. Roach approached Trevor Francis of Sheffield Wednesday. ‘I can get you Klas Ingesson,’ said Roach. Eindhoven paid Roach £100,000 for the sale, which he shared with Morabito. The transaction revealed Roach and Morabito as freelance traders rather than caring agents embracing loyalties to either a club or a player. To clothe their activities with respectability, they created the International Association of Football Agents, promoting themselves as the leaders of agents adhering to the highest moral standards.

  Morabito, however, had doubts about his latest partner. Frequently, in dividing the commission received from transfers, Roach would deduct a percentage, explaining, ‘I need this to give to the manager.’ Morabito agreed, although he was uncertain about exactly what was happening. His only encounter with gifts in England had been at the end of his negotiations in 1989 with Ron Atkinson, then the manager of Sheffield Wednesday, for the transfer of Roland Nilsson, a Swedish player. Morabito’s commission, it was agreed during their celebration at a local hotel, would be £15,000. ‘I’ll want a good drink out of this,’ Atkinson told Morabito. The Italian stuttered. ‘I don’t buy drinks,’ he replied. Atkinson refused to deal with Morabito ever again. By contrast, Roach freely revealed that he did buy Atkinson drinks. During tours with the manager, he happily paid for a good hotel suite and supplied cases of pink champagne, Atkinson’s favourite drink.

  Dennis Roach laughed about Morabito’s experiences, but the Italian was puzzled. He had worked hard to arrange the transfer in 1997 of Andrei Kanchelskis, a forward, from Fiorentina to Rangers. Roach had, as usual, negotiated with Walter Smith, his close friend, the Rangers manager, while Morabito took care of the Italian club. Their commission to be equally divided was £500,000. Roach offered Morabito £150,000. ‘There are lots of expenses,’ said Roach, ‘and I need £30,000 for someone at Fiorentina.’ Morabito was outraged. No one in Fiorentina had asked him for any money. He was doubtful about Roach who, for his part, reasoned that if anyone would
transfer money to an Italian club official, it would be his Italian partner. As usual, there were recriminations and no conclusions as to the truth. Their partnership fractured after Roach protested that others had argued with Morabito on similar grounds. In their dog-eat-dog environment, Roach was unconcerned that Morabito was a victim of football’s lawlessness.

  Disputes among agents did not trouble football executives. Rick Parry, responsible for formulating the rules of the new Premier League, had discovered that football executives ‘are not uncomfortable about the conflicts of interest. It’s easy for people to compartmentalize.’ Parry was neither ‘upset’ by the blurred rules concerning agents nor disturbed by Roach’s receipt of money for arranging transfers from clubs rather than the players he apparently represented. ‘It’s not wrong,’ Parry believed, reflecting the particular tolerance towards Roach among the senior executives of the FA, especially during Graham Kelly’s era.

  In 1996, Roach had negotiated Glenn Hoddle’s contract as England’s team coach with Graham Kelly. ‘Dennis was straightforward and reasonable,’ announced Kelly. Two years later, in August 1998, Kelly was grateful to the agent for managing the furore during the publication of Hoddle’s World Cup diary (written by David Davies, the FA’s director of communication, for a fee negotiated with Roach). Hoddle’s indiscretions had damaged the FA. The following year, the image of the FA was damaged by the publication of Hoddle’s opinions on reincarnation and the idea that the disabled were being punished for sins in a former life. National esteem appeared to be secondary to profit. Once again, Kelly was impressed by the loyal agent who sat beside Hoddle on 6 February 1999 during the excruciating press conference after negotiating his client’s resignation. The omnipresent Roach sought to protect Hoddle from malice and ridicule. During that process, Graham Bean believed, the agent had gained sufficient insight into the FA to embarrass the senior officials if necessary. ‘He’ll use all his powerful friends to escape,’ said Bean.