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As the World Cup approached, soccer fever rose across the world.
Even the United States felt a little of it.
Here and there, in parks and school fields where nobody had been playing a week earlier, a ball started moving.
The U.S.
had qualified, after all.
That was enough to make sports channels pretend the country cared.
It was still a small flame.
No wildfire.
Even two decades later, Ethan remembered, Major League Soccer would still spend fortunes importing aging legends and calling it growth.
Useful, sometimes.
Entertaining, occasionally.
But the American sports throne belonged to other kings.
The public might not have cared much, but the sportsbooks did.
Every serious book had opened its World Cup markets.
Thirty-two teams.
Traditional powers like Argentina, France, and Italy.
France had won the last World Cup and Euro 2000.
They were not arriving to participate.
They were arriving to defend a crown.
Then there were the long shots: Saudi Arabia, Tunisia, Senegal, China, Nigeria, the United States.
The favorites paid almost nothing.
The long shots paid absurdly well.
That was the trap.
In theory, a man could put a million dollars on a hopeless team and walk away with hundreds of millions if the impossible happened.
Tournament futures took a month to settle.
Match bets paid quickly, but their limits were brutal, and anyone too obvious would have every book on earth staring at him before the group stage ended.
That was why Ethan had scattered the money.
Never drain one sportsbook so hard that it notices.
Take a little from many places, move quickly, and leave before anyone understood the pattern.
On May 31, the World Cup opened with France against Senegal.
Ethan sat at his desk, staring at a blue computer screen and a web page so primitive it almost offended him.
After years of living with the internet of the future, the early-2000s web felt like trying to do surgery with a butter knife.
His computer was a bulky desktop tower.
Laptops existed, but in 2002 most consumer models were still expensive compromises, good for businessmen in airports and bad for anything that needed real comfort.
When he had money, real money, maybe he would start taking positions in internet companies.
A few long-term bets there would be almost unfair.
Not today.
Online gambling existed already, but too many sites were traps.
Phishing, malware, bad operators, slow withdrawals.
Most people had no idea how exposed they were.
Compared with that, telephone betting and established overseas books were almost old-fashioned in the best possible way.
Once Ethan confirmed the match schedule had not changed, he opened MSN Messenger.
In 2002, MSN still mattered.
Even in markets where local platforms would eventually dominate, it remained one of the easiest ways to move quick messages across countries.
His fingers moved over the keyboard.
Today is the opener.
Split the orders across the books.
If he was going to gamble, he would do it properly.
Fast, heavy, and on the mispriced result.
If Senegal won, the world was still close enough to the timeline he remembered.
If France won, then his future knowledge was already unreliable.
In that case, football was the least of his problems.
Movies he thought would explode could fail.
Flops he meant to avoid could turn into gold.
The whole foundation of his plan would crack.
If that happened, he might as well listen to Charles, take acting lessons, and become a rich studio prince with good lighting.
Warren sent a terrified emoticon.
Senegal?
Are you insane?
I looked it up.
This is their first World Cup.
Billy followed.
Their whole squad probably costs less than one French star’s left leg.
Man, this is ten million dollars.
Breathe before you torch it.
Ethan typed back:
France is paying almost nothing.
Senegal is paying enough to matter.
Favorites do not build empires.
Mispriced long shots do.
Bo: …This is your strategy?
Judy: Already placed.
Brazil is gorgeous.
See you after the match.
Before dawn, Ethan could barely eat.
He nursed a cup of coffee, sat on the couch, and waited for kickoff.
Charles came downstairs before the match, already dressed for the office.
He walked over, put a heavy hand on Ethan’s shoulder, and squeezed.
“My boy, what has you so tense?”
“Nothing.
The World Cup is starting.
I thought I’d watch.”
“Really?” Charles frowned with faint amusement.
“I remember you caring more about hockey and dance than soccer.”
“College changes a man.”
“That so?”
“Sometimes it even makes him interested in new sports.”
Charles laughed.
“Fair enough.
You have been hiding at home for days.
Did you find your path to wealth yet?”
Ethan glanced at him.
“Don’t worry.
If it fails, I’ll surrender.
Acting lessons, fundamentals, whatever you want.
You can arrange my life.”
Charles laughed harder.
“You say that like punishment.
Once you enter this world, you may find it far more interesting than finance.”
There was no universe in which Charles would guess his son planned to build a Hollywood empire with World Cup betting slips.
The CEO of MGM only thought he had set a trap. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
The television showed France and Senegal walking onto the pitch.
All over the world, people were watching the same match.
France looked like a constellation.
Thierry Henry.
David Trezeguet.
Djibril Cisse.
A squad loaded with champions, even with Zinedine Zidane hurt and Robert Pires unavailable.
The media had treated Senegal as a story.
They treated France as the future winner.
Then the match began.
Without Zidane and Pires, France still had the ball, still had the names, still had pressure.
But something was missing in the middle.
The machine moved, but the engine coughed.
Again and again, they threatened.
Again and again, the post or a desperate Senegalese body kept the ball out.
MSN started flashing like a warning light.
Warren: Oh my God.
France again.
Who is the bald guy and why is he terrifying?
Bo: Someone tell Senegal to defend.
Please.
I am begging professional athletes to understand defense.
Billy: Run at them.
Run at them.
Make the former empire suffer.
Even Judy lost her usual calm.
The braided one is shooting again.
I hate this sport.
I love the post.
I may marry the post.
None of them knew the rules properly.
Half of them did not know the players.
They cursed, prayed, and analyzed with the confidence of people who had learned soccer that afternoon.
Only Ethan said nothing.
He was too wired to speak.
On the screen, France lost the ball.
Senegal broke forward.
El Hadji Diouf cut through space with frightening speed, drove the move into the box, and the scramble opened just enough.
Papa Bouba Diop arrived.
The shot went in.
Senegal scored.
For one heartbeat, Ethan heard nothing at all.
Then his mind supplied the only number that mattered.
Across the five pools, a blended return of nearly twenty times the stake had just moved within reach.
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Ready for more?
I hope this chapter drew you further into the story.
Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.