The Johnson family stared at the television set on the corner of their suburban Ohio living room.
It was January 5, 1975, and a technician was currently fussing a cable trailing across the carpet.
"Just give me one second, folks," the technician muttered, twisting a connector with a wrench.
The local cable provider for their town had just taken a financial risk to bring a new service to this neighborhood.
The company recently invested 10 thousand dollars into a 10 meter Scientific-Atlanta ground dish.
In the mid-seventies, 10 thousand dollars was enough to buy a modest starter home.
The provider wanted to be the very first in the region to capture new signals bouncing down from the Satcom 1 satellite in space.
Arthur Johnson, a middle-class accountant wearing a cardigan, stood with his hands on his hips. "This is the future of television, kids," Arthur announced proudly to his two teenage children slouching on the sofa.
The teenagers remained skeptical.
Television in 1975 was a rigid landscape.
Most American households only received the big three broadcast networks ABC, NBC, and CBSalong with a few unreliable local channels.
The technician finished tightening the connection on the back of the television set. He wiped his hands on his denim jeans and reached out to flip the power dial.
The glass screen flickered to life with a sound of static.
Arthur stepped forward, and started clicking through the new channels.
Many of the raw feeds were just scrambled satellite footage or colorful test patterns emitting a certain high pitvch tone into the living room.
But soon, 5 clear channels stood out from the static.
The first was HBO, the premium movie channel that had already established a small foothold in the market.
The second was Showtime, Paramount's brand-new premium movie channel offering uninterrupted films without commercial breaks.
Arthur clicked the dial again.
The screen shifted to Nickelodeon, Paramount's dedicated children's channel.
The fourth channel was Paramount Classics, showing Old films from the Paramount studio library.
Meanwhile, the final channel was KDTV Channel 16, or also named 'Texas Local', an attempt at creating a national superstation out of the local Dallas/Texas market.
KDTV programing was a diverse mix of content, but its cheapest draw was live sports.
It was currently broadcasting a game for the Dallas Chaparrals basketball team.
Arthur settled the dial on Paramount Classics.
The opening scene of The Greatest Show on Earth (1952) filled the screen.
There were no commercial interruptions and no local news breaks.
"Oh, wow," Arthur's wife murmured, stepping out from the kitchen holding a damp dish towel. "I have not seen this in years. Not since we went to the drive-in theater when it first came out."
Even the teenagers stopped slouching and sat up straight.
This scene unfolding in the Johnsons living room was happening in thousands of households across the country.
___
Meanwhile in Los Angeles, the Owlwood Estate was transformed into a small scale playground.
It was a private celebration for Bradley's first birthday, with a Paddington Bear theme.
Colorful balloons and paper bears hung from the trees.
A red velvet cake sat on a table and Duke was wearing a red bucket hat.
Despite the childish decorations, the party also had a soft layer of security. Every single guest had been required to sign a non-disclosure agreement before arriving.
In 1976, making friends and family sign legal documents just to attend a toddler's birthday party was unheard of.
Duke didnt think it was much of a big deal.
The party guests was a mix of Hollywood people and Margaux's family.
Margaux's younger sister, Mariel, stood near the garden patio.
Her father, Jack Hemingway, hovered near the bar and Margaux's grandmother, Hadley, sat in a lawn chair relaxed.
Mingling near the food were George Lucas and Harrison Ford, Duke decided to invite them since they had been there since Love Story production, when he was still a guy with no money.
Robert Evans, Duke's longtime mentor/collaborator was drinking near the pool. Evans wore his trademark oversized tinted glasses and a tailored suit despite the casual daytime setting.
He looked a little like Kizaru from One Piece, for some reason Bradley didn't like him.
Bradley was the center of attention.
The one-year-old was dressed in a tiny Paddinton Bear outfit. He sat in a wooden chair, babbling happily at the faces of people.
Margaux carefully placed a small piece of cake on the table part of the chair.
Without a moment of hesitation, Bradley smashed his chubby hand into the center of the cake, grabbed a fistful of frosting and smeared it across his face.
The small crowd laughed.
Mariel stepped forward with a damp cloth, laughing as she helped Margaux clean the frosting off Bradley's nose.
While the women tended to the baby, Jack Hemingway had been drinking steadily since he arrived.
He held a glass of liquor, and came up to Duke who was looking into the nearby trees near the fence, that he had installed to avoid cameras taking pictures of his property.
Jack Hemingway navigated the lawn of the Owlwood Estate with a slow stride, holding a glass of bourbon, the ice long since melted.
He approached Duke from the side, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder.
His grip was firm but meant to feel friendly.
Jack smiled, his cheeks flushed with liquor and the sun.
He gave Duke a gentle nudge, guiding him away from the cluster of guests near the birthday cake and toward the shade of a large oak tree.
"Quite the spread you put on here, Duke," Jack said, his tone easygoing. He swirled the liquid in his glass, looking back at the balloons and the catered food. "It is a beautiful home. You certainly know how to throw a party for the boy."
Duke kept his posture relaxed, and nodded, holding his own half-empty glass.
Jack leaned in just a fraction closer.
Jack lowered his voice, adopting the hushed tone of a seasoned mentor offering advice.
"You have to understand where I am coming from, son," Jack murmured, keeping a pleasant smile plastered on his face for the benefit of any onlookers. "Margaux is a Hemingway. That is not just a name on a birth certificate. That name means something in this country."
Jack took a slow sip of his drink, letting the statement hang in the air.
"It represents a legacy," Jack continued. "American royalty. People respect the Hemingways. And right now, my daughter is playing house since she's basically disposable, a woman like her deserves the security of a marriage ring."
Duke maintained his neutral expression. He had consumed several drinks himself over the course of the afternoon, taking the edge off his usual diplomatic restraint.
He simply watched Jack, listening to the clearly rehearsed pitch.
He had felt that since being so long doing auditions and just around this town, he had gotten better at noticing people small expressions, Jack had this memorized.
When Duke did not responded, Jack's mask slipped just a fraction.
Jack gestured broadly toward the main house, his sweeping arm encompassing the Hollywood estate.
"I know you feel very proud of all this," Jack said, a hint of condescension leaking into his voice. "You bought a studio. You are making your little space movie and had some decent luck at the box office. Good for you, Duke."
Jack tapped Duke on the chest with his index finger. "But let us be very honest with each other. This town is built on the tomorrow. Today you are the golden boy, tomorrow they lock you out of the studio gates. Your accomplishments are temporary entertainment."
"Its not lasting history," Jack stated, leaning closer, his breath hot against Duke's collar. "Your books arent exactly literature either. The money dries up fast when the audience gets bored, which brings us to todays concern."
Jack finally dropped the lecture on marriage and shifted his focus to finances.
"We need to set up a proper trust fund for Margaux and little Bradley," Jack proposed, "A secure family trust. I have some very reliable financial men back in Idaho who can handle the paperwork and some Paramount shares can be put on it."
Duke already had trusts set up for his son, and was actively building his own Family foundation.
Jack was not looking out for Bradley's financial security. Jack was asking for access.
"You put a sizable chunk of your liquid cash into this new trust," Jack explained, his eyes darting around the yard. "We can make my mother or me the primary executor. That way, if your studio goes bankrupt, the family is protected."
Jack let out a nervous laugh, staring down into his empty glass. "Times are very tough right now, Duke. The market is a disaster."
"Taxes are bleeding us dry. A man needs money to keep his head above water. I think you owe our family that much."
Duke stared at the fading patriarch, basically asking for a handout.
"First of all, I would rather be an unmarried father," Duke said evenly, "At least I am actually here for my son. I show up."
"I would much rather be an unmarried man running a movie studio than a fading drunkard who abandoned his own family for a bottle of whiskey and now likes to pretend to be a patriarch."
Jack pushed Duke chest, with a serious expression, still clearly drunk.
Duke, sober enough to see the push coming, easily stepped back, letting Jack stumble forward awkwardly.
Before Jack could regain his balance, a blur of gold jewelry intercepted him.
Robert Evans, ever the fiery hothead threw himself into the fray. He shoved Jack hard into the ground.
Evans stood between them, adjusting his oversized tinted glasses.
Evans knew everything about surviving the power dynamics of Hollywood, and he possessed zero patience for old-money entitlement. This town worked on its own rules most of the time.
"Keep your hands off him, you old hack," Evans snarled, his voice loud enough to carry across the lawn. "You come into his home, drink his liquor, and try to shake him down for cash? Are you out of your mind."
Jack sneered, trying to push past the producer. "Stay out of this. This is family business, you rat."
Evans let out a laugh. "Family? You do not care about family. You have spent your sad life reheating your father's leftovers."
Evans poked Jack in the chest with a manicured finger. "The Hemingway well is drying up fast. And now you are looking at Margaux because you want to parasite off your own daughters before the world forgets your name."
Jack grabbed Evans by the lapels of his suit.
Evans instantly fought back, grappling with the taller man.
They spun wildly near the edge of the brick patio, nearly knocking over a couple of bottles left around.
Margaux abandoned Bradley's on his chair, her face pale with shock. She sprinted across the lawn in heels.
Behind her, a fat George Lucas and Harrison Ford rushed forward from the garden path to intervene in the escalating brawl.
Security also were already moving but they went directly for Bradley, Margaux and Duke, they were paid to protect them after all.
Ford reached the scuffle first and grabbed Evans by his back, hauling the furious producer backward with a single tug, separating him from Jack's hands.
Evans didn't resist too much, he had gotten punched several times in that short moment.
Lucas went and grabbed the drunk Jack from behind also expecting to dragged him back, but Jack dragged him down and security intervened before he could punch Lucas.
You can say a lot of things about the Hemingways, theyre addicts, crazy, unstable people. But they're athletic as fuck for some reason.
Jack himself was 6'2, with a large build and enjoyed boxing, not the easiest opponent.
The party ended abruptly in silence.
Jack Hemingway, breathing heavily and adjusting his collar, refused to look at his daughters.
He stormed off toward the front gates in a drunken manner, loudly demanding that someone called him a taxi cab.
Robert Evans shrugged off Ford's grip. He straightened his silk tie and brushed off some dirt and grass from his trousers, and left after smiling at Duke with some blood still on his mouth.
Harrison Ford and George Lucas shared a look.
They approached Margaux, offering their apologies for the disruption and quietly left the estate through the entrance.
Within minutes, the party was done.
Mariel Hemingway and her grandmother Hadley stood near the patio, looking exhausted.
They decided to stay behind as house guests for the evening, unwilling to follow Jack into the city.
Margaux touched Duke's arm, offering him an apologetic look. They could speak after the guest leave.
Duke was still a little drunk but nodded, going to his private study.
In the guest wing, Margaux's muffled voice drifted through the walls after a while.
Duke sat behind his desk when the telephone shattered the silence.
He snatched the receiver, his eyes flicking to the brass clock on the wall.
Almost eight in Los Angeles which meant...
"Good evening, sir." Simpson's voice crackled over the transatlantic line, faint pops and static noises weaving through his words. "I have excellent news regarding the sports team acquisition."
Duke swirled his whiskey. "Go on."
"The negotiations for Crystal Palace Football Club are complete. The final purchase price is locked in at 250.000 pounds."
Duke let out a low whistle.
A London football club for the price of a house in Beverly Hills.
The British didn't know what they were sitting on in this era, after all the league wasnt as famous as in the future.
In 1976, English football was a shambling mess of crumbling stadiums and local businessmen running clubs out of their back pockets.
"We have several prominent managers interested in taking over," Simpson continued, and Duke could hear paper shuffling on the other end. "The news of Paramount's backing has caused quite a stir over here."
"Who are we talking about?"
"Alex Ferguson, currently managing St Mirren in Scotland. Bob Paisley and Brian Clough indicated they'd be interested if the transfer budget is substantial."
Duke nodded along, the names washing over him. Ferguson would become a titan. Paisley and Clough were also somewhat famous in the future.
"And finally," Simpson added, "we had an unexpected visitor today. Giovanni Trapattoni."
Duke's hand froze mid-sip. The whiskey glass hovered inches from his lips.
Trapattoni.
He knew that name.
The man who would dominate Italian football, one of the greatest tactical minds the sport had ever seen.
"I want him," Duke said, setting the glass down. "I want Trapattoni."
Trapattoni, the man who won the Serie A title 6 times as manager of Juventus.
A pause on the line. Then Simpson's voice returned, "Please hold the line, sir. He's actually still here. He stopped by to talk before catching a flight."
Duke listened to the silent hold, his fingers drumming against the desk. Wondering how would people react to a foreign manager for a British club.
The line clicked back open. Simpson's voice returned, breathless. "Sir, I have Mr. Trapattoni on the speakerphone."
A voice came with a thick Italian accent. "Mr. Hauser. Thank you for taking my call."
"Giovanni," Duke said, leaning forward. "I'm listening."
"My first goal is to push Crystal Palace into the First Division," Trapattoni declared, his voice crackling through the speaker. "We build the foundation from the back."
"To do this, I will need two Italian players," Trapattoni continued. "Alessandro Altobelli as striker. Franco Baresi for the defense. They are talented cheap players."
Baresi.
Duke's eyebrows raised.
He knew Baresi, the heart of AC Milan's defense for 2 decades, a legend of the Italian national team, one of the greatest defenders in the world.
And Trapattoni wanted to pluck him from obscurity for pennies.
"I also need Gipo Baldini as my assistant manager," Trapattoni added. "He understands my system perfectly."
Duke didn't recognize the other names. Altobelli. Baldini.
But he recognized Baresi, and he recognized Trapattoni, and that was enough.
"I accept your terms," Duke said, his voice cutting through the speakerphone crackle. "We'll secure the visas for your players and your assistant. I'll be in London in one week to finalize the paperwork and sign the contracts."
A pause. Then Trapattoni's voice, softer now, spoke up "Grazie, Mr. Hauser. You will not regret this."
He handed the receiver back to Simpson, and the assistant's voice returned, slightly out of breath from the excitement. "There's one more item on the agenda before you go, sir."
Duke reached for his whiskey again. "Go on."
"Your private meeting with Priscilla Tolkien and the Tolkien children is officially arranged for next Tuesday. Oxford."
"Thank you, Simpson," Duke said, his voice low. "Book my flights. Arrange a car to take us to Oxford. And make sure we have a premium gift basket sent to their home before we arrive."
"Consider it done, sir. Have a good night."
_____________
Crystal Palace kits
Crystal Palace Logo
Franco Baresi
Giovanni Trapattoni
Alessandro Altobelli
___
Had a headache