Chapter Twenty-Three: Mino Raiola

In the years to come, Mino Raiola would become a famous football agent. He was born on November 4, 1967, in Nocera, a town in the province of Salerno in the southern Italian region of Campania. The area, close to Naples, was economically underdeveloped, and many locals sought work elsewhere.

When Raiola was still a child, he moved with his parents to Haarlem in the Netherlands. His father started as a car mechanic before investing in the restaurant business, eventually finding success with a pizzeria. Raiola grew up serving tables in that family-run establishment.

Football was Raiola’s greatest passion. He had once trained at the youth academy of the local Haarlem club, but gave it up due to injuries.

At eighteen, Raiola befriended Jensen, who led the Dutch footballers’ union, and began cultivating connections within the football world.

By twenty-five, he brought the Dutch player Roy to Foggia, then managed by Zeman, marking the formal start of his career as an agent. In Foggia, he built a relationship of trust with Zeman and also met his future wife. Later, Mino Raiola facilitated Bergkamp’s transfer to Inter Milan. With Zeman’s assistance, he expanded his network in the Czech Republic, and in 1996, he arranged for Nedvěd to move to Lazio.

Amongst his peers, Raiola had no friends and never sought to build close ties with club chairmen or managers. His strength lay in identifying talented players and earning their trust.

Whenever transfer negotiations involved other agents trying to act as intermediaries, Raiola would rather walk away from the deal. During the transfer window, he refused to stay at hotels frequented by other agents, finding no interest in mingling with them. Among Serie A clubs, Raiola was most closely associated with Udinese’s owner Pozzo, through whom he introduced players like Helguera, Walem, and Amoruso.

Yet, it was the discovery of the Swedish giant Zlatan Ibrahimović that truly began Raiola’s ascent. Despite Raiola’s less-than-stellar reputation—at least from the perspective of club owners, for whom he was a nuisance—he was well-regarded by the players he represented.

Compared to Jorge Mendes, who often prioritized relationships with clubs and sometimes sacrificed the interests of lesser-known players to benefit his star clients, Raiola’s steadfast loyalty to his players was exactly what Mo Mo needed. At least with Raiola, there was little risk of being sacrificed for someone else’s gain. Ibrahimović’s first agent had done exactly that to him.

“So, Mino Raiola, you don’t know Zlatan Ibrahimović?” Mo Mo asked.

At this, Raiola seemed to ponder for a moment. After a pause, he suddenly realized, “You mean Zlatan Ibrahimović, who transferred to Ajax last year?”

The story was set near the end of the 2001–2002 season. When Ibrahimović first joined Ajax, he made the move for a Swedish record of 7.8 million euros. Initially, under coach Adriaanse, Ibrahimović was not given many opportunities, but his successor, Koeman, soon recognized his immense talent, and Ibrahimović gradually secured his place in Ajax’s first team.

“Yes, exactly! Are you interested in him?” Mo Mo inquired, uncertain why he was pursuing this line of questioning. Perhaps it was curiosity, or a desire to test fate. He’d always been wary of the idea, often found in time-travel stories, that the world would forcefully prevent alterations to history. Now he wanted to see if he could indeed change things.

“Interested? Not at the moment. He seems to be getting along well with his agent—yes, a professionally trained one,” Raiola replied.

That ended the topic; Mo Mo felt a bit awkward, having tried to show off only to realize he was speaking with Mino Raiola himself. Still, luck seemed to be on his side—Raiola hadn’t yet become the notorious rogue he would later be known as.

“Well, what I really wanted to say is, I hope to transfer. I want to leave Hannover 96.”

The conversation became a little uncomfortable. Raiola simply stared at Mo Mo, then grunted in response, saying no more. Mo Mo frowned, prompting, “Hey? Aren’t you supposed to do something now?”

Raiola shot him a glance, cleared his throat, and said, “Kid. First of all, we haven’t signed a contract yet, have we? Second, can you tell me which club you want to go to? If you’re thinking of Bayern Munich or something, I’ll tell you now—with your current performance, I can’t make that happen.”

Astonished by Raiola’s shift in demeanor, Mo Mo was at a loss for words.

“No, no! I’d never aim for Bayern Munich! I know my own limits. I just want to join a team where I can play regularly for a long time.”

Regular playing time was crucial, first and foremost, for earning training points and improving himself. Only by becoming better could he hope to secure a spot at a better club. This, Mo Mo understood clearly.

Raiola was pleased with Mo Mo’s attitude. Though not yet a master agent, he’d been in the business long enough to spot potential. What he dreaded most were players with unrealistic self-regard.

There’s a saying in China: when you’re drowsy, someone brings you a pillow. That was the situation now.

Freit, a senior scout from 1860 Munich, had recently been troubled. Hannover 96 refused to budge from their demand of three million euros for the transfer fee, insisting that Mo Mo was perfectly content at their club—a blatant lie. Content? If he was happy, why would he be listed for transfer?

At that moment, two people caught his eye. One was the rapidly rising agent Mino Raiola; the other, his main target, the Chinese player Mo Mo.

Mo Mo’s life was dreadfully dull. He spent almost all his time at the cursed Hannover 96 club, never going out for a drink or anything of the sort. Following instructions from head coach Peter Neururer, Freit hadn’t even been able to meet Mo Mo.

“Excuse me, are you Mo Mo? The player from China?” Freit seized the opportunity and approached.

“Hey! What do you want? I’m this kid’s agent now. Don’t try anything funny, or I won’t be polite,” Raiola said, rolling up his sleeves and stepping in front of Mo Mo, whose slight frame made it clear he wasn’t fit for a fight.

“I know you, Mino Raiola. And perhaps you’ve heard of me—I’m Freit, a scout for 1860 Munich.”

Raiola turned and winked at Mo Mo, as if to say, “See? Opportunity comes knocking.”

“Ah! I haven’t heard of you, but I do know 1860 Munich. So, you’re interested in Mo Mo?” Raiola asked.

For a split second, Mo Mo swore Raiola seemed the consummate professional. But his next words made Mo Mo feel like a market vendor haggling over vegetables, with himself as the produce.

“I have to say, you have excellent taste. Look at this fine young man—I’d say he deserves at least a million euros a year,” Raiola declared.

Freit felt a powerful urge to strangle him. What was he thinking? Even Yang Chen’s salary was only two or three hundred thousand euros, and here was Raiola demanding a million for Mo Mo? And besides, he was just a scout—this wasn’t within his purview.

“Sir, sir! I think you’re mistaken. I can’t discuss such matters with you; this isn’t my responsibility.”

Without another word, Raiola grabbed Mo Mo and started to leave. Seeing this, Freit rushed forward.

“Sir? Sir?”

Raiola turned, glanced at Freit, and said, “What’s the point? If you can’t make decisions, why bother talking?”

Freit, relieved that Raiola had stopped, knew it was no small feat to meet Mo Mo. If he let them slip away, it would be a real headache.

“There’s no need to rush. We at 1860 Munich are sincere about Mo Mo, but Hannover 96’s three-million-euro asking price is too steep, so we’d like to see…”

Raiola interrupted, though he was surprised himself by the three-million-euro tag for Mo Mo. Out loud, he grumbled,

“So, you think Mo Mo isn’t worth three million euros? Hm? In my eyes, Mo Mo is priceless. But, yes, three million is rather off-putting. Still, if you can sweeten the signing-on fee a bit, and my own cut, not to mention Mo Mo’s salary, I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

Freit was speechless. Hadn’t he already explained he couldn’t make the decisions? Was Raiola really so blatant about lining his own pockets in front of Mo Mo? Yet Mo Mo’s expression was indifferent, even impatient. Freit understood: Mo Mo didn’t care.

“Ahem, sir, I’m not in a position to handle this. I just wanted to ask how Mo Mo feels about transferring to 1860 Munich.”

Raiola coughed, glanced at Mo Mo as if seeking approval, and, seeing Mo Mo nod, grinned widely.

“Of course Mo Mo wants to join 1860 Munich. But I hope the salary package won’t disappoint us.”

Freit wanted nothing more than to leave. This fat man tried to squeeze out more money with every word. Bowing slightly, Freit said, “Understood. I’ll report back to my superiors.”

Watching Freit’s departing figure, Raiola turned to Mo Mo with excitement. “I knew I wasn’t wrong about you. Come on, let’s sign the contract! I’ll be your agent from now on!”

Had Freit witnessed this, he’d have been apoplectic—Raiola wasn’t even officially his agent yet, and already he was so enthusiastic. Mo Mo, on the other hand, was quite satisfied. Raiola was shrewd and, more importantly, knew how to protect his clients’ interests. That was exactly what Mo Mo needed.

“Of course. Who else but you?” Mo Mo replied.

Raiola beamed. “Of course, of course. Come, let’s go eat—something delicious.”

Mo Mo widened his eyes. “Hey, Mino! Isn’t a professional athlete supposed to watch his diet?”

Raiola couldn’t care less. Mo Mo watched as Raiola’s cheeks quivered with laughter.

“Who cares! Let’s have a good meal. Tomorrow, we’ll go see the people at Hannover 96. Three million euros! Are they out of their minds?”

Mo Mo crossed his arms and shot Raiola a glance. “Didn’t you just say I was worth that much?”

Raiola slapped Mo Mo’s shoulder and laughed heartily. “We’re not getting a cent of that transfer fee—why should you care?”

Soon, the final round of the 2. Bundesliga would be over, followed by a break, then the summer transfer window, and of course, the World Cup. But all of that hinged on tomorrow’s negotiations. If he could become a regular starter, perhaps Mo Mo would choose to stay at Hannover 96. But was that really possible?