June 1st, 2020
To anyone waking up that morning in England, it seemed like just another normal, grey, slightly miserable day. The rain had done its usual cameo at dawn, tea kettles were whistling across the country, and the Premier League summer transfer window was about to be opened in a few weeks for the 2020-21 season.
Normally, this was the time for wild speculations — Messi to Wolves? Neymar to Stoke City? — all to be taken with a mountain of salt.
But for Premier League fans, something seismic was about to happen. Something so utterly ridiculous, so gloriously unbelievable, that for a moment, the nation forgot about soggy biscuits and flat pints.
Fans logged onto their phones, expecting the same old recycled rumors. But today, England was in for a shock that made the entire football world sit up, choke on their tea, and gasp in collective horror (or delight, depending on who you asked).
Shocking News!
"Fulham Changes Ownership! Young British Billionaire, Henry Baskerville, Buys the Club!"
"New Owner Promises Champions League Glory for Fulham!"
"Did the Eccentric Billionaire Just Gamble Away the Baskerville Fortune?!"
"Sources: Baskerville May Have Based His Decision Entirely on Football Manager Save File!"
Social media exploded. Forums caught fire. News anchors struggled to keep a straight face as they read headlines that sounded like satire. Henry Baskerville, barely a whisper in the public eye before today, had suddenly bulldozed into the heart of English football.
Rumors flew around faster than a winger on a counterattack. Some said Baskerville had billions to burn and a plan to revolutionize Fulham. Others whispered that he was a football addict who had somehow blurred the line between video games and reality. One particularly bold theory claimed he had signed a manager with exactly zero experience.
To Fulham supporters, who were used to hoping for mid-table finishes and praying for cup runs, this was like Christmas, Easter, and winning the lottery all rolled into one confusing gift.
"I don't know what's happening," said a dazed member of the Fulham Supporters' Club, clutching a half-eaten meat pie. "But if he can spell 'Fulham' correctly, he's already better than some of the owners we've had."
Across London, Fulham supporters gathered online like moths to a very confusing flame. Some were overjoyed. Others were cautiously skeptical. A few were already halfway through designing banners that said "HENRY" OUT"—just in case.
Dreams of signing world-class players and winning trophies filled the forums and pubs. The word on the street (and social media) was that this Henry Baskerville was loaded. And not just "a nice house in Kensington" loaded —we're talking "buys a small country for fun" loaded.
"This is a dream come true," said a visibly emotional spokesman of the Fulham Supporters' Club in an interview outside Craven Cottage. "Finally, the days of fighting relegation are over! We might actually win… things!"
A wave of cautious optimism swept through the fanbase. Talk of "limitless wealth" danced in the air. Hushed dreams of world-class players wearing the famous white shirts filled online discussions.
"This could be the start of a new era!" a fan said breathlessly outside Craven Cottage, wearing a shirt from 2008 because it was "lucky.""Anything's possible now!"
Official statements remained cagey. No one knew exactly how much Baskerville was planning to spend. But early whispers suggested he was willing to back his manager heavily — fees, wages, whatever it took — to make Fulham competitive with the giants of Europe.
The future had never looked so strange. Or so exciting.
While the newspapers were busy splashing photos of a smiling, suspiciously youthful-looking Baskerville everywhere, nobody — not even the most seasoned tabloid journalists — knew the real story.
What the media, the fans, and the wider football world didn't know was something far more bizarre.
Because Henry Baskerville wasn't really Henry Baskerville.
Not originally, anyway.
***
Flashback: One Month Earlier
Henry woke up feeling like ten trucks had driven over his skull. His mouth was dry, his vision blurry, and his brain struggling to boot up like a very old computer. For a few moments, he lay there, blinking up at a ceiling so ornate it looked like a cake decorator had been given free rein.
Where the hell was he?
The last thing he remembered, he was curled up on his battered sofa in his tiny flat, controller in hand, losing another match in FIFA 21 against the computer on Beginner mode.
In a fit of petty rage, he had triggered the Financial Takeover cheat and promptly spent 500 million euros assembling the most ridiculous team possible. He was about to start his "unstoppable dynasty" when the heavens decided enough was enough.
Lightning struck. A blinding flash lit up his living room. His TV exploded in a spectacular shower of sparks. Then — darkness.
And now, here he was. Not dead, not in a hospital, but in a room so luxurious that even billionaires might call it "a bit much."
Golden drapes. Crystal chandeliers. A bed so massive it could sleep an entire football team, substitutes included.
Henry groaned and tried to sit up. A wave of dizziness hit him like a Mike Tyson uppercut. He collapsed back into the pillows, breathing heavily. Slowly, painfully, memories that didn't belong to him surfaced.
Apparently, in this new reality, he was Henry Baskerville, heir to the Baskerville conglomerate — a colossal empire spanning oil, steel, mining, and anything else that made obscene amounts of money. His parents had passed away the previous year in a tragic car accident, and the entire fortune had fallen into his lap.
Billions. Not millions.Billions.
Oh, and one tiny little footnote:He had just bought Fulham FC for 300 million euros.
Henry rubbed his temples and let out a shaky laugh. This was impossible. It had to be a coma dream. Or maybe a cruel trick by the universe before death. He pinched his arm. Hard. The sharp pain confirmed it: this madness was real.
Still dizzy, he staggered to his feet and stumbled towards a heavy oak desk on the other side of the room. A thick stack of papers sat there, ominous and important-looking.
Squinting, Henry read the bold titles:
"Fulham FC — Player Transfer List.""Manager Appointment Contract."
He picked up the player list first, hands trembling slightly. His heart raced as he scanned the pages. Familiar names jumped out at him — players he had tried to sign in his FIFA save file. Names that, until now, had only been his digital dreams.
He let out a long, low whistle.
"This... this can't be real," he muttered.
If he hadn't been dizzy before, he certainly was now. A part of him — the logical, sensible part — told him to sit down, breathe, and think rationally.
The other part, the much louder and much dumber part, was already imagining lifting the Premier League trophy while fireworks exploded in the background.
Henry glanced at the manager contract next. His name — Henry Baskerville — was scrawled neatly across the signature line. Owner and manager of Fulham FC.
He snorted.
"Well," he said to no one in particular, "either I'm insane, or I just got the world's most expensive career mode."
Sinking into a ridiculously comfortable leather chair, Henry couldn't stop smiling. In his previous life, he had fought tooth and nail just to survive. Minimum wage jobs, secondhand clothes, broken dreams.
Now? He was absurdly rich. He owned a football club. And he had all the toys to play with.
Sure, he had no real football management experience. Sure, he barely understood how to balance a checkbook, much less a transfer budget. But did that matter?
In his mind, only one thing echoed:
This was going to be fun.
***
The sun barely managed to peek through the thick London clouds when the news hit every newspaper, website, and TV channel with the force of a hurricane.
Official: Henry Baskerville Completes Fulham Takeover
In bold letters across every screen, Henry's slightly confused face beamed at millions. In the official photo, he held up a Fulham scarf — upside down.
A press conference had been hastily arranged at Craven Cottage. Reporters from every outlet imaginable packed into the small, historic stadium, clutching notepads, recording devices, and suspiciously large coffees.
Fulham staff bustled around, trying to look professional while very obviously panicking. One poor intern kept tripping over the microphone wires.
Meanwhile, in the owner's suite upstairs, Henry lounged on a leather armchair, still wearing a slightly wrinkled suit that had been forcefully picked out for him by someone with a much better fashion sense.
He looked nervously at the man standing beside him — an elderly gentleman with silver hair, a sharp black suit, and the patience of a saint.
Or more accurately, his life-support system in this new, confusing reality.
"You sure I can wing this?" Henry asked, tugging at his ill-fitting tie.
"You are the owner, sir," Alfred, the ever loyal family Butler said dryly, adjusting the tie with the air of someone dressing a particularly uncooperative mannequin. "No one can stop you. Technically."
"That's not reassuring, Alfred."
"It's not meant to be."
Henry sighed and glanced toward the window overlooking the packed media room.
"You did remind me," he said hesitantly, "that I don't have to worry about running the family businesses, right?"
Alfred nodded, his face unreadable but his voice steady.
"After your... bold decision to focus on Fulham," Alfred said delicately, "you delegated the day-to-day operations to your senior executives. Very capable people. Loyal to the Baskerville name. Your oil, steel, and mining assets are thriving."
"Thriving?"
"Yes, sir. In fact, last quarter's profits were up by fifteen percent."
Henry blinked.
"You're telling me," he said slowly, "that I handed over billion-dollar industries... and everything's fine?"
Alfred gave a small smile. "Better than fine, sir. It seems your absence has been a tremendous blessing."
Henry chuckled. "Guess that's one way to put it."
Somewhere in the back of his mind, the old Henry — the one who used to agonize over every single penny — cried tears of both joy and envy.
Here he was, rich beyond imagination, not lifting a single finger, and about to dive headfirst into football management without the slightest clue what he was doing.
What could possibly go wrong?
***
Down in the press room, chaos brewed.
The moment Henry entered, flashing a crooked grin and nearly tripping over the stage steps, the cameras erupted. Reporters shouted questions at the speed of machine gun fire.
"Mr. Baskerville! Is it true you've never managed a club before?"
"Do you really intend to take Fulham to the Champions League?"
"Was your decision influenced by Football Manager, as rumors suggest?"
"Are you planning to sign Lionel Messi?"
Henry squinted against the camera flashes. He cleared his throat and leaned towards the microphone.
"First off," he said, voice cracking slightly with nerves, "thank you all for being here. It's a...uh, historic day for Fulham. And for me. Mostly for me."
A few chuckles rippled through the room.
Encouraged, Henry plowed ahead.
"I love football. I grew up playing FIFA— I mean, watching real matches! Watching real matches. Lots of them. Very professional."
A reporter at the front choked back a laugh.
Henry continued, undeterred.
"My goal is simple: take Fulham where they belong. The top of England. The top of Europe. Maybe even the top of Mars if FIFA ever sanctions an interplanetary tournament."
Someone in the back dropped their pen from laughing.
"As for the rumors," Henry said, adjusting the microphone with both hands like he was about to announce karaoke night, "no, I didn't make this decision based on a video game. That would be ridiculous." He paused. "Mostly ridiculous."
He flashed a grin so mischievous that even Alfred, watching from the sidelines, sighed heavily.
A few brave reporters dared to ask follow-ups.
"Are you planning major signings, Mr. Baskerville?"
Henry nodded solemnly. "You'll see. Good things are coming."
He had no intention of spilling the beans yet. Let them stew. Let the chaos build.
With that, he waved awkwardly and exited the stage to a roar of shouted questions he cheerfully ignored.
***
Meanwhile, social media descended into a frenzy.
On Twitter:
@FootyFanatic22: Fulham getting bought by a dude who plays FIFA at 2am is the content I live for. Inject it into my veins.
@SkepticalSteve: This Baskerville lad couldn't even hold the scarf right. We're doomed.
@NeutralNancy: Fulham to win the Premier League 2023. Book it now, you cowards.
@ThatGuyDave: Baskerville buying Fulham is the real-life version of a 12-year-old getting mom's credit card.
On Reddit:
r/soccer lit up with memes.
A popular post showed Henry's photo captioned:"When you accidentally click 'Financial Takeover' and now you're stuck managing Fulham in real life."
Another thread titled "Is Baskerville the hero we need or the villain we deserve?" gained thousands of upvotes within an hour.
Instagram wasn't spared either. Someone edited Henry's face onto Thanos' body, Fulham scarf draped over the Infinity Gauntlet.Caption: "Fine... I'll do it myself."
Back in the owner's suite, Henry slumped onto a velvet couch, exhausted but exhilarated.
"That went well, right?" he asked hopefully.
Alfred poured him a glass of water with all the dignity of a man serving a king.
"You did not set anything on fire," Alfred said. "By modern standards, that is considered a resounding success."
Henry laughed and clinked his glass against Alfred's imaginary one.
"To Fulham," he said.
"To Fulham," Alfred echoed, with the faintest twitch of a smile.
Outside the window, the Thames rolled by lazily. Inside Craven Cottage, a new era — chaotic, absurd, and completely unpredictable — had officially begun.
And somewhere, deep down, Henry knew:
This was only the beginning.