How did Manchester City justify paying £47 million for John Stones?

Though it has been slightly overshadowed by the gauche, game-breaking splurges of that other lot down the road, John Stones’ move to Manchester City, which was confirmed Tuesday by the club, is by some distance the more interesting of the two transfers. After all, United were in possession of a great deal of money but lacked a brilliant midfielder, so they swapped the former for the latter. And while it will be interesting to see how Paul Pogba gets on, amusing to think of Juventus as an extremely expensive finishing school, and enervating to consider the general state of football and money, the move itself makes so much basic sense that it’s hard to really find much to say beyond: yeah, that works.

Whereas Manchester City — also in possession of a great deal of money — were in need of a central defender and have bought this particular central defender, a mere slip of a 22-year-old, who comes with all sorts of exciting words attached, like “potential” and “elegant” and “passes like a midfielder” and “Barnsley,” but also with the note that “actually, wasn’t he a bit rubbish last season?” He kind of was. (In an elegant way, obviously.) City have just paid £47.5 million for him.

Stones’ 2015-16 began with him agitating for a move to Chelsea that never materialised, then ended with him squeaking into the England squad, not playing a minute in France, and being told by Martin Keown that while all this elegance was very nice, it amounted to nothing more than “icing on the cake.” And that cake — a traditionally stodgy English confection, flavoured with grit, basics-first defending and raisins — didn’t yet exist. That Stones’ game amounted to nothing more than a hollow shell of icing which, rather like the extended cake metaphor, collapsed in on itself as soon as it was tested.

In between all that, Everton’s defence was abysmal and Stones, a fixture among the abysmalness, was distinctly unreliable. The talent was always obvious, but there were mistakes, there was confusion, and there were far too many goals against. The temptation is to conclude that this was, largely, not his fault, since Everton were essentially a perfect storm of vulnerability: their first-choice goalkeeper was hanging on a season too long; his central defensive partners were shonky as all hell; there was a sprinkling of injuries throughout the team, just to keep things interesting; and the whole shambles was overseen by Roberto Martínez, who seems to view the very concept of defensive organisation as something dirty and impolite. This cost Martínez his job in the end, as well as costing Stones whatever a year in a sensible team might have earned him. (Though that wouldn’t have been Chelsea, thinking about it. Perhaps the FA should have nationalised him.)

It is tempting, too, to place Keown’s baking advice in a wider cultural context. English football’s relationship with the ball-playing central defender is an interesting one: it (if we may for a moment reduce such a complex muddle of thought and action to a singular entity) loves them in theory, it sanctifies them when they’re Bobby Moore, but it doesn’t entirely trust them, and it certainly doesn’t have time for them in the early formative years, when all that ball playing seems to detract from the serious business of stopping goals. The charge of “faffing around” is never far away, nor is the suggestion that if they want to be actual footballers, might they not be better off in midfield? You know, where the actual football happens. Leave the mucky stuff to the lads that can’t kick a ball.

This, in part, is why the idea of Stones in the hands of Pep Guardiola is such a fascinating one. While we don’t know how much of City’s interest in Stones came from the manager as opposed to the wider scouting structure, we do know that Guardiola, generally speaking, believes that football happens everywhere on the pitch; that he views the icing as an integral and indivisible aspect of the cake. The general consensus on how Stones should develop has been, per Keown, that he should stifle his more elaborate instincts until he’s learned where to stand, how to tackle, and just how useful Row Z can be. Now he has a manager who will look to encourage his instincts, who will positively demand that he faff about.

However, this won’t immediately knock all the errors out of his game; leaving aside the wider question of how good he is, he’s still just 22. Further intrigue, then, comes from the defence that Stones will be joining. Barring further changes — and assuming Guardiola doesn’t go full Guardiola and pick a back three of Fernando, Fernandinho and Moonchester — he’ll be competing for game time with Vincent Kompany and Nicolás Otamendi (it appears that Eliaquim Mangala is for sale). Given the apparent unreliability of the former’s muscles and the latter’s brain, it’s entirely possible that Stones will find himself, for the second season in a row, in a defence of moderate chaos. A more expensive one, yes, and definitely a better one, but still.

All of which circles us back to the first question: why, for City, Stones? Why Stones now? Given that they’ve got money in considerable amounts, Champions League football and, in the dugout, as shiny a new manager as any club could hope for, would it not have been more sensible, more obvious, to pick up somebody more established, more reliable? Somebody to partner Kompany when he’s fit, and to dovetail with Otamendi when he’s not. Maybe they tried and were knocked back; maybe they’ve concluded that Otamendi just needed a season to settle down. (Maybe Vincent Kompany’s going to play 38 games! Maybe Bacary Sagna! Maybe!)

If it works — if Guardiola’s magic touch causes Stones to blossom into the English Piqué — then wonderful for all concerned. City and England get their player for the next 10 years, and Stones can spend his free time throwing cakes at Martin Keown. And while the stakes will be higher and the scrutiny closer, and while those watching will be less inclined to offer the benefit of the doubt, he should get time, too. City, unlike Everton, have the quality throughout the rest of the team to compensate for the occasional brainfade.

Ultimately, there’s a refreshing boldness about it all. A club that didn’t have to go big on potential — that maybe shouldn’t have done so — deciding to roll the dice, and in the process delivering to the neutral a fascinating subplot for the season. And all for half the price of a Paul Pogba. Practically a bargain.