Monday, May 13, 2013

Sir Alex ― Et tu, Brute?

People often discuss what Manchester United's strategy for a particular game should be. Should Van Persie start upfront? Should Welbeck be on the bench? Should Wayne Rooney play a defensive game today?
Well, heck what do you chicken shits know, I ask? 

All you glory-hunting football fanatics who have emerged after football became popular in India thanks to the excessive promotion by ESPN-Star Sports (The publicity for 'EPL' during Test matches was more than that  for cricket matches) you have no idea what a Roy Keane-Patrick Viera spat meant, or still further back  what Dwight Yorke playing upfront with Ole Gunnar Solskjær or Teddy Sheringham meant, you will never know what it feels to see Cantona cavort around the field, bamboozling the opposition as if he were playing a bunch of school kids. No you fucks don't know shit about all those emotions. You just know all these fancy new footballers who have weird, similar names (Xabi or Xavi - kiss my dark, fat ass, who cares?) all belonging to some obscure country in the asshole of some Scandinavian city or you fatfucks are suckers for some bullshit club which came to limelight only because some Oil-drilling Sheik or billionaire decided to splurge on it to evade taxes. These new-age fanboys are the same shitheads, retards who sit in obscenely opulent pubs in some city, bespectacled and full of crap, discussing the strategies about the who's who of and the how's how of football (sic). Still worse, if they aren't prying outside with their fake cologne and goatees, these bastards indulge in the pathetic banter of argument, screaming their guts out on internet forums and Facebook groups. Oh, stop it already you morons! Glory hunters, enough said.

What do you know what heartbreak and football feels like? What do you know? Do you know how it feels when Diego Forlan comes on in the 93rd minute and Manchester United is tied at home to Chelsea, suddenly the Uruguayan's footer helps the ball to the back of the net? Do you know how it feels like when David Beckham passes a perfect, physically impossible right swinger and Ruud Van Nistelrooy is there to head it into the goal? Do you know how it feels to see Scholes make one of his famous gaffes, get a red card and still blow his nose as if nothing happened? Do you know what a silent maniac like an in-form, young Giggs would do when the ball reaches to his half of the pitch? Do you know that moment when a weirdly dyed, ugly-teethed, gawky Cristiano Ronaldo makes his debut at the 60th minute against Bolton Wanderers doing all that fancy step-overs and shit. Do you ? Do you, you so called fanboys?

Enough Said. Do you know what it feels like when you are surfing the Internet on a perfect afternoon, just recovering from a hangover and you read the most unbelievable post on the cyberspere. You are almost sure it is just yet another rumor, just yet another media over-indulgence against the fort knox of Manchester United. As the hours pass by, you realize that like every horrible rumor with a bitter tinge, this has to come true. Do you know what heartbreak feels like?

Manchester United. Sir Alex Ferguson. This is what hope, dream, glory meant to me, as a kid when I was only ten years old. I have seen Manchester United grow along with me. I saw when Sir Alex Ferguson jumped in joy, with the theatrical voice of Martin Tyler and Andy Gray in the background screaming "Sir Alex cannot contain himself", I saw when Sir Alex inadvertently kicked a boot towards Becks, I saw when Sir Alex just smiled smugly to the boos at Highbury (yes, your so-called "Emirates" was called Highbury back then. Just FYI, even "Etihad or whatever bullshit stadium" was called Maine Road), I saw Sir Alex Ferguson get "sent off" for protesting his opinion with the fourth official, oh yes, with Sir Alex I have almost seen it all. Football, my first addiction. 

Picture this. You meet your soul-mate, both of you get married, you live in a far off scenic place, beautiful as someplace like Tolkien's Hobbiton, you have kids, you have enough money, you have a huge house with a mahogany wood library, you and your soul-mate make love and read each other to sleep each day. Each day, every day. However, after twenty six years, one fine morning, you wake up and you see that your soul-mate, your sweetheart, the love of your life has left you. She has left a small note by the bedside lamp stating "Sorry, it wasn't working out. I had to leave." Well, this is exactly what happened that day when the world said, the Boss was leaving Old Trafford. I was dumbstruck, numb, shivering from top-to-toe, unable to comprehend what exactly happened, all the while hoping that it was all a part of a very bad dream. But, unfortunately, it was official. The truth, like a horrible suture gone wrong, hurtful, scarring and finally, realization dawned upon me. The Boss had to leave, leave me, leave us, leave Manchester United.

You football-physics/mechanics discussing wankfaces wont understand what it means, it isn't about trophies, it isn't about those stupid points-table, it isn't about getting relegated or staying on top,  nor it is about all that silverware that is all now just a memory in the museums of Old Trafford, it is bigger than that. It is knowing that Saturday afternoons (earlier we'd have 4:30PM IST kickoffs) or Sunday nights would never be the same again. Its having that feeling of being abandoned by God when you need him the most. It is about having a serious crisis of faith. It is about knowing your life would be never the same again without your amputated limb. It is about knowing you can never go to Old Trafford and watch 'him'. It is about the dream of an young boy shattered into a billion little pieces.

It would be an understatement to say Sir Alex was Manchester United (I can't believe I am writing about the Boss in past-tense). I remember feeling pretty low when David Beckham was welcomed by Florentino Perez to Bernabeu and the latter said "David, welcome to the land of dreams". No Perez, Madrid as was famously called Galacticos, was never a land of dreams, it was just a land of stars who couldn't handle each other's individual egos. I can blatantly say that Old Trafford is/was/will be the ONLY place on earth where a young, talented kid of twelve years comes in as a student and leaves Knighted by the Queen of England - David Beckham is to that point. Becks was my idol, my hero, and the day he left Trafford, that I considered one of the saddest days of my life. Well, then again even in my wildest nightmares, I never thought Sir Alex, Sir Alex of all the people would ever ever ever ever ditch and leave us and me. Old Trafford without the gum chewing, mercilessly cold man who meant business? Comeon, you gotta be kidding me, I'd say. But, last night. I was broken. Broken way beyond comprehension. You could never understand if I said a part of me died. It would be undermining my emotion. It is bigger than that. Truth had pathetically taken birth. The Sir Alex Ferguson star was fading. 

Sir, you say, we have been through good and bad, who ever questioned your judgement sir? Who cares if we finished on the bottom of the table? It was never about strategies and tactics. It was never about fancy football jargon, it was never about whether a certain player had a drought, it was about emotions, it was about loyalty, it was about integrity, it was about you, Sir. It was about waiting for that moment to see you get ecstatic or you get angry when the team didn't perform well. It was all in your honor, Sir. All in your honor. 

Sir Alex Ferguson (I hate when people refer to him as "Fergie" - Go fuck yourselves you juvenile, chicken shits, that guy is the most feared man in England, learn to respect him) always said "No one is bigger than the club". Well, Sir, you were. You just made us so used to the idea of being around, being protected by you, that the millions and millions of Manchester United fans will feel like me, like being dumped after twenty six years of being with a soul-mate. Yes, sir. You had to leave, I understand. But, still I don't understand why you had to leave. Just another year, Sir? Just another ten years sir? Just another thirty, maybe?

If you ask me, if I will continue supporting Manchester United, the answer is yes. It is like crying for several days after your soul-mate has left and you just learn to live. Without any emotions.

I wont thank you Sir Alex, because we don't thank people that are a part of us. I will cry yet another teardrop for you.
Manchester United - Semper Fidelis

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