It’s 12 noon on a cold January Sunday in Manchester. The
year 1999. Old Trafford is bustling with the roars of their rowdy red devil fanatics.
The icy winds won’t stop them from killing their football counterparts with
chants and banners. The chill in the air will not dampen their spirits today.
But why the fuss? Isn’t this just a mere fourth round FA
Cup match? Shouldn’t Manchester United be starting with a few reserve players
in the starting XI instead of their usual stars? Why are there so many people
here in attendance? It’s because this is not just any other clash. This is not
just any other team they’re up against. This is Liverpool. The arch-rivals. The
hated nemesis. A team they’ve not lost to in the competition since 1992. And
they’re not starting today.
Not today, not this year. Not in 1999.
This is Manchester United’s year. This is their prolific
super substitute’s year. It hasn’t happened yet, but they know that something
special is in store. Something big. Something that doesn’t come in pairs.
Something that comes in the form of a trio. It hasn’t happened yet, but it
will. They know. They believe. What’s the word for that again? Treble, is it?
As the clock turns to the 88th minute, horrifyingly Liverpool
are leading 1-0 thanks to Michael Owen’s third-minute header. This is
preposterous. This is blasphemous. This is ridiculous. Liverpool should not be
winning at Old Trafford. They should not be winning at Anfield. They should not
be winning, period. Old Trafford will turn into a war zone in 5 minutes time.
People will go crazy. There will be jeers. There will be tears. There might
just even be a riot. But not for the reason you think.
Manchester United win a freekick. Who else to take it
than David Beckham. David freaking Beckham. Surely, he’s going to fumble this
up, says the Liverpool nut in me. Becks doesn’t know what he’s capable of
doing, yet. He’s still three years away from dramatically grabbing the England
team by the throat and hoisting them towards the World Cup. He doesn’t know yet
that he’s going to make a whole nation rally behind him at this very stadium
and then send them into an ecstatic frenzy when he buries that curler into the
Greek net late in stoppage time. He doesn’t know. He’s not confident. He’s
going to balloon this kick.
But, not today. Not this year. Not in 1999.
He takes the freekick and it finds Andy Cole who heads it
towards goal for Dwight Yorke to equalize with a simple tap in. And just like
that it’s 1-1. Surely, United can’t lose now. Damn, this can’t be happening.
The resistance has finally broken. I’m hoping against hope that the score says
at 1-1. It’s just been that kind of an evening. The Reds seem to have given up.
Of course they have since they’re wearing their away “whites” today. But we
need to be rewarded for our resilience as well, don’t we? I mean we scored at
Old Trafford early and have kept those ravaging red devils at bay for the
longest of times. A draw isn’t what we should be getting, it’s what we deserve.
Au contraire!
It’s been 10 minutes since the baby-faced assassin has been
on the field. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer is known to turn these things around in the
dying minutes. At least save face and get a draw, some people think. Come on
Ole, do your thing, say the others. It still hurts me from inside to think
about the events that followed. It’s like someone took my soul, put it in a
blender, churned it for a good twenty minutes, set it on a roller coaster, and
finally took a knife and stabbed it multiple times in a haphazard manner. If I
had one of those Men in Black red-light flashy things with me, I would erase
the memory of this match from my conscience.
Stoppage time. Beckham has the ball. Not him again.
Someone foul him. Take him down. Get a red card. Do anything, but just stop
him. Do it now or forever hold your peace. But no one seems to be doing
anything. Manchester United seem to have that trance that they very
proficiently have mastered having over opponents. It’s almost poetic. Nothing
seems to work against them in Fergie time. It would have maybe worked
yesterday. It could maybe work tomorrow.
But, not today. Not this year. Not in 1999.
Beckham takes the ball from his half, runs towards his
pristine right flank and chips the ball deep into the Liverpool box. The ball
finds Paul Scholes. Another second half substitute. He collects the ball
beautifully but seems to have stumbled somehow on the follow-up. The ball now
rolls towards a boy in a red shirt. A boy who history has shown, and future
will prove, only cared about his team and was in love with it. A boy whose
selfless act in an era of unbridled ego led him to receive a standing ovation
from fans for getting red-carded for a last man tackle when the opposition
striker looked set to score and dent his team’s title hopes. A boy who despite
being mocked for his super sub tag would go on to score 4 goals in a space of
just 10 minutes after coming off the bench with 20 minutes to spare. A boy who
for some outlandish reason is standing alone without being marked. He collects
the ball with his right foot, gently nudges it towards his left leaving one
Liverpool defender on the ground while sending another in the wrong direction
and sinks the ball past keeper David James to win the match for his team.
For anyone who grew up watching football in the late 1990s
and early 2000s, liking a player belonging to a team other than your own was
next to impossible. During that relentless attitude era for sports, liking an
opposition player, especially one from your arch-rival team who knocked you out
in the dying minutes of the world’s oldest national football competition when you
were on the cusp of scripting history, would be nothing short of committing
treason. It’s as if this rule was etched in stone. It was part of the sports-fan
philosophy. I knew the rule as well. I still broke it. I knew that doing so
would go against the whole principle and ethical conundrum that fans all over
the world face. However, I couldn’t help it. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer made me a
fan. Not of his team. But of him.
Solskjaer probably was, and probably still is, one of the
very few footballers on this planet who, regardless of the team he played for,
was liked by everyone associated with football. People might have hated his team,
but they wanted the best for him. Just like Thierry Henry and Arsenal. All
English football fans would have rooted against Manchester United in the 1999
UEFA Champions League final against Bayern Munich. I know I did. But when
Solskjaer came on, deep down inside, didn’t everyone want him to score? Doesn’t
Solskjaer in some spooky way represent the underdog in each of us? The stalwart
who despite not being the first choice goes on to make an
impact after being turned to in the dying minutes.
His romantic obsession with his team resonates with each
and every sports fan around the globe. It shows how a relation is supposed to
be. There were times when he was irritated being just a substitute, but he
still came out at that 80-minute mark and pulled his team away from the jaws of
defeat. There were times when he was thwarted not to start an important match,
but he still understood why it was the way it was and gave it his all when
asked for. There were times when he was poised to leave the club to join a
rival team, but he stuck around proving his undying loyalty toward a club he so
fondly loved. And, there were times when injuries plagued his career and
playing time, but he stubbornly refused to go down with a fight. He came back.
Always. And he scored. Always.
There’s a 1 minute 35 seconds long video on YouTube that
captures that first time Solskjaer returned to Old Trafford after being
appointed as Cardiff City manager in 2014. It shows him walking from the tunnel
towards the dug out with the fans giving him a standing ovation and singing the
“Ole Ole” chant the whole time. Never might that have happened for an opposite
team’s manager at Old Trafford. Because never was the opposite team manager a
legend like Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. The smile on his face is unmissable. He loved
being back. Even if it was in a competitive capacity. Just shows the mentality
of the bloke who wants to be there as opposed to a bloke who has to be there.
Solskjaer was never on the charts of becoming Manchester
United manager when Sir Alex Ferguson stepped down. He was never in the fray to
make the starting XI. He wasn’t even on the substitute bench. He just wasn’t
glittery enough. He didn’t have the necessary aura that comes with being
associated with a big club. He didn’t have what it takes to follow the
footsteps of the greatest wizard of all time. He didn’t have that enchanting
effect that was needed to cast a magical spell on the fans.
He doesn’t have glamour, but he has a persona. He doesn’t
have the credentials, but he has substance.
The red devils have super subbed in their baby-faced
assassin yet again in their time of need. An assassin who loves the club and
will do anything to defend its honour. An assassin who never stopped loving the
club despite having flings with others. An assassin who kept thinking about
this club despite being in bed with others in the same league. An assassin who
“united” a team divided by its most loyal fans and its most starry players. An
assassin who has the chance to save his club yet again in the dying minutes. An
assassin who has a point to prove. Not just for himself, but for all the
underdogs around the world.
This is your time Ole. Because you’re the assassin that
Manchester needs right now. And to some extent, deserves!
