Monday, December 24, 2018

The Object of an Assassin’s Affection!

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!