It was a tense day in Barcelona on 26th May 1999, when three minutes was all that separated Bayern Munich from Champions League glory. They had played like worthy champions, battering treble-chasing Manchester United all the way, thus seemingly condemning them to taste bitter defeat at the biggest stage of them all. But romanticism was to be redefined that night. An improbable tale of resilience and triumph was to be scripted. When all seemed lost, Teddy Sheringham pulled the unlikeliest of rabbits out of his rather ragged hat, giving more than just a lifeline to United- giving them genuine hope of turning the tables during whatever injury time remained. But surely that was a ridiculous thought. Even Sir Alex seemed to think so. What Ole Gunnar Solskjaer did next will probably go down in history as the single greatest moment in a post-1968 United fan’s life.
Delirious players (including the unfortunate duo of Roy “captain fantastic” Keane and Paul Scholes who had to miss out due to suspensions) rushed on to the field and fell on top of each other in joy, while their stunned manager stood shaking his head at the sheer incredulity of what he had just witnessed. Fireworks lit up the sky, and the Mancunian section of the crowd could be found hovering perilously close to cloud nine. Manchester United had reached the promised land.
Half-way around the world, a ten year old boy turned in restless sleep. He scratched his head and made funny noises; but being too young to allow anything as frivolous as restlessness to awake him, he fell back into deep slumber dreaming of several red dots buzzing around like hysterical bees inside a honey-jar, smiling inadvertently, hardly comprehending the significance of the event he had just missed.
*
The boy, having aged 9 more years (but none the wiser for it), heard himself complain for the umpteenth time about the meanness of the rain gods in making the national capital so unbearably sultry at this time of the year. Turning the knob of the desert cooler to maximum, he settled down on the sofa and kept his eyes glued to the television set in order to get his mind off the summertime tortures. He was amused to see that it was pouring down in bucketfulls in Moscow, where the Champions League final was being played out.
He could barely contain his joy when Cristiano Ronaldo scored for United with a delicious header. A terrible knot was to form in his throat the moment Frank Lampard equalised, followed by the sudden surfacing of that familiar sinking feeling in his stomach that he knew so very well. The Drog got himself sent off in a manner not befitting a European Cup final, but even that wasn’t enough to assuage his fears. Extra time crawled to an end, both teams having survived a series of relentless attacks by the other. Penalties beckoned.
Cristiano of all people missed, and the boy banged his head on the floor in despair. His mother appeared out of nowhere in that unearthly hour and inquired about her son’s mental well-being. Maternal idiosyncrasies were the least of his worries though, as he saw CLLC John Terry walk with the confidence of a Chuck Norris facing a Lionel Messi in martial arts combat to take the final decisive penalty kick that stood between Chelsea F.C. and a first ever Champions League final trophy.
His eyes went wide with horror and then disbelief as Terry fluffed his shot wide and slipped like a toddler in the sodden grass, immediately proceeding to hide his face with his palms in a futile attempt to conceal his ignominy from the eagerly watching millions. Unable to hide his disgust, Roman Abramovich chewed some of his oil-mellow skin off instead of his nails. Anderson then coolly stepped up to slot his penalty in. Giggs followed suit. Nicolas Anelka hitting the ball straight at Van Der Saar seemed an almost inevitable twist of fate at this point. Bloody with delight, VDS raised his hands in the air and was promptly mobbed by his ecstatic team-mates, while bloody with relief, CR7 lay prostrate on the ground weeping his guts out. CLLC was doing nothing to prevent tears of shame from running down his embattled cheeks.
The boy dropped to his knees and waited for the sensation to set in. His mother, impervious to everything, urged him to go to sleep one final time before trudging away into the darkness herself.
*
Back in the present day, the boy is finally tiring of cursing his luck at having to miss the latest Champions League final the fairytale club he supports is playing in. In hindsight, choosing the dreary returns of an internship over homely pleasures, where one is naturally graced with a colour television and a Tata Sky special sports package to boot, seems to him a decision of astoundingly calamitous proportions. He will be spending match-time in the company of naught but his trusty laptop (technically, the Kid counts as company, but only technically), hoping against hope that United make light of his absence from the mob of spectators and go about their business with customary aplomb and pluck. It’s doubly difficult this time, but when has that ever stopped this team? He runs out of words finally, but hopes to return here soon if Manchester United succeed in pulling off what is being touted (not without reason) as Mission Implausible.
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