105 x 68 metres. That is the standard measurement for a football pitch in the Barclays Premier League. In the 2014-15 season, only three teams failed to comply with the specifications, enshrined under rule K21. Tellingly, Manchester United were not amongst the outliers. The Old Trafford turf, touted as an expansive savannah hosting leonine wingers prancing upon their weekly prey, was a savage lie.
The apocryphal tale woven by the true cerebral assassin Sir Alex Ferguson, a myth that was lapped up by an audience baying for blood at the modern colosseum. Yet, it would be incredulous, to dismiss the potency of mysticism which shrouds Manchester United. A veritable phoenix which arose from the ashes of the Munich tragedy.
A club which thrives on a feeling of incompleteness, a vacuum which persists due to the unfulfilled destiny of the Busby Babes, who may have gone, but are never forgotten. Hence the institution derives solace from nurturing young men into sumptuous athletes, helping them blossom into assets and ambassadors for the club, their one true seminary, wherever their future may lie.
The biggest proponent of this perennial theme is the class of 92. Echoing the defiance exhibited by the managerial doyen(Sir Matt Busby) when he took United on a European sojourn, despite the ire of the English FA, Sir Alex bedded in the illustrious cohort, even after the now infamous exhortations to the contrary by Alan Hansen.
Two glorious decades later a sentry is still guarding the gateway to the promised land, with Nicky Butt, shepherding the new wave of Under 21s, rearing to uphold a tradition of transition, from being mercurial to becoming metronomic. Few like Scholes have embraced the cosy environment afforded to sagacious men, jostling jauntily with fellow pundits, while the Neville brothers have either overseen or assisted in calamitous reigns in the dugout.
Then there is Ryan Giggs. The mascot for the club’s undying reverence towards youth, and its boundless potential. The bombarding wingman, whose feats are folklore amongst a fawning legion of admirers. A decorated veteran, who barring the ignominy of being the understudy to two sacked Manchester United managers, has partaken in innumerable coronations for the club.
What then does, Jose Mourinho’s ascension portend for the boss of the most popular name in world football?
The metaphorical ‘twelfth man’
Valentine’s day is around the corner. The Liverpool players, basking in the home crowd’s affection are cruising against a lowly Sunderland. The points it seems are in the bag. And then as the timer reaches an innocuous number, 77, a faction amidst the KOP decides to alight the ‘gravy train’ and walk, resigned to their fate, desolate. Alone.
An interminable love affair, ‘bought’ to a screeching halt, by an avaricious owner?
While the FSG group recoiled admirably to rescind the hike in admission prices, it is an inescapable conclusion that fans on the stands are no longer the priority. While there might be credence to the theory that ticket-holders have themselves mutated into prawn-gulping slumbering spectators, it is undeniable that the more passionate ones are still the metaphorical twelfth man.
A collective capable of either laying siege to the opposition through vociferous heckling or rousing their warriors to unprecedented comebacks, through mellifluous renditions like you’ll never walk alone.
But are atmospherics sufficient in ensnaring a viewer who has switched on his television for the first time, to absorb the spectacle? What is it that draws a person to a club, from whom she is far removed, geographically?
Visibility is pivotal. Fortuitously for United, its footballing ascent coincided with a proliferation of the game in hitherto unknown landscapes, with Asia being an obvious candidate. Flush with commercial dealings the heydays haven’t subsided as borne out by the outlandish sums splurged on signings and agent fees, to this day(The Falcao fiasco is still a festering wound).
Alignments are sought with corporations purportedly sharing the ideals of Manchester United, leading to lucrative partnerships.
But are these marriages dependent on the success that United enjoys? Or does Manchester United’s entrenched global appeal fortify it from the tyranny of results?
Has it reached an exalted state, similar to Liverpool’s, where it can go without lifting the title for decades on end and still incite passion amongst its fanbase, near and afar, who’ll stick by the club, with an incorrigible hope, that next year, will be ‘their’ year?
Or is a generation, which ‘invested into’ a club, merely on the pretext of avoiding heart-burns on the weekend, (even if triggered vicariously through the idiot box), too gullible to stick around when the ship goes asunder? Guarantees in football are at a premium, and even the most communally run clubs(read F.C. of Manchester), can witness turmoil which tears into the edifice of an otherwise amiable institution.
The Ryan Giggs conundrum
This brings us to the Ryan Giggs conundrum, and his next step.
With Louis Van Gaal having left a domestically manufactured artillery in the form of Rashford, Lingard, Mensah and Jackson, would it be better if Giggs stuck around, even in a reduced capacity to supervise their development, making them a fulcrum of his team down the line? Or would he better be served by plying his trade elsewhere, to prove his credentials?
Or would Manchester United have been better served by offering him the job right now, allowing him to restore the team-play to the ‘United way’, even if it meant sacrificing results?Or is Ryan Giggs’ appointment too much of a risk, with his failure acting as a precursor to an extrication of Fergie’s Fledglings’ official ties with the club?
Or is the ‘philosophy’ of Manchester United a myth, a formalisation of a man’s nebulous pathos, as he once proclaimed that he is an incurable gambler, who derives pleasure from snatching even the tiniest morsel from the jaws of defeat.
We’ll find out soon enough, as the Special One, enters the den.
