Robin van Persie: Manchester United's 'Third King'

Robin van Persie

“He missed it! Oh goodness me, he missed the equalizing penalty!” “Oh boy, you gotta put those in! Chances like that!” “Drama! Did he just drop the title?! Would they regret it later?!” “Can they still save themselves? Can th-”

BANG. BANG. Game over. Let’s all go home.

Robin van Persie.

If Manchester United’s history hadn’t been filled with surreal moments of the most exquisite order, their fans would never have believed this to be anything other than a dream. The most beautiful dream. But it wasn’t a dream, at least not just any dream.

Robin van Persie is very much real. And he is also a Manchester United player. And now, a champion. But mention this to the man and he might very well call it a dream. Ask the club and the fans and they might still pinch themselves. No one is really sure, not anymore.

It’s funny how blurred the boundaries between reality and fiction are in football. And Manchester United have been treading on those boundaries, with one foot on either side of the road, for as long as anyone can or cares to remember. But no boundary, no road is forever. Time erodes even the greatest of things and with that the roads too wither.

But the destination for United is always the same, come what may. The Promised Land. Some roads might sometimes be longer than those before but they have always led to the same old place of fabled glory. And for the Manchester United of today, that road, that boundary, is Robin van Persie.

With one foot on his red throne and one hand holding his trophy aloft, showing off to the whole wide world, as his ardent red subjects look up to him with misty eyes, full of unmatched joy and unbridled adoration, he is a man who transcends the two worlds.

Last summer, when Sir Alex Ferguson did the unthinkable and confirmed his interest in Robin van Persie, to the surprise of everybody, including the reporter asking him the question, few would have seen through what subsequently transpired.

Manchester City, powered up by the endless oil beans from the benevolent Sheikhs, had just checkmated him. He was already being outmuscled in the transfer windows by his wealthy competitors. To add to that, even the only thing keeping everybody else quiet, the title, was gone.

It appeared, at least to the rest of the world, that it was now time for a change of colour. Blue moon rising. Power shift. End of an era. His era. Outwitted, outmuscled and for the nth time, written-off, he waited.

There were murmurs in London. Robin van Persie wanted out. He seemed to have had enough of empty trophy cabinets. Rumours flew. Arsene Wenger refused to sell. Juventus and Manchester City hovered. Murmurs became noises. Arsenal had given up. Manchester City licked their lips. The papers had given their verdict. It all seemed set. There was just one place to go. It was time.

Then Ferguson moved. Edwin van der Sar chipped in. Robin van Persie turned down Juventus, laughed off City. He was outside Bridgewater. Then he was sitting down with the gaffer, signing his contract. Ferguson had found his man. van Persie had found his match.

Robin van Persie: Manchester United’s talisman last season

The whole world stood up and murmured under their breath. van Persie and Wayne Rooney. Then they watched. van Persie and Ferguson. van Persie spoke. The world listened. The red half celebrated. The blue half ranted. And then he ended. His final words: “Let’s do this”. That was it.

Fast forward. van Persie is making love to a 40-yarder from Wayne Rooney. van Persie is carrying an overjoyed Rafael da Silva on his back. van Persie is celebrating with an over-the-moon David de Gea. Rio Ferdinand is pulling van Persie around to show the world his shirt number. van Persie is laughing. He is dancing.

Is he drunk? He looks like it. He seems to be at peace. He looks up to the immense crowd around. He acknowledges them, thanks them. They thank him back, sing his name. He hugs his manager. The one who moved the world against all odds and served him his dream on a red plate. Ferguson seems pleased.

He has replied to the questions from a year before. Like he has always done. He hugs van Persie back. Ferguson and van Persie. Together again. The whole world watched again. Nobody could rant this time. 11 points ahead and with four games left. Number 20 was a cakewalk. No blue moons, no blue flags. Just deep devilish red. Everywhere.

From that checkmate to digging the grave of yet another manager, Ferguson played an adventurous game. And that was a game that is still going strong. The chief participants of that game are, expectedly, the talented youth at United, just how Ferguson would want it to be and yet, even though that in itself is enough, that still isn’t all.

In his absence, with a relatively inexperienced manager at the helm and with the might of their nearest rivals ever rising, he knew his young wards would need the guiding light to show them the way. Michael Carrick, Paul Scholes, Rio Ferdinand, Nemanja Vidic, Patrice Evra, Ryan Giggs – they were all there. But most of them wouldn’t be around for as long as Ferguson would want them to be.

He knew he would need to make sure of two things before he could call it a day and still be at peace. To give the young devils their first taste of that glorious blood, and a talisman. A leader. Someone who would be around for a while. To give the team that feeling of invincibility. That anything is possible. That wildcard. And who better than Robin van Persie? Well, he isn’t the greatest manager in the history of football for his taste in wine, though it certainly helps. So off he goes and leaves the new manager with a hungry team and an even hungrier talisman.

The two incredibly successful eras in the history of Manchester United each had a king. They never needed a throne or a crown to tell the world who they were. When they entered the football pitch, it showed. The world moved from the seat. They looked more closely. In anticipation.

Some would even hold their breath. There were no drum rolls or thundering gunshots but when they moved, the world moved. When they scored, the world was star-struck. But they weren’t just stars, they weren’t just celebrities, they weren’t just game-changers. They were the beast that roars at the top of the food chain.

Without a care for anyone that lies anywhere else. Nothing bothered them. Nobody dared to bother them. Nothing could bother them. And when something did, they just kept coming back with greater vengeance.

They were the sacred thread that galvanised the whole team against anyone and anything. They were both the spear and the shield. A marauding Denis Law running wild and free from his markers, chasing after a dream ball from George Best, a fearless Eric Cantona turning around from nowhere and chipping into the magically carved open net and a menacing Robin van Persie thundering into the opponent’s defence in pursuit of a sensuous ball from Michael Carrick – those aren’t just moves, those are sights.

Boundaries. Between reality and fiction. Poetry in motion. They aren’t players, they are hunters. Hunters with a specific skill-set, ambition and a target. And with an army behind them that stretches as far as the eye can see, for as long as the eye can see.

After the two glorious eras, it is now time for Manchester United to set their sights on forging yet another empire. They have the shepherd, they have the youthful recruits and they have their subjects behind them, arms aloft in support. And above everything else, they have found their messiah. Their Third King. And he is ready.

Take a lesson, come and see Mass destruction by van Persie