One of our lads says, ‘Somebody threw a pizza at The Manager.’
I look at him. We’ve won, but he’s not walking around, shaking everyone by the hand like he usually does. He seems unsettled, which is something I thought I’d never see.
Everyone gets back to talking about the game.
We’ve stopped Arsenal from making it to 50 games unbeaten.
We’ve won 2–0; Ruud has scored.
We look at the Premier League table:
We’ve got a great result against the league leaders, we’re within touching distance of the top teams and maybe the result will launch our season. But the atmosphere in the dressing room feels a little bit weird.
*****
After Arsenal, we fall on our backsides by losing 2–0 to Portsmouth at Fratton Park. Then we go on a five-month unbeaten league run, defeating Arsenal again, Palace, City, Liverpool and Villa along the way. It’s not until the beginning of April that we get beaten, 2–0 by Norwich. Then comes the game I’ve been waiting for all season: Everton away, Goodison Park.
Time to face the music.
It’s the first time I’ve played here since signing at Old Trafford and I know the Everton fans aren’t exactly made up about me playing for United. In fact, they hate it. When the transfer was going through in the summer, death threats were sent to the house. I even had to get personal security sorted out for my mum and dad.
I know exactly what to expect as the United bus winds its way through the backstreets that lead to the ground because I’ve driven this way loads of times before as a player. I’ve even walked this route as a fan when I watched the games with my dad or travelled to the ground as a ball boy. I reckon there’s going to be a crowd of hundreds waiting to give the away team some stick as we get off the bus.
We turn the corner.
I can see the police horses and the burger vans.
Goodison comes into view, then the crowds waiting for us. For me.
Bloody hell, there’s thousands of them.
The mob are waiting by the club gates, dozens deep, all of them booing as the team coach turns into the car park. Everyone onboard knows they’re here to have a pop at me, so they start pulling my leg, winding me up. Someone makes a joke about my mates waiting to say hello, but then a brick bounces off the side of the bus. Then another. I hear the horrible pop of breaking glass. Someone’s thrown a bottle. I sussed I’d be getting some stick this afternoon, but nothing has prepared me for this. As the bus door opens, I make the short walk down the steps in full view of the Everton fans. They’re seeing me in a United suit for the first time and the boos and jeers are deafening.
It’s pure anger.
The atmosphere is upsetting. Everton are the team I’ve grown up supporting and although I’m with United now, I still want them to do well. OK, not today, but they’re the side I played for and dreamt of playing for when I was a little kid. To get abuse from people who I’ve probably stood side by side with in the stands really hurts. They’re fans of a club that’s still close to my heart.
Then I walk into the ground and everything feels strange.
It’s the same building, with the same faces and the same fittings, but the atmosphere is disorientating. I’m in the place where I grew up, the stadium where I made my name as a footballer, but it feels alien. Sitting in the away dressing room at Goodison Park doesn’t seem right.
But I’m not going to let it throw me.
I get my head straight. Focus. The Everton fans out there haven’t intimidated me, they’ve made me even more desperate to win. I want to score. I want to show them what I’m really capable of. I want to shut them up. There are some footballers I know who would happily take a draw when they play their former clubs, but I’m not like that. Today, I want to win so badly.
When I line up in the tunnel during the minutes before the game, I can tell that the home supporters are really up for it today. I hear the theme from Z-Cars, the club’s anthem, as the two teams move towards the pitch. When I walk out of the tunnel into the sunlight and see the Gwladys Street End, the boos are deafening. All of them are aimed at me and the hairs on the back of my neck start to tingle. Now I’m really wound up. Any thoughts of being an Everton fan disappear on the spot.
I have to score today.
When the whistle goes for the kick-off, the expected happens: my first touch is greeted with thousands and thousands of boos. As is the next one. And the next. And the next. I hold my temper and we hold our own for the first 45 minutes, but the second half turns into a ’mare for all of us. Everton are pumped up with that cup final feeling, they fight all over the pitch. Duncan Ferguson, my hero as a school kid, scores in the 55th minute. Gary Nev boots a ball into the fans and gets a straight red, then in injury time Scholesy gets sent off after a second yellow.
When I walk off the park at full-time with the game lost, the laughter and the cheering from the Everton fans sound louder than boos.
It’s the worst part of the day.
*****
Some goals feel more important than others. Scoring the fourth in a 4–1 win is nice, but not special. Scoring a consolation goal in a 3–1 defeat means nothing. Hat-tricks are always amazing.
Scoring an absolute screamer is even better, probably because it all happens in a split second, so it’s always surprising.
In April, I hit a blinder against Newcastle at home. A volley from about 25 yards that leaves my boot and rifles over Shay Given in the Newcastle goal. The funny thing is, as it happens, I’m arguing with the ref. We’ve just won a free-kick and Alan Shearer has booted the ball away. I’m trying to get him booked. I’m even more moody because we’re losing 1–0 after a Darren Ambrose goal and I’ve picked up a dead leg. The Manager wants to bring me off.
As play restarts, the ball is played upfield. I follow it, still chewing the ref’s ear off, but I stop short of the box. The ball gets headed out from the Newcastle defence and drops right in front of me at the perfect height. Out of anger, I smack it as hard as I can and it flies right into the top corner like a rocket. Old Trafford goes mental.
Dead leg? What dead leg?
Every day at work begins with the same drive into Carrington, past the autograph hunters waiting at the gates with their shirts, posters and old matchday programmes. I pull into the car park with the Beemers and the Mercs. The Manager’s Audi is here – he’s in work hours before anyone else at the club and he’s probably the last to leave at night. It doesn’t matter what time I turn up or what time I leave, The Manager’s car is always parked in the same spot.
I walk through the club reception with its fancy model of Old Trafford in the foyer and down a brightly lit corridor. Along the way I pass the photos on the wall: the famous Busby Babes; Giggsy and Ronaldo celebrating a goal; The Manager looking scary in a smart suit.
Down the corridor, through more doors into the dressing room. I can hear some of the lads in there already, laughing. Gary Neville, Darren Fletcher, Rio, Wes Brown.
‘Alright, Wazza?’
I say hello and get my kit ready. The United squad meet here before every training session. You can tell because it looks like a kid’s bedroom. There’s