Well, the moment Pogba rose above Huth and Morgan on Saturday the 24th of September to bury the ball (into the back of the visitor’s net) with the $90Mn. head of his, sighs of relief probably reverberated around the whole of Manchester, England, and other regions of the world. I could sense these sighs of relief, albeit I was, as usual, 5000 miles from the Stretford end (see blog name for the connection, well). HE did not dab, but nodded. HE had arrived, and so had a sense of déjà vu United fans are so used to, with regards to the attacking nature of the football played. We were in control, Leicester were all over the place, and the failures of the last 3 weeks were quickly covered in sand. I could already hear the lyrical about the symbolism of united crucifying the champions, and that both teams deserved what they got. Well, true. But…
As a fan, I loved every moment of it. Even the Gray strike had elements of romanticism. Great strike, great game, but everything was platonic at this stage. We had won ages ago, Leicester wouldn’t arrive into the game so late on. But the sense of dread lingers in the background. I am afraid, mortally, of what happens next week. Even a narrow defeat redoubles the doom and gloom. I am afraid that I might get depressed, till we actually win the title. Based on the last 3 weeks’ performances, that could BE a while.
This rollercoaster likens itself with the demons drug abuse births. Football has now become a drug, unequivocally. This week (match hit) doesn’t matter anymore. All I can think about is the next hit (match). Okay, we lost, but maybe we win next time- everything will be fine then. Okay, we won, but what if we lose next time, everything is back to the fiery gates of hell then. Here stems the ‘mortal danger’ I referred to earlier. My mind is all sorts of mush. At least I am not killing my body though. There is only so much Justice the world will offer, and Pogba did score- justice served indeed. But next week..
