The day was may 28 2011, the D-day for Uefa Championship finalé between Manchester United FC of England & Barcelona FC of Spain. From morning & through the day I was not myself, I surprised myself, I was someone else or rather I was me in a different body. I’m a United fan, but never have I been so overtaken by such grand emotions catalysed by the inevitable thought-like incomprehensible maneuvers hovering within my bodice, hunting & taunting me all day like flies does to excreta. It was a weekend & l was home, thank God it was, for if it were to be a working day, it would have been a catastrophe emanating from the thoughts-of-the-trophy to be lost or won. I was dulling, seriously, everything was in slow motion; the mouths that talked, the ceiling fan, my brothers moving around the house. It felt like i was in “reverb”, like my life had turned into a ’3D slow mo’. I was restless and perturbed like a pauper whose wife has just birthed sextoplets. I was low in morale as some one who has just gotten his girlfriend stolen by a pimp. It would be right to call me the black version of the IMF chief ‘Strauss-Khan’ or Carlo Ancelloti of Chelsea.
I tried to sleep but that or the time didn’t help matters for minutes after I woke, I knew something else was happening to me, the time seemed to hang onto the walking stick of an old lady. It dragged itself like the impossible emancipation of PHCN. I tried unwinding by playing the Play Station3 with my brother. At first everything was cool, but at a time the truth stared me in the face like the ‘covert sniper mosquitoes’ do to me every night. I was loosing it. As I played the game, it felt like the players were on ‘all-auto’ but they weren’t. I complained but my brother said I used the better pad so I had no excuses. But how could this be? How could I explain that my players were clearly doing things different from what I instructed. When I pressed the ‘turn left’ button, they turned right & when I tapped the ‘turn right’ button, they went left, it was worse tapping a ‘through’ pass and getting a ‘one-two’ pass. It was obvious they had minds of their own even though I held the control pad. But I knew better, my mind wasn’t right, my thoughts weren’t straight,they were in zigzags like the rickety sounds of a jalopy. I had “Man U Vs Barca” quagmire in there. I wasn’t low this time, I was high, I felt higher than the Empire states building, in jam terms; it felt like I’ve had a hit of Pineapple kush and Morkyt infused with ivory dust. I had to drop the pad and seek redemption, emancipation, solace, deep sleep.
I woke minutes before the duel began, I felt better, I wasn’t high, not anymore, I wasn’t low either, I had the ‘Arsene Wenger look’; colossal confusion and despondic delusion. So I sat in front of the big screen TV to watch the match on high definition. I wasn’t scared, not anymore, I had my full plate of yam porridge to murder just in case the inevitable torment came as expected; I needed to have something to take out my frustration on; the porridge. And so it began, the opening ceremony and side choosing, the first pass, my boys showed they could equal the task in the first 16 minutes. But after then, the duel between two champions became a training session and as some would call it, “football made easy”. It is always this way with Barca. You give them a lot of space and you’re made to pay dearly. We paid, for the first sting to my heart came soon. It was a goal by “Pedrotito the invisible man”. Was it a pass from Iniesta or Xavi? I knew not because everything was so fast and this two to me were like the infamous greek monsters “Scylla and Charybdis” whom I but know too well of. A death by any of the two means is equal to the other. As my heart bled, I asked where was Patrice Evra? Evra why? Evra why? Do you expect the best defender in the world to do your bidding and his at the same time?
As the match went on my heart bled, I retreated into reverb, watching the gyrations and the Michael Jackson like dance steps of men skilled in the ‘art of round leather manipulation, all in slow-mo. I’d become deaf, I heard no sounds other than “Tip-Tap,Tip-Tap,Tip-Tap”. Was it my heart beat that made the sound, or the blood trickling down to the floor from it. My lips were hobbled, I was in football hoosegow as I watched the Barca players in ‘apple pie order’ and then a disorder. Like a flash of lightening, Rooney the boss boy proved yet again that he was ‘of the first water’. He made a mash, this time not for the female fans, but the male also. The goal keeper could have sworn he saw Usain Bolt light the ball himself. I slightly came out of my shell, smiled and still waited for the known. The score was equal till half time. I had to go take a shower for fear of spontaneous human combustion due to high blood pressure.
By 2nd half, my team couldn’t hold a candle to the ‘masters of the ball’ who were as hot as a whorehouse on nickel night. The midfield was to them as a baby’s cot of which they were infants. There was no United player to kick up a row in there. Park looked played out, Carrick and Giggs were greatly euchered by the ‘Scylla and Charybdis’ of Barcelona midfield while Valencia staggered all over as someone ‘half seas over’ while knocking ‘the lion’ and his other compatriots into a cocked hat. Thank God the for the referee. Ferdinand kept passing the buck, made no fuss on the ball as if he were in a saloon and the ‘little pea’ was left to peter out behind enemy lines as often as possible. And then I pondered the shindy that might have gone on in Sir’s mind that made him put Chicharito, a ‘shave tail’ of good quality though in matters which are but for grown men. Why did he not start the ‘Golden boot boy’ in order to put a spoke in united’s wheel? Why did the golden boy not even make the substitute bench even if its to see the elephant for a few minutes? I still asked why ace high Simon pure (Nani) would be left on the bench? I kept asking a lot of perturbing questions till a second and third dagger was rived into my heart through my naked breast held with wires. I was yoked as the lamb that carries anger just as flint bears fire….
It was clear now, the jig was up, we had been knocked galley west, we didn’t even put up a fight like kikkeny cats. The win was handed to the opposition on a platter of gold, 3-1 was the last score, I expected the worst, but I also I expected a miracle win over Barca. Kudos to the best hand in the industry, Sir Edwin Vanderser, kudos to Fabio, Nani (who could have changed the game), gracias to Nemanja Vidic the best of the best. As for Sir Ferguson, I believe you didn’t ask ‘the special one’ for tips, but if you did, then obviously, you applied it wrongly. Be stead fast and ruthless next time for the boys from “loner” don’t come to play. I went to sleep-dom before the cup was given to Barcelona. I awoke with messages and cell broadcasts of Arsenal and Chelsea FC fans especially, booing me and my beloved United. I didn’t reply, rather I asked, to Arsenal and its fans; what folly ?what mouth do you have when trophies in your trophy shelf are as scarce as hen teeth thereby creating a pile of volcanic dusts? When its obvious your proprietors skedaddle from trophy winning for obvious reasons. You suffer from ‘Tennessee or Virginia Quick Step’ but know it not. Here’s a job for all of you, go and see a doctor, I shall waste no time musing with people who don’t even exist. And for the Chelsea fans; what uppity? Na-nana-na-na, What a pity? Whose coach was just told to absquatulate? Mine or Yours? How did you feel? As if an Arkansas tooth pick was rived to your heart? “Ooh! Roma Abramovïçh is deliciously evil” Scornful laughter.. You peacock about with hatred for the United, yet you hanker to be us but you can’t. All your spondulix can never buy you the number one spot in England. Manchester United shall remain top rail, and if you get mad, here’s another job for you; “go and boil your jersey”. To Barcelona and its fans, who are busy getting wallpapered with beer and all manner of alcoholic exigency in celebration, the better team won. I hold out my “John Barleycon” in respect to you the ‘Zu zus’ whose bravery and valor is indisputable now and in time line.
LONG LIVE BARCELONA, LONG LIVE MANCHESTER UNITED.
UNITED FOR LIFE