Entering the Tiger's Jaws
“I just can't calm down.”
We'd been under some kind of spell from the moment we stepped into Old Trafford. The young players, including me, were overwhelmed by the stadium's aura. Our hearts pounded wildly, our bodies felt heavy. The problem was, even the coach had fallen under the spell.
“Lads, don't get scared! They're just humans like us. Remember, we were playing in the top flight just last season!”
“Coach, that's what you said earlier. Just stay quiet. You're making us more nervous.”
“Did I?”
Coach Alan paced the away locker room, his white hair flying. Compared to Ferguson's resume, his was worlds apart. Alan had started as an amateur player, driving taxis and working construction jobs while bouncing between amateur clubs in his youth. He'd miraculously gotten a shot late in life and turned pro, but only with third-rate teams. His coaching career had begun at a third-division side. No wonder he was shaking at the pinnacle of English football, Old Trafford.
“Man United's weak in central defense without Rio. If we pack the backline like against Fulham and use the counterattack patterns you devised, Coach, we've got a shot.”
“Right! Spot on! Jermain, well said!”
Jermain was the one steadying the coach and the young players.
We headed out to the pitch for the first time to warm up. As we emerged from the tunnel, the field revealed its majesty, dyed entirely red on all sides.
“Whoa...”
I let out an involuntary gasp of awe, then remembered the broadcast cameras and forced a nonchalant expression. I didn't want to look like an idiot.
“There they are.”
On the opposite side, Manchester United's players were warming up—the superstars I'd seen on TV. The Dutch goal machine Ruud van Nistelrooy, Wales' express winger Ryan Giggs, the best midfielder Paul Scholes, Man United's captain Roy Keane. They paid no attention to the likes of us, warming up with solemn faces.
“They look like an Irish mob.”
Our midfielder Steve muttered. We were already overwhelmed by the killers' aura emanating from United's players before kickoff.
“Stop staring. It's embarrassing.”
“Who saw!?”
We warmed up in a dreamlike haze, returned to the locker room, then lined up in the tunnel for kickoff. As we waited, United's players emerged and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with us. Up close, where our bodies nearly touched, it felt even more unreal.
“You that famous Hero guy?”
Van Nistelrooy smirked and spoke to me. Standing side-by-side, he was about my height, but his torso was thick as a log.
“Yeah, that's me.”
“Registering with a name like that. You're definitely not right in the head. Heh. I like it. Take care out there. Show us some fantastic defending.”
“Hey, Dutch guy. Turn off the local broadcast. We're not here for a talk show.”
“Tch.”
United's captain Roy Keane up front shut him down with one line. It really felt like a mob.
We steeled ourselves against the stadium's energy, encouraging each other to fire up our spirits. To the packed Man United fans, I'd deliver a shock with my soccer today.
Peep!
Unlike against Fulham, United didn't rush. Like seasoned tigers, they slowly circulated the ball, scouting their prey. Van Nistelrooy and Solskjær up top as the duo, hovering around our defensive line. Super rookie Cristiano Ronaldo looked like a halftime sub. I'd love to smash that Portuguese kid's shin once.
“Go easy on us~ Mr. Hero~”
Van Nistelrooy started needling, revving things up. I paired with Tomas Repka at center-back, Anton at right-back. That positioning was all because of this guy.
Thud!
Early on, Giggs—who'd been jogging—shifted gears explosively for a burst of dribbling. No fancy tricks, just a speed change that shook Anton. Anton was our fastest defender, yet he couldn't keep up.
“Damn it!”
Thwack!
Giggs glanced at my position, then unleashed from the wing. The shot mercifully sailed wide, but it was a perfect blunder by me and Anton.
“What're you guys doing? Just play soccer like we do every day. Don't tense up. They won't eat you~”
Van Nistelrooy needled again. Marking him had delayed my cover on Giggs. But leaving him free was too dangerous—he was a goal monster in the box.
They're on another level...
Fear hit me cold. Just one clash, and they were leagues beyond Fulham. Luis and Louis were threats, but Giggs and Van Nistelrooy were historic greats. Different class.
“Tomas! Mark! When I drop to help on the flank, cover Van Nistelrooy.”
“Got it!”
It was from our pre-game tactics talk, but excitement had made us forget.
“Left side first?”
United's attackers probed left and right, then targeted our right—where Anton and I overlapped in the half-space.
“Anton! Don't go alone! Drop back and block together!”
“Right.”
Anton panicked hard. Giggs was levels above any winger he'd faced. Fulham's Luis might've been faster raw, but Giggs had flair, tenacity, stickiness. You can't see that on highlights. You feel it clashing bone and flesh.
Thud!
Thump!
“Urk!”
Boom!
Giggs charged with an upper-body feint; Anton lost balance and tumbled.
I'd timed it perfectly, booting the ball far as Giggs shook Anton. He shot me a “Who’s this guy?” look.
“Hahaha! Anton's a comedian with that fall.”
“Wish his brother saw that pathetic sight.”
United fans howled with laughter as Anton went down. His timid face crept back.
Tap. Tap.
“Hey, Anton. Don't forget our bet.”
“...Of course.”
I slapped his butt as I approached. He snapped out of it, thankfully. But Giggs, scenting blood, devilishly targeted Anton relentlessly, aiming to break him.
Giggs feinted past Anton, saw my cover, and his eyes lit up.
“Damn! Block the cross!”
Thwack!
Giggs whipped in a cross that dropped to Van Nistelrooy infiltrating the box.
Wham!
Bang!
Van Nistelrooy powered through Tomas and Mark Noble's double mark for the shot. They were stunned by his bull-like strength. Mark couldn't match the power, Tomas couldn't handle the speed.
Can we hold these guys for 90 minutes?
Fear began rooting in our hearts. West Ham hadn't mustered a single shot in the first 20 minutes. Reading my teammates' faces, I resolved:
“I need to change the momentum.”
I took the ball from the keeper and dribbled forward myself.
“Boooooo!”
United fans jeered as I advanced. I had to seize this attack chance and swing the vibe our way.
“Kid, you don't know who you're messing with today!”
Solskjær and Scholes pressed from both sides. I feinted a flank pass—
Thud-thud-thud!
“Wooooah!”
Cheers erupted from the Hammers' east stand. West Ham's first dribble penetration of the match. A crack finally appeared in United's midfield.
From now on, we're entering the tiger's jaws. Gotta stay sharp.
“Crazy bastard.”
Roy Keane charged with his Irish growl. This was his turf now.
Step—whip!
As Keane lunged, I yanked the ball back, spun, and nutmegged past him.
“Yes!”
Beating United's captain swung momentum our way—or so I thought.
Killing intent from behind.
Crash!
Keane's tackle raked my shin; I crumpled. No whistle.
United's counter was machine-precise. Van Nistelrooy back-to-goal against Tomas, spun for a turn shot. By the time Tomas reacted, the net rippled.
“Hey~ Bruce Lee~~ What's with the weak sauce today? Couldn't find a dog meat joint in Manchester?”
United fans revved up. Dog meat jabs, Chinese cracks, DVD drips. Some pulled slanty eyes with their fingers.
I glanced at white-haired Coach Alan on the sideline. He waved both hands: It's fine. Dribble again.
“Coach, seriously...”