After a late night of pints reminiscent of Great Big Sea’s “Home for a Rest,” the crisp autumn air of that morning in Manchester stirred the senses to meet the occasion; it was going to be a big day. A quick shower and bowl of packaged oatmeal later, I left the hostel towards the tram platform in a city that still seemed to be in a quiet slumber.
Once on the tram, a kind of light rail that runs through and around the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution, it was a short ride towards my stop at Old Trafford Station. I had been there before, back in 2003, but everything seemed a new sight. The cricket grounds on the left with its red brick and iron gates, the condos, the fields, the pubs and shops that lined Sir Matt Busby Way, each landmark heralding what was to come with growing anticipation.
Passing a souvenir shop on my left, my destination towered in the distance in a way that kings and emperors would have wanted their monuments to mirror. I was at Old Trafford. It might seem of little consequence, but this was hallowed ground in the world of football. The home of Manchester United, I had been there twice before to watch the Red Devils in Premier League matches. I was at the game in which Cristiano Ronaldo netted his first goal for United, a weak free kick that found the net with pure good fortune, and actually have a picture of that moment as he is about to strike the ball.
But my pilgrimage was not of the club nature this time; instead I was going to watch the European Championships qualifier between England and Macedonia. Yet the tiny obstacle of not possessing a ticket had to be dealt with first, which was why I was there just before 8am when the game wasn’t until the afternoon. Knowing that the ticket office would likely have extra tickets available for the match, I went to wait for it to open.
Being first in line, when the doors finally opened I asked the teller for the best ticket available, and found myself inside Old Trafford with seats that were the best I’d ever had at Old Trafford. Watching players like Rooney, Lampard and Gerrard go through the paces of their warm-up, hearing the crowd sing and cheer, it was easy to believe that I was watching something more than “just” a football game.
It had been generations since the British Empire freely fought campaigns in Europe, though World Wars I and II were fought with zeal and swagger (scoreboard, they won both, and thanks US for coming to the party late). Thus this and every England match is something of a quest towards the glory that characterized a nation and Empire who thrived on the Lions’ Pride for centuries of European history.
While it must be said the performance was lacklustre from an England squad that seem to epitomize what it is to struggle, nothing can diminish the experience that, for a lover of football and an England supporter, was absolute bliss. Though the score line finished nil-nil, and with an England game today against Montenegro, the demands for attractive and ruthless play from the Three Lions continue to grow. Only then can the country that has defined and institutionalized modern football begin to grasp the heights of expectation as endowed by the masses.
That game in Manchester was 5 years ago today, and so I will watch this afternoon’s fixture with the shine of those memories which continue to be one of the greatest experiences I’ve had in football. Though my followig of English football began in the 90's, it lacked the full appreciation that can only manifest itself by taking in the sights, sounds and emotions of a live game. Club level footy is something to be cherished week after week, but international is where pride takes shape in the form of nations pitting themselves against one another. It is the ultimate example of what football was always intended to be: an expression of love for something grander than self.
Happy 5 years England. Jog on mate!
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