Prologue to #19

The Old Man sat quietly at the top of Old Trafford, home of the famed Manchester United soccer team. It was a cold, rainy day, the type that English soccer has become well known for. The Old Man had wrapped himself tightly in a wool blanket as he sat in the corner of the box suite to bear the brunt of the cold. The older you get the colder you get he thought. It had been thirty years since he had donned the red jersey, but he could remember the games, the agony of defeat, and the thrill of victory like it was yesterday. The Champions League Final, winning the FA Cup, winning the Super Cup, as well as the premiership a half dozen times, it all felt like it had just happened. He remembered all the great players he had played with and all the goals he had scored. His assists were streaming through his mind as the first half of the game began. He barely noticed the tap on his shoulder as the security guards instructed him to make his way to the field to have his number retired at halftime. This was a great honor, reserved for the greatest to ever play the game. The once masterful player strode with confidence and humility, making his best effort to conceal the limp that accompanied many great athletes in their latter years, especially on cold and rainy days. The Old Man took the elevator down to the field level. The walls shook with the applause of the fans, the result of an intensely played first half. The Old Man had been a part of many of these matches. The score was 0-0 and the Man U fans were cheering their team on, singing as the halftime whistle blew and the players made their way to the dressing room. As they left the field, Old Trafford rumbled as “Come on You Reds” echoed through her walls. As the last player left the field, the Old Man waited at the end of the tunnel, shouldered with security. Players from both teams ran up the tunnel to their dressing room but, one by one, they slowed to a walk to pay their respects and shake the Old Man’s hand. It was so loud in the tunnel, the Old Man could barely hear himself think, but he was able to read the movement of the lips. “Great to meet you” all the lads were saying as the timid gentleman shook the young players’ hands. “Great half. Best of luck in the second half,” was all the man replied. As he made his way down the tunnel, he saw the great pitch of Old Trafford. It had been years since he’d stepped foot on this grass. The smell of the stadium, the roar of the crowd, the lights, the history, it all came rushing back to him. Now he was outside the tunnel and in plain view of the crowd at the halfway line, and in an instant the crowd hushed. The Old Man walked to the center circle where his storied number nineteen jersey was waiting for him. The stadium remained as silent as a church. It was a quick ceremony. They played some clips of the great goals he had scored, the trophies he had won, and his FIFA World Player of the Year awards, and then the owners of Manchester United raised the famed number nineteen to the top of Old Trafford, never to be worn again by another Manchester United player. The Old Man bowed his head to the fans and quietly made his way off the pitch in the same fashion he had entered it. The ceremony was a summation of his career. He had always entered the pitch humbly, driven the crowd wild with his talents, and then walked off the field, head bowed in honor of his opponents and teammates, never forgetting where he came from. As he left the field at Old Trafford for the last time, he caught a glimpse of a young boy sitting in the third row. He was dirty on the face, wet on the beak from the rain, and pure in the eyes. They locked eyes for a twenty-yard stride, the youth in envy of the Old Man, the Old Man sensing something special in the youth—a hunger, a drive, a desire that evaded most young players and only emerged in dreams. Occasionally, the very special ones tap into that desire and drive and make their dreams a reality. The Old Man understood the look. He smiled as thoughts from his own childhood began to resurface.