The roar at Old Trafford rolled through the stands in waves, one surge of noise was bleeding into the next becoming relentless and euphoric. The sound had taken on a life of its own, refusing to die down even as the minutes ticked by.
In the executive box, light from the overhead fixtures fell across Sir Alex Ferguson's shoulders. He wasn't jumping and screaming like the fans crammed into the stands below—after twenty-seven years managing this club, he'd earned that kind of composure.
But the corners of his eyes crinkled with satisfaction, and his mouth curved up slightly. His hands rested clasped in front of him, fingers were relaxed rather than white-knuckled as they'd been in recent weeks.
He couldn't forget the match at Anfield three weeks ago. That had been the third round of the league season, and he'd sat in the stands watching Liverpool tear his defense to shreds. Six goals hammered into United's net, each one landed like a raw blow to his chest. He remembered his knuckles going pale as his fists clenched.
That day marked one of his rare public displays of emotion since retirement. His mind had shaken with images of United's defense scattered across the pitch like broken toys, the players' heads hanging in defeat. For a moment, he'd wanted nothing more than to march down to the touchline and take control again.
But today was different.
His gaze drifted to the pitch below, where the same United side that had been humiliated at Anfield was finally showing their mettle at home. Against the same opponent. At Old Trafford, where they belonged.
Someone beside him leaned over with voice bright with satisfaction. "That counterattack was beautiful, wasn't it?"
Ferguson nodded once, his voice was low but clear. "Much more like it than Anfield. They look like proper Manchester United players again."
As he spoke, his eyes tracked the movement on the pitch. United's players were dropping back into position, their defensive shape was compact and organized. None of the panic that had been seen at that nightmare afternoon three weeks ago was here. This time, the smile at Ferguson's face didn't fade.
Tweet!
The referee's whistle sliced the air.
The match continued.
"The situation is looking rather troublesome for Liverpool now," came the commentator's voice through the television speakers at The Boot Tavern, the screen was casting its harsh glow across the pub. "Brendan Rodgers needs to find some answers, and quickly. How do you get this attack functioning again? At the moment, Liverpool looks like a team that can neither push forward effectively nor hold their defensive line. They're stuck in no man's land."
The scoreline and the unfolding drama had sucked all the oxygen out of the pub. An oppressive silence fell over the room, broken only by the quiet rasp of cotton against glass as George continued polishing pint glasses behind the bar. The regular sound felt jarringly out of place against the frozen tension gripping everyone else.
On the television screen, the match had resumed.
Mamadou Sakho lost his mark again during a defensive phase, allowing Chicharito to dart into the penalty area unchallenged and get off a shot. If Martin Skrtel hadn't recovered to make a desperate block, it would have been another goal conceded.
The near-miss shattered the pub's uneasy quiet.
"Fuck! Is this defense made of tissue paper? They're playing with fire again!" Ted exploded from his seat near the front, his face was flushed with rage.
The beer glass in his hand trembled as his fingers nearly crushed the handle.
He poked an accusing finger at the screen, where the replay showed Chicharito's shot.
His voice boomed louder than the television commentary. "Does this new signing have any defensive awareness at all? He can't track a man that size? How do you lose him like that? Standing around like a training cone! Like he's got no eyes in his head! Is this what Rodgers is coaching them? How to leave their marks wide open?"
Supporters at the neighboring table nodded in grim agreement.
Someone else joined the chorus of anger. "This backline is absolutely ridiculous! Old Jack from my village is paralyzed and he'd still track runners better than this lot!"
George set down his polishing cloth, and spoke with slow calm. "Ted, sit down and have a drink. Remember when we lost three-nil to Everton back in the day? Shankly was on the touchline chewing his gum with a smile. Where's the fire? This kind of panic doesn't help anything."
He paused, his eyes were shifting to the television where Liverpool's players stood with slumped shoulders. "The defense has had a reckless streak for ages, this isn't anything new. But getting worked up won't change what's happening. We need to watch the full ninety before passing judgment."
"Watch the full ninety? At this rate they'll be leaking goals like a sieve!" Ted remained standing, leaning forward now, his finger was stabbing toward Brendan Rodgers on the touchline.
"Look at him! Standing there like a statue! Our full-strength squad getting pressed by United's half-reserves for fifteen minutes, and we haven't raised a single decent counterattack!
What the hell are his tactics meant to be? Before this we won matches because of Julien—now they've figured out how to cut off his connection to the team and we've got nothing!
Rodgers needs to go! He's not right for Liverpool!"
Someone else chimed in from across the room. "And Suarez! He's come back from suspension looking like he's lost his soul. That turnover just now; he was softer than wet bread!"
Ted pounced on that immediately, his anger was building up.
"Exactly! When did he ever get muscled off the ball that easily before? The suspension has completely killed his sharpness! Without him causing chaos up front, Julien has an even harder time.
Did you see how hard Julien was working? Who in midfield gave him any service? Gerrard's trying to defend and attack at the same time—he can't be everywhere! And the club just sits on their hands? Can't they see we need a proper midfielder?"
George let out a soft sigh, placing a freshly polished glass upside-down on the bar. "Buying players isn't that simple, Ted. I've been watching this club long enough to remember when we had gaps in midfield before. We gritted through it. We survived."
Ted blinked, momentarily thrown off. "That was different! If we keep grinding like this, we won't even qualify for Europa League!"
Before anyone could respond, Manchester United won a corner on the television, then immediately launched another attacking wave. The volume in the pub spiked instantly, voices were now beginning to overlap in distress.
Ted couldn't contain himself. "Look! Here they come again! And our center-backs are still backing off! This is suicide!"
George didn't try to calm him this time. He simply returned to polishing the next glass, the soft whisper of cotton on glass was somehow cutting through the angry noise like a small pocket of stillness in the chaos.
Outside, wind swept fallen leaves past the windows. Inside The Boot Tavern, the cursing and groaning mixed with the television commentary, all of it stewing in the beer-soaked air.
The unfinished match felt like torture, every minute was stretching longer than the last.
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!