Uneasy lies the head that wears the Crown and even ‘un-easier’ lies the head that wears the crown lightyears away from its kingdom. Manchester United, a sign of promise, a sign of hope and belief, a sign of fighting back time and time again, has now been reduced to mere skittles being razed down, left, right and center.
So what changed? Everything. From being the Kings to being clueless about what glory tastes like, it all sank down the river. The current season continues to be a vortex of despair, a whirlpool of dejection and an imminent collapse that continues to tryst with the Devils every alternate night.
Last night when Aston Villa came knocking in the Theatre of Dreams, the Red Devils for whom it was a fortress of indomitable power, a hellish war brig for oppositions who would get ensnared amid oceans of ignorance of their own and torment by the United fans and players alike, changed into a burial ground for the Red Devils as the visitors surged ahead with a 2-0 cushion. You could have heard a pin drop at Old Trafford. Ten Hag, you gotta feel for that man. Hated by the ones whose idol was shown the door, hated by the ones who believed De Gea may have been the key, hated by the ones who felt Sancho should have been the Jesus of United, still standing tall, taking it face-first. Ever heard about Baptism by Fire or maybe and just maybe, Baptism by Blood? The bald fucker is going through Baptism by thunder.
When the shutters came down last night, despair rumbled out, the life force of the devils almost got sucked out, a new angel came forth. An angel of belief, an angel of the ethos of Manchester United, an angel standing in the Theatre of Dreams, feeling it all surging through his veins, through his heart, through his feet and most importantly through those famished eyes of his. Oh, the angel was not one to be put down. Alejandro Garnacho! Put down once by off-side, he chose to do it again, and do it again and again and fucking again!
He reignited the candle that was lost in the wilderness of decadence and following the Light came another youngster, pained, mortified and shamed until then, came another promise of tomorrow, firing home the call to God against a World Cup-winning monster. Rasmus Hojlund’s celebration wasn’t methodical. It was just a paroxysm of all those emotions running hot.
The Comeback Kings were alive again! Well, one may certainly say that this is a mere victory against Aston Villa whose priorities are more haywire these days than a chicken running for his life but at times, those sparks are a necessity. The Butcher may not return in this season anymore. The defence is in shambles. Two youngsters are trying to make it all right but it comes at a price. A price of despair infused with hope.
No matter how dark the night gets, I will believe in these angels. I will believe in Manchester United. For a Devil never dies. They reincarnate as the Comeback Kings.