The last time I walked into Old Trafford, I walked out a villain.
Six months ago.
Final day of last season. Crystal Palace needed a result to keep surviving, Manchester United fielding their full-strength, cup-winning, superstar-laden first eleven of De Gea, Bailly, Pogba, Ibrahimović, the lot, despite having a Europa League final three days later. Mourinho had seen my trap and called my bluff. He had expected to teach me a lesson. Instead, I taught him one.
We won 3-0. Benteke headed in the first from a Zaha cross. Eze scored a thirty-yard screamer that De Gea watched into the net. McArthur slotted the third, one-on-one, after Herrera got sent off for a second yellow.
The Theatre of Dreams became the Theatre of Silence. And I, twenty-seven years old, a caretaker manager in an academy tracksuit who had been coaching teenagers six weeks earlier, had turned to the Stretford End, raised my arms, and stood there while they threw cups and screwed-up programmes at me.
