The 95th minute. 2-2. The entire, packed-to-the-rafters stadium was a single, howling, unified entity, its 20,000 voices roaring in Michael's ears. He was on his feet in the director's box, his knuckles white, his heart a frantic, trapped bird in his chest.
This was it. The last kick of the game.
He looked down at the pitch.
The Wolves players, their £500-million-pound squad, had formed a terrified, 11-man wall. They were arguing with the referee, they were screaming at each other, their arrogance completely, finally, shattered.
And standing over the ball, 28 yards out, was Jamie Weston.
He was the hero of Old Trafford. The entire stadium, every fan, every player, Michael himself... they all believed. This was the fairy-tale ending.
The referee, his hand to his ear, finally blew his whistle.
Time slowed...
Jamie ran up. He connected with all his might.
THUD!
