Football, bloody hell: A letter to Sir Alex

Dear Gaffer,

There have been times when I have wondered if time was but a mere spectator as you went on, winning trophy after trophy. There have been yet other times when we have all wondered if “the name on the front is bigger than the name on the back” was but a hypocritical epithet which never applied to modern-day football. Yet, reassurance came every time we saw you and the men who have grown up under your watch. In a world where persistent failures refuse to convince sportsmen that their time is up, you have chosen to go out on a high. It would never make sense for millions like me, who would not have known football had it not been for you.

Kipling’s “If” comes to mind. While most lines seem to have been written keeping you in mind, there’s this one line which stops short. “If all men count with you, but none too much”. To say I counted on you would be an understatement. An entire generation of fans like me, we knew you, and only you, Sir Alex. Cantona leaves. Exceptionally gifted striker. Genius. We get over it. Then we have Fergie’s fledglings. Beckham leaves. Bright young kid, flourished under the great man. Life goes on. Ronaldo leaves. We thank him and wish him good luck at Madrid. We never even considered you leaving. For us, you at the helm is, for I cannot refer to you in the past tense, a way of life.

Saturday afternoon. What’s the Gaffer planning for the evening? Will he play Rooney in the hole or upfront with Persie, instead? Will Hernandez start, or is he planning to play the super-sub trick on us again? Why is he playing Valencia at right back? Surely nobody in his right mind would do that. All of us thought we knew better, Sir. But almost every time, you slapped us on the face and proved us wrong.

To me, that could not be said of any other team, let alone football club, in the world. India bats. Will Sachin score a hundred? El Clasico. What magic is Messi going to produce? Never in my limited memory and knowledge has a non-playing genius taken centrestage as you have. All my life, my dream has been to watch United at Old Trafford. While it remains so, I would think twice before I say that again. The assumption has always been that you would be around. Moyes. Mourinho. Guardiola. With all due respect, nobody can ever replace you. I would even be audacious and include Sir Matt’s name there. Back then, football wasn’t the ego or money-dominated game that it is today. Expectations never included the share price on the NYSE. Ownership never meant the Glazers. And yes, champions from Manchester meant only us.

In the past decade and a half, no place has reminded me of you than bookstores and libraries. Every time that self-help book “teaching” the world how to win stared at me, I used to laugh thinking of you. What do they know, I said. Ask them to tell us how to beat Bayern Munich, one goal down, with a minute to go. I’ve had more lumps in my throat in the last hour than you have had titles in your era. They say, “No individual is bigger than the club”. Honestly, in the long history of football clubs and managers, nobody has threatened crossing that line as much as you have. Football, bloody hell, Sir Alex.

The whole world around me talks of leadership standards and values, Sir Alex. To me, and a million more like me, all that started and ended with you. And they will remain so.

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