Paul Scholes: A goodbye that went unnoticed

The 12th of May 2013 was a momentous day for Manchester United. The reasons were manifold. For starters, it was Sir Alex Ferguson’s last game in charge of Manchester United at Old Trafford. It was also the day that United would finally get their hands on the Premier League trophy that they had secured more than a fortnight earlier. It was also the day that Wayne Rooney was left out of the squad because news had emerged that he had, once again, asked for a transfer away from the club.

It was also the night of another departure; a departure that, as the departed would’ve wished for, flew under the radar. Undetected. Into oblivion. In silence.

The 12th of May 2013 was a very special day in the history of Manchester United. Amidst the ruckus of a carnival atmosphere that preceded the game and boisterous celebrations that succeeded it, one man went onto the Old Trafford pitch for a little less than 90 minutes, played his part – that went typically unnoticed – and then walked away. For one last time. It was poignant. Unfortunately, it was missed. He will be missed.

After retiring a couple of seasons ago, he knew that it was too soon. After seeing his team struggling in mid-season, he confirmed that belief. It was indeed too soon. His team needed him. His manager needed him. He needed football. He came back.

He helped United over the back end of last season that, unfortunately, ended in heartbreak. He then started the current campaign at the heart of United’s midfield and helped control games and get results. Until, of course, injury struck.

Age is a cruel thing. The mind ages much slower than the body. The mind is active, it is sharp as ever; sharper still, maybe, with age. The body, however, is less forgiving. Injuries take longer to heal, comebacks are marred with niggles that setback the recovery schedule. The mind urges one on, the body refuses to take the cue.

Right until the end, the mind’s power was for all to see. He still spotted passes that others simply did not know existed. Spotting, however, is one thing and execution, completely another. He could look at 70 yard passes but, more importantly, could play those raking 70 yard balls that fell right at the feet. That, he never lost.

Unfortunately, it was those other small things that seem to have gone. That quick movement, that little recovery run, that sharp tackle – let us not kid ourselves about his tackling but one, surely, gets the point. It was just that as the body got older, the game seemed to have gotten faster. Given time on the ball, there was no one better. However, not afforded the luxury of that much time, age showed.

And he knew it.

He knew that it was time. He knew that the team did not really need him any more. He decided that it was time to go. He decided to do it in a way that came to characterize everything else about his game. Quietly.

So, while Old Trafford chanted Sir Alex’s name with fervor and Wayne Rooney’s with disdain, one man quietly strode onto the pitch, got on with the game – the only way he knows how – and then strode off it. The Old Trafford faithful did not chant. They did not whistle. They simply stood up. They applauded.

He looked at the trophy. He lifted it. For the eleventh time. He looked around again. There was young blood celebrating. There was his old Gaffer celebrating. He passed the trophy on.

Paul Scholes walked away from the trophy. Paul Scholes walked away from football. Paul Scholes got lost in the crowd. No one seemed to take notice. Paul Scholes smiled to himself. His job was to play football. He played football. His job was done.