Shower of Blessings -- United's Moscow triumph

Where it all began.

It’s that time of the year again. Your eyes automatically wander outside the window to view the increasing dark that grows unto you. The room is well lit, the teacher is not a dim-wit, but the allure of the impending downpour hypnotises you like none other. “I think it’s going to rain”, my friend whispers into my ear, only for a sudden flash of lightning, roaring at its loudest, instilling immediate fear. And then it begins. You can feel a refreshing wetness on your face, a soothing influence that you always crave. “I simply love it when it rains”, I reply to my friend who quite clearly is not amazed.

The word rain evokes a myriad of images: Prosperity in the form of shining fields, traffic jams, angry mothers beckoning their children to stop playing and come inside (lest they fall sick), a huddle of paper boats amidst the puddles, love-birds walking hand in hand, getting drenched in their emotions, friends playing tug of war with the umbrella. And how can we forget the pakoras and the samosas with the irreplaceable tea.

But rain, for me, signifies ecstasy, and a flurry of emotions due to triumph, triumph over adversity. It brings back memories which lead to elation, inexplicable joy, happiness that is unbridled, and a skin full of goosebumps. For the rains transport me back to 21st May, 2008, The Luzhniki stadia, Moscow. The occasion is magnanimous, the show on offer breathtaking; for it is the clash of the English juggernauts. Chelsea‘s first foray in the limelight, while for Manchester United, their third. This night was special, and the United players had to make it special. Forty years had passed since that magical night in Wembley, when Benfica had been tamed. It was the centenary of United’s first league triumph. It was not all rosy too. For time may have moved on, but in Manchester, the clock had stopped. Fifty years ago a tragedy had conspired to rip off United’s soul, but United had passed the test of faith and endured the suffering to come a long way. History was beckoning, a new chapter had to be written, but the gods could definitely conspire.

The time was ripe. The man of the hour had arrived. But unfortunately he could not outsmart Cech, for he did guess it right. The shining knight looked dejected. He walked back towards the red-army, who still had not lost hope. But in reality the battle was no longer theirs to win, but one which now only the blues could lose.

Another one went in, rather Lampard drilled it in. Hargreaves repeated the feat, while Ashley Cole just about managed to squeeze it in. Nani had to do it, and he did, he scored.

Terry lifts the ball and walks towards the spot, while Cristiano can barely watch. The referee blows. Surely the ‘Roman’ Army will prevail, but who would have thought of it: John Terry, of all people, fails! The water-logged pitch had played its part in the rumble. John Terry had taken a tumble. His head between his knees, he cries. The rain drops are unable to wipe the anguish deep within him. But for United, this was a symbol, a symbol to rise from the ashes and triumph.

Up stepped Anelka. You could make out from his demeanour that clearly, something was lacking. His shoulders were drooped, his stance had nonchalance written all over it. Van Der Sar guessed it right, and that was the very direction in which he had dived.The ball cannoned of his gloves and did not go in. Manchester United were now champions. The United players ran towards the sideline, to hug and congratulate each other, while the Chelsea players remained behind on the pitch. Terry was still sobbing uncontrollably, mentally scarred by the missed opportunity.

The Chelsea camp had an air of ‘what if?’ around them. What if Drogba’s shot had rebounded in and not cannoned out? What if he had kept his cool, and not unleashed himself on Vidic?

As Sir Bobby Charlton ascended the steps, it indeed appear poetic. He probably could not feel the same strength in his knees as back in 1968, but the glow on his face was too radiant to ignore. That night will always be remembered for Ryan Giggs‘ induction in a league of his own, and justice being done to Paul Scholes after he had cruelly missed the 1999 final.

It had been a divine intervention. The Gods had been indeed very kind. Manchester United had been showered with blessings, while one man was left distraught, wandering alone with his own musings. The fury and beauty of nature is best epitomised by the rain. It may appear to be a party-spoiler, but on this occasion the rains had been our guest of honour.