April 3rd, 2012. The Tuesday began late, as do most of my days. The oddity had been the previous night. Manchester United were to play at Ewood Park late Monday evening. My couch ticket, surprisingly, was disabled by my eager-to-shut eyelids – an act short of betrayal only because the game was to be rerun Tuesday. Yet, catching the rerun, scheduled for 5 PM, would prove to be a challenge in itself.
First, I had to keep away from the 24/7 news peddlers, who fill in as jesters at breakfast, lunch and dinner – no wonder I was fussier about my first two meals of the day. These jesters don’t always bring you Barclays Premier League news, but that rotating band at the bottom of the screen knows more than the people who peep in from over it. That there is a multitude of such news channels, and all it takes is a glimpse of the score line to kill the suspense, made it harder to even channel surf – the prerogative of anyone in front of a TV and holding a remote.
Next, I had to keep myself from skimming through Facebook. I anyway log in only to check on the banter among an online gaggle of football fans, and there would be no escaping the score if I did check in. I couldn’t scan the Sky Sports website too, for that would be akin to summoning the phantom from whom you’ve been trying to hide. Luckily, I’d begun reading an abridged Jeffrey Archer novel – False Impression.
By 5 PM, I had survived in ignorance and was ready to watch the game delayed live. This time, however, it wasn’t the programme director of a sports channel who had put off the broadcast. United had set up in a lopsided formation, with Rooney playing wide left, but constantly cutting across to the middle of the park, impelled as he is to always be on the ball and conjure something out of possession. I joined the chorus of the travelling hordes as and when I could make out what they were singing, particularly ‘United...United...’ I was cheering United on unmindful of the fact that even if they could hear me they wouldn’t necessarily get sprightlier on the field. It was a dull first half in which Chicharito had the best chance to put United ahead, and the visitors were thankful to De Gea when they left the pitch at half time with the game scoreless. The constant offensive refrain had been to move the ball out right, with Valencia or Rafael then putting in a cross into the box, which would be squarely headed out by the Blackburn defence.
The twenty minute break couldn’t light up the second half. Bringing Ryan Giggs on for his 905th appearance – his 100th substitute appearance in the league – did not change much. United seemed set to miss out on the opportunity to take a 5-point lead at the top. The only solace was they didn’t seem capable of losing either, which meant a 3-point lead would be restored. Then, in the 81st minute, Antonio Valencia decided he’d had enough of trying to pick one of his teammates on the edge of the six yard box and lashed the ball into the back of the net. The trajectory of the shot was like that of a heat-seeking missile rapidly gaining on its target, which tried to swerve and squirm out of its bother, only to be ferociously pounced on. And it was only just that I’d starved myself of information throughout the day. It had made me hungry enough to stand up and applaud the goal as if Valencia was celebrating at that very moment and not lunching somewhere in Manchester. This was one of those goals, one of those moments in sport that had to be seen and not read about.
PS: Ashley Young added another 4 minutes later making it 2-0 to United. Come On You Reds!
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