For as long as I can remember, football has been a precious bridge between my old man and me. He spent countless Sunday mornings shuttling me across North London to my games, prowling the touchline, barking his robust, cement-like mixture of criticism and praise, doing his best not to swear in the most brilliant broken English while I did my best Ryan Giggs impression.
Afternoons were reserved for watching our beloved Manchester United together on the television, him with a can of Budweiser in hand, me with a carton of delicious orange and apricot Ribena. This became sacred ritual. Being born in 1986 meant all I knew was Sir Alex and a fearless attacking football, not attached to any purist dogma of ‘how the game should be played’ but utterly relentless in its pursuit of goals. All I knew was Fergie time, superhuman comebacks and a lorryload of silverware.
My family’s love for United runs three generations deep. My grandparents, the children of Armenian refugees living in Cairo, joined the cause in the wake of the Munich disaster. My dad inherited the Red gene from them. So despite being born and raised around the corner from White Hart Lane, I spent my childhood in that iconic black United strip, collar thrust upwards like Eric Cantona, looking for an excuse to aim a flying kung fu kick at my brother.
One of my most cherished memories is when Solskjær won it in ’99. My grandma was over from Egypt. The whole family packed our narrow living room to watch the game. When Ole diverted Teddy’s flick into the net and made Bayern cry, she took off vertically from the sofa like a fighter jet, prayer beads in hand. My dad couldn’t contain himself and ran celebratory laps around our cul-de-sac. I’ll never forget that night, but he doesn’t remember it. He’s living with dementia.
When Sir Alex stepped down in 2013, my dad’s absentmindedness had become impossible to laugh off as a consequence of having too many bets on the go at the bookies. Something was seriously wrong. From that point onwards, watching United with him took on a new poignancy. I found it impossible not to tie United’s sudden transformation from top-tier title challengers to Marouane Fellaini, to my dad’s own deterioration. By the time Louis van Gaal’s banter-laden reign came to an end, my old man was struggling to recall details from even the most unbelievably thrilling match within a few hours. Jesse Lingard’s FA Cup-winning volley inspired him to do a James Brown shuffle across our laminate floor; by the time we all went up to bed, that memory was lost.
The precious bridge between us was collapsing. Football allows my dad and I to connect emotionally. Of course, that reflects a very narrow idea of masculinity, but it is what it is. That we should have been able to connect anyway doesn’t devalue the emotions we share while watching the beautiful game unfold. Underpinning that connection is memory; recalling spectacular goals, like Wayne Rooney’s post-rant-at-ref thunderbolt against Newcastle, is like having access to a cupboard full of Jaffa Cakes, Jammy Dodgers and Kit Kats. It’s sweet comfort food for the soul. It’s a source of happiness. Understanding that my dad could no longer access that happiness crushed me.
When Jose Mourinho strutted into Old Trafford and declared himself the happy one, my old man was unmoved. I convinced him that Paul Pogba was on his way to being the best midfielder in the world and Zlatan was the second coming of Cantona. We were both ecstatic when United signed Henrikh Mkhitaryan, Armenia’s captain and all-time leading goalscorer. When Miki smashed his first goal in against Tottenham, we cried tears of joy. And when our midfield Armenian scored that magical scorpion kick against Sunderland, we could declare that Armenians invented football atop Holy Mount Ararat.
But it didn’t work out for Miki. And in the end, it clearly wasn’t working out for Jose. It was heartbreaking to watch our most expressive, exuberant players shackled by negativity. At times, the football was so bleak, the atmosphere cultivated by the gaffer so toxic, that my dad would forget who he was watching and start supporting the opposition mid-game. I mean, it made sense. Dementia was encouraging my dad’s evolution from armchair United Ultra to passive watcher of football, and he was simply appreciating the team that played the better football. He’d forget results the moment the television was turned off. Something had to give. And it did.
So up stepped the architect of my most precious memory. Ole carried the magic of ’99 with him and shared it with the players. In those first few games, simply being given the freedom to attack in numbers with pace washed all that negativity away. When the opposition got tougher, Ole’s tactical nous shone through. We tucked Tottenham and Arsenal in with devastating counter-punching. Pogba and Ander Herrera playing either side of a diamond midfield made a mockery of Chelsea’s Sarri-ball. And when the football gods conspired against us at Old Trafford, Ole had his team build a red wall of defiance that didn’t give the Scousers a sniff.
Ole’s magic had a profound effect on my old man. He was engaged with the beautiful game again. This was a United he recognised, expressive, full of energy, purpose and goals. Ole had allowed the players to recapture the joy of playing football. My dad had recaptured the joy of watching football. Of course, he’d forget results but the incomparable buzz remained afterwards. He might not have known exactly why, but he’d spend the rest of the day happy.
And on that Wednesday night at the Parc des Princes, against all odds, United turned it around in the rain, with a team patched together full of youthful fearlessness. Spearheaded by Romelu Lukaku’s intelligence, held together by Chris Smalling and Victor Lindelöf’s imperious defending, sealed by Marcus Rashford’s ascendancy to greatness.
In the morning, after the night before, I asked my dad if he remembered the game.
“Of course,” he said. “Rashford. Penalty.”