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live-laugh-loverpool · 2 years

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Old Trafford

Tags: @millythegoat, @football-and-fanfics, @alissonbecksfan234

Warnings: bring out Google Translate for this one!

In her eight and a half months with Liverpool, Florrie had only seen the team look like this once. Klopp had explained to her and Kairo (Grace, Ellie, and Henrietta were all asleep) that they had just lost a very important and special trophy, but Lijnders had told her that there wasn’t a trophy involved in this one.

So why couldn’t she find anybody with a smile on their face?

“Boss?” Florrie tried to search for at least one familiar face in the hall. She had spotted Klopp, but he’d disappeared and now she was amongst many legs and hips and stomachs. All she could see for yards around was gray, black and the occasional white of a sneaker.

“Ali? Lindy? Daddy?” Florrie pouted—she couldn’t identify anybody’s faces because she couldn’t see them. She tugged on a random pants leg, hoping that the leg would belong to Henderson or Milner or even Adrian.

The face that looked down belonged to none of the above. Instead, a completely different face stared at her, eyes narrowed into slits. He had some gray hair and a puffy jacket like Klopp, but his face was far too unwrinkled, and his nose much too sharp.

“Who are you?” Even the accent was wrong, and Florrie flinched at the tone. He was loud. Too loud.

“Have you seen the boss?” Florrie asked him, hands over her ears as if his nose would pierce through them even worse than his voice.

The man didn’t flinch at all. He gripped the microphone in his hand, continuing to stare at Florrie. “Erm, yes, but I want to know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m looking for the boss.”

“Yes, but what boss?” The man laughed, and Florrie pressed her hands over her ears even harder. The laugh was wrong—too sharp, too fake, too high-pitched and airy. It was a far cry from Klopp’s deep, booming laugh, and even his quiet, polite one whenever he tried to get rid of the press. “I was manager of Valencia for a few months—at least before I started working at Sky Sports with Jamie as a pundit. So I could be called the boss.”

Florrie had no idea what Valencia even was, much less what the strange man was talking about. He wasn’t Klopp! He was too young, too loud, too different. “No! My boss!”

The man rolled his eyes and leaned closer to Florrie. The little girl could smell the overwhelming scent of breath mints, and she shrunk back in an attempt to avoid the man’s piercing gray eyes. His eyes flickered over Florrie’s shirt, but then settled back on her face. “Tell me more about your boss.”

“He’s really big!” Florrie stretched her arms as tall as she could, and the man backed off a little. “And he wears a puffy gray jacket, and a hat, and he’s always saying Bundes!”

“Wait a minute.” The man’s eyes widened, and he pulled Florrie out of the crowd. “What does he do, little girl?”

“The boss wins us big, shiny trophies!” Florrie frowned as she tried to remember how many. “He won one this month!”

Finally, the man stood up. He pocketed his microphone, and looked around before picking up Florrie. Florrie crossed her arms, thrashing about, but the man was much stronger than her.

“I know just how to find your boss,” he whispered into her ear, and Florrie jerked her head away from him. “But if we don’t hurry, he won’t find you—what’s your name?”

“Florrie! And the boss will always find me!” Florrie argued. She pushed her feet against the man’s stomach in an effort to get out, but he just grabbed her tighter.

“Stop it! You’ll fall and hurt yourself.” He held Florrie’s head so she was forced to look at him. “And the boss won’t be able to find you if you don’t stay put. I’ll take you to a place where he can find you,” he finished with a grin. “Do you want to find your boss, or not?”

“Yay!” Florrie cheered. The man was strange, but if he was going to help her find Klopp, he couldn’t be that bad. She frowned as she tried to remember what Henderson had told her about how to call older people when you didn’t know them. “You’re a nice man, sir!”

“Ah, no need for sir.” The man made the same strange laugh as he began walking up the stairs, still holding Florrie. “I’m Neville. But you just call me Uncle Nevvy.”

Florrie decided that she didn’t like Neville’s walk. It was choppy and too fast, and he didn’t have that bounce in his step like Klopp or the rocking step like Milner. His voice, which was still in her ears, kept going on about strange people from a long time ago, but it wasn’t like when Milner would tell her and the other kids anecdotes from a long time ago.

Neville finally set her down in a large room. It was big—too big—and it had a lot of dust on the floor. He put her on the only chair in there, and exhaled.

“Okay, now I’m going to tell you a story.” Neville leaned against the desk, filing his nails. “Back in the day, there lived a man called Sir Alexander Ferguson. He was the manager here, and he loved this place so much, he wanted to protect all the little children. So he created a place where they could be found, and,” he gestured around him, “this is it.”

“Will the boss find me here?” Florrie wasn’t so sure about this. There was so much dust, which meant that nobody had been here for a long time. She’d learned this when she’d gone with Klopp to the old attic in Kirkby, and dust bunnies had poured out of every corner.

“Of course. There are just two rules in this place,” Neville explained. “One, don’t leave the room. Otherwise, I won’t know where you are. And two, don’t press any buttons.”

“Why?”

“Sir Ferguson was very protective of the Theater of Dreams,” said Neville, leaning closer to Florrie. She wanted to escape, but she couldn’t get down from the chair. “And he created something very, very special for it. If any bad people got in here, he had a special lockdown button. But he never pressed it, because that would destroy the Theatre of Dreams forever.”

He inched even closer to Florrie, swelling his chest. “Walls crashing! Floors crumbling and furniture cracking! Everything going up in flames, EVERYTHING!”

“Oh!” Florrie gasped, slipping off the chair and hiding under the desk. “I won’t press it Uncle Nevvy, I promise!”

“Good.” Neville finally got away from her, striding towards the door. “I’m going to find your boss now. And just remember— Uncle Nevvy.”

Meanwhile, Sir Alexander Ferguson slowly made his way out of the stands, whistling a jolly little tune as he did. He was happy—happier than he’d been in many a month—and that caused his whistling to turn into singing.

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Where we score goals on Liverpool, these days of auld lang syne—oh, Kenny!”

The other man, Sir Kenny Dalglish, shrugged. While Sir Ferguson had just experienced one of his best days in almost seven years, Sir Dalglish, somebody who had been with Liverpool his whole life, had just experienced one of his worst days in that same amount of time.

“I beg your pardon, Kenny,” Sir Ferguson spluttered, realizing just how inappropriate his timing was. “That was—quite distasteful of me, considering the circumstances…”

“Alex, it’s all good, ol’ chap.” Sir Dalglish managed to laugh, despite himself. He leaned on a chair, staring down at the pitch. “Last time you and I came ‘ere together, yer old face was all sour while me own face was grinning like I’d just spotted King David ‘imself. So if anything, I'm the one who should apologize.”

“Ye don’t say!” Sir Ferguson tried to remember if he’d seen Sir Dalglish that day. “Yer right, I can barely remember it, Kenny.”

“Yer club played well today, ol’ chap. It’s not yer fault that we’ve been rubbish.” Sir Dalglish stared at the exit. “I was just going to go home, open a bottle of me old-fashioned Scottish whisky, and brood. You going home, Alex?”

“Soon. I was just about to visit the old office.” Sir Ferguson extended his hand to Sir Dalglish. “Until next time, ol’ chap.”

The Scottish took Sir Ferguson’s hand, shaking it, and proceeded to walk away. “Ta-ta, Alex. Enjoy yer Theater of Screams.”

Sir Ferguson shook his head at Sir Dalglish’s nickname for Old Trafford. The former Liverpool manager used it whenever Liverpool had played a bad game there. Sir Ferguson, likewise, called Anfield “Shamfield” when the same happened to United. He began to walk up the stairs, wincing as he heard his joints creaking. He was getting older—but it was all good with him. He’d had his time being young, and now it was time for him to be old.

“Sir Alexander Ferguson!” A young man, probably a steward, bowed to Sir Ferguson, extending an arm. “Would you like assistance in climbing the stairs?”

“Come now laddie, no need for that,” Ferguson chuckled, ruffling the steward’s hair. “I’ve got it m’self, but thank you for asking. Just going up to visit me old office.”

The steward, who still seemed rather flustered from the hair-ruffling, nodded, heading in the opposite direction. “Good evening, Sir!”

Meanwhile, Florrie stood in a corner of the room, staring at her nails for the tenth time. She decided that she didn’t like it here—it was too big, too empty and too dusty.

And plus, she was bored.

There were no toys to play with, no TV to watch, and nothing to do in general. Nobody to talk to, no flashcards to match, no blocks—wait a minute. From the corner of her eye, Florrie spotted a flat red object under the empty bookcase. Could it be a book?

She ran towards the bookcase and peered under it. Sure as day, it was a book—something for her to read while she waited for Neville to come back. Her little hand fit under the bookcase with ease, and Florrie pulled out a dusty book—so dusty, in fact, that she couldn’t see the color or title of it.

Florrie took her hand—not wanting to use the corner of her Liverpool jersey for fear she would mess it up—and brushed off the dust. The book was a shade of sky blue and had many pictures on it—a green frog, a golden ball, a green ball, a princess in a fancy dress and hat, and three fat, pink piglets, among others. But for some curious reason, Florrie couldn’t read the words on the front cover.

Florrie squinted, tilting the book from one side to another. She could read—the fullbacks had taught her how! So how come she couldn’t read these ones?

She opened the book, and saw that while she still couldn’t read the words inside, there was a beautiful picture of a castle, highlighted with gold and cream-colored walls. On the next page, there was a prince, crowned and walking among a row of princesses.

I’ll just look at the pictures, Florrie decided, going under the desk. It was the only area that was carpeted, so the dust was considerably less than on the open floor. They’re pretty pictures, anyway.

She tried to get comfortable on the carpet, but it was very hard and nubby, and the endless dust permeated in every corner. Florrie finally found a spot with less dust—but immediately shot back to the other side as a rancid-smelling hazelnut poked her arm. She curled in on herself, the book next to her, hoping that Neville would come back soon.

After some effort climbing the stairs and taking elevators, Sir Ferguson finally made it to the office on the third tier of Old Trafford. He turned the knob, only to find it was locked.

“Hmm…I don’t recall locking the door,” he mumbled, fishing for the keys in his pocket. He found them, and inserted the keys in the slot. The door opened with a loud, familiar creeeeak, and he stepped into his office.

The first thing Sir Ferguson noticed was how dusty the place was, like nobody had been there in years. Upon further inspection, he also noticed that there were distinctive footprints leading towards the desk—two sets.

Intrigued, he bent over as far as he could. While one set of footprints were man-sized, with standard shoe-prints, the second pair were very tiny, toddler-sized footprints—even tinier than when Kasper Schmeichel, five years old at the time, had come with his goalkeeper father, Peter Schmeichel, to his first training session.

“Hello?” he called into the room. “Anybody home?”

Of course, Sir Ferguson didn’t expect anybody to answer him. What he didn’t expect was a soft rustling coming from underneath the desk, then a small, high-pitched “ow”.

Intrigued, the elderly Scotsman bent down to take a look, grumbling as he felt his joints creak. All the grumbling vanished into thin air, though, when he spied a tiny child, curled in on themselves and shaking.

“Gee willikers,” he whispered in hushed surprise. “A wee bairn, would ye know it!”

He tried to touch the little kid, grab it from under the desk. But as soon as he touched their back, a leg kicked out. The child rolled over, scooting further into the corner, and Sir Ferguson caught a glimpse of red hair bows—a little girl.

“Relax, wee bairn.” Sir Ferguson chuckled upon seeing her worried face. “Just an old Scotsman, knocking around the grounds. Say, how’d you get ‘ere?”

Instantly, her face brightened upon hearing those words. “You sound like Robbo!”

“Robbo?” Sir Ferguson tapped his forehead, trying to recall who he knew who had that name. Finally, he remembered. “As in Andy Robertson?”

“Uh…yeah!” She sat up, hugging a book to her chest. Her shirt fully on display, she raised an eyebrow, squinting her eyes into slits. “You’re old!”

“That’s true, lassie,” Sir Ferguson chuckled. “Say, what’s yer name, bairn?”

“Florrie. Are you Robbo’s daddy?” she responded promptly, and Sir Ferguson knew that his suspicions were right. Only a kid raised around a Scot would know that much Scottish at three.

“Nae, but I’m from the same country.” He extended a hand to Florrie. “Sir Alex Ferguson’s me name, from jolly ol’ Scotland.”

Florrie giggled, taking his hand. “Now you really sound like Robbo!”

“Do you come from Liverpool?” Sir Ferguson decided to keep his questions clear and straight.

“Yes! Hendo’s my daddy, and the boss kicks butt!” Florrie grinned with pure conviction, and Sir Ferguson couldn’t help but smile. “How’d you know?”

Raising a wrinkled finger, Sir Ferguson tapped the Liverpool badge on Florrie’s jersey. “It helps when ye know yer league rivals, lassie. I played fifty-two games against Liverpool as manager here in the league alone. Of course, that’s before I retired.”

He looked out the office window, saw exactly what he wanted to see, and picked up Florrie. “Look Florrie, we’d better get you back to your gaffer. He’s worried sick about you, no doubt.” And he began walking towards the door.

“Wait!” Florrie grabbed his arm, eyes darting around in panic. “We can’t leave the room.”

To say Sir Ferguson was confused would be an understatement. “Why not?”

“If we leave, they won’t find us!” Florrie exclaimed. “Uncle Nevvy said so.”

“Uncle Nevvy?!”

“He says his full name is Neville, but he said to call him Uncle Nevvy.” Florrie’s face fell as she toyed with her hair. “He said he was looking for the boss, but he hasn’t come back yet!”

“Well, then.” Sir Ferguson instantly realized what was going on, trying to conceal his fury for Florrie’s sake. “I know exactly where your boss is. And I’m the boss around here, so Uncle Nevvy’s word isn’t the last. Mine is.” He puffed out his chest a bit at the last part, opening the door. “And while we head there, why don’t you tell me about how you got here, wee bairn Florrie?”

Florrie nodded, holding up the book. “Okay!”

Meanwhile, Lijnders and Klopp were pacing in the office. As if the manner of the loss wasn’t bad enough, and struggling to bolster the spirits of the squad wasn’t a difficult task, now Florrie had gone missing. And while both the manager and vice-manager were anxious about Florrie’s disappearance, it had definitely hit Klopp the hardest.

“I can’t believe we lost her, Pep,” Klopp repeated for about the third time. “I just can’t believe it. We let her go missing.”

“We’ve searched everywhere,” Lijnders answered with a sigh. Ever since Jennings had rushed in with news of Florrie’s disappearance, the German had been…numb. Of course Lijnders had been surprised as well, but the news had sent Klopp into a state of shock.

“I made a promise to Florrie on the first night, you know.” Klopp finally faced Lijnders, and the Dutchman sighed in dismay at what he saw. Klopp had the cowl up, the one that had been a Christmas present from a long time ago. The German only wore it in very troubled times—like January 2021, or right now.

“She’d been sleeping in Ali’s bed, and Ali had her all bundled up like a little package. I unbundled her because she was too hot, and then…” He paused for quite a while before continuing. “I promised that I’d keep her safe. That no bad guys would get her, ever again, without one of us coming for help. I promised to protect her, Pep, and I couldn’t even do that?”

“We should search again,” Lijnders reasoned, glancing at the map of Old Trafford he’d picked up from the tourist’s center. “This place has three tiers, Florrie could be on one of them.”

“We sent the boys out to search and we stayed here as mission control.” Klopp opened his briefcase and took out a piece of paper. It was the drawing of a trophy Florrie had given him after the Crystal Palace game. He still remembered what she’d said to him.

“If we can’t win a shiny trophy, we’ll draw shiny trophies!” Florrie insisted, hoisting the drawing high above her head.

Klopp smirked. This kid was too precious for this world. “That’s really sweet of you Florrie, but I’m afraid that’s not how it works.”

She frowned. “It isn’t?”

“No, liebling, I’m afraid not. You see, you have to deserve a trophy. You have to earn it, schatzi, by working hard.”

“Deserve?” Her face scrunched up in thought.

“It means that you worked hard for it and did a very good job. One worthy of a reward.”

Florrie scrambled into his lap, her face lighting up. “But you work hard, boss! You protect us all, you already deserve it! And anyways.” Florrie held up the drawing, gazing at Klopp again with those pure indigo eyes. “I love you.”

“Florrie trusts us to find her,” Klopp mumbled, stroking the waxy crayon drawing of a trophy. “And we can’t let her down. She’s not our only kiddo, Pep, but she’s our first one. Our first little Liebling.”

“You’re right, Jurgen.” Lijnders sighed, refilling his coffee mug. “We have to keep waiting. We mustn’t lose hope.”

They remained in silence for a while, Klopp wearing a hole into the floor while Lijnders drank from the coffee mug like it was his lifeblood.

“Say, Jurgen.” Lijnders decided he didn’t like the silence and opted to start a conversation. “Where’d you get that neck-warmer from? I don’t recall you having it when we first arrived.”

“Oh, this?” Klopp fingered the fabric, finally halting the pacing. “It was a Christmas present from my mother. I was always stealing her scarves, and I guess she finally got sick of it,” he added with the slightest hint of laughter.

No calls came in with any news of Florrie.

All of a sudden, Lijnders and Klopp heard strange footsteps echo through the hall. They were soft but large, and carried a certain gravity to them.

“...Jurgen?” Slowly, Lijnders tried to see if Klopp was playing a prank on him. “Was that you?”

“Do I look like I’m in a mood to play games?” Klopp retorted, and Lijnders had to admit he was right.

The same footsteps sounded again louder this time. A large, ominous shadow slowly appeared, flickering in the lamplight. Lijnders jumped in fright.

“I’m scared, Jurgen,” he admitted, ducking behind the German.

“I am as well, Pep, but I can’t hide behind you or we’d look ridiculous,” Klopp pointed out. But he did hide under the desk.

As the shadow got closer, the footsteps got even louder. Soon, a pair of voices mingled with the footsteps—one of which was comfortingly familiar.

“Florrie!” Faster than you could say “Mainz”, Klopp was out from under the desk. Followed by an equally eager Lijnders, Klopp sprinted into the hall, where he saw…

“Sir Alex Ferguson?!” Lijnders squawked in disbelief. “What in the name of Heinekein are you doing here?!”

Klopp paid no attention to Lijnders. His eyes were only one person—the toddler Sir Ferguson was carrying in his left arm.

“Florrie!” Klopp swept her up, hugging her tightly. “Oh, for Mainz’s sake, I was so worried about you, Schatzi!”

“Boss!” Florrie beamed, crossing her chubby little arms. “Me and Mr. Fergie found you!”

“Mr. Fergie?” Lijnders was still in shock over the fact that Sir Alexander Chapman Ferguson was standing right there, in front of them—and after his team, United, thoroughly embarrassed Liverpool, no less!

“Sir Ferguson.” Klopp, with Florrie on his hip, approached the Scot. His tone was grateful, as was his smile. “You don’t know how much this means to us. I’m going to text the rest of the boys and girls, and tell them that we found Florrie.”

Florrie whined just then, wanting to be let down. Klopp obliged, and she immediately ran towards Lijnders, squealing in delight.

“She’s a spry bairn, that’s for sure,” Sir Ferguson chuckled. “You’re lucky to have her, Jurgen. Say, is she Henderson’s kid? Jordan Henderson?”

“Er…no,” he faltered, bewildered. “Why do you say that?”

A barrage of footsteps thundered through the hall. At first the three men thought it was the others, returning from their search, but when they looked back, they saw someone completely different.

A pale-faced man, with streaks of gray hair, a big, pointy nose and a gray, puffy coat stormed towards them. As he approached, they could all smell the overwhelming scent of breath mints on his breath.

“Naughty girl! I TOLD you to stay put!” he roared, crossing his arms. He stared Lijnders down. “What is wrong with this generation?”

“Gary Neville?!” Klopp marched up to him, staring the Brit down. “What do you know about this?”

Florrie turned towards Klopp and Ferguson, clinging onto Lijnders. “That’s him! Uncle Nevvy!”

“You don’t say.” It all clicked for Lijnders, and he set Florrie down. “Stay here, Florrie.”

A flash of panic crossed Neville’s face. He stepped back, unsure of what to do about the three men approaching him.

“You had better tell the truth about what you did to Florrie.” Unsurprisingly, Klopp spoke first. He pulled out an ashwood baseball bat, brandishing it with pride. “Or I will whoop your Hintern with much more than this bat. I will unleash my hands, my feet, the darkness in my soul, some stale pretzels from Oktoberfest 1979, desk furniture…”

“Florrie?” Neville fiddled with the lining of his hood. A nervous smile showed every one of his teeth, crooked as his soul. “W-what do you mean by that?”

Sir Ferguson huffed in disgust, his glare pinning Neville down to the ground. “The poor, defenseless young lassie that you trapped inside my old office!”

“WHAT?!” Klopp took out his ashwood bat again, quickly glancing at Ferguson. “May I whoop his butt with this please, sir?”

Ferguson nodded, and Klopp hit the bat at Neville with all the fury he had pent-up inside of him.

“B-but this is ridiculous!” Neville squawked, after the smarting on his backside had subsided a bit. “I never meant to trap her—OW!!!”

“Done and dusted.” Lijnders had retrieved his own metal flyswatter, and had done quite the job with it. “Pray go on, Sir.”

“Gary Neville, I know you very well.” Sir Ferguson pursed his lips in disapproval, shaking his head. “You knew that she was a young, innocent lassie. You trapped her in the office, on purpose, and you tricked her into thinking it was a place to keep lost children!!!” The Scot sighed, leaning against the wall. “I didn’t coach you that way, Gary. Your soul is as corrupt as Manchester City, to trick and lock up a young girl.”

“You left her all alone there,” Lijnders hissed, venom dripping from his every word. “You left her by herself, in an old office, with nothing to do and nobody with her? Sir Kenny’s right—you are a monster, Gary.”

“An old office!” Klopp grabbed Neville by the shoulders, so tight that the Englishman couldn’t even try to wriggle free. “Are you out of your Bundes-MIND?! Did you think about the surfaces she could fall from? How much dust there is inside? What she could bump against? And it’s old, Gary—she could’ve fell from there, easily!”

“Out, out of my sight!” Sir Ferguson commanded, pointing towards the exit. “And don’t you dare show your face or talk to me until I do.”

Neville raised his arms, looking as if he was going to protest. But one more smack from Lijnders, and he ran off, crying out for the help that was never coming.

“There goes a rotten apple,” Sir Ferguson commented. He stood up, grunting at his old bones. “Well, that’s a day for me. Until next time, you three.”

“Wait!” Florrie ran up to him, holding up the same book from earlier. “What’s this?”

“Oh—oh!” Sir Ferguson smiled as he took the book from Florrie, opening the pages. “It’s that Dutch book of fairytales! Ruud’s young daughter brought it in one day, and I think she forgot it in my office. You can keep it,” he chuckled, handing it back to Florrie. “Moa’s probably too big for fairytales now, anyway.”

“Oh, can I?” Florrie pleaded, eyes darting from Klopp to Lijnders. “Pleeease?”

“Why, of course! I’ll read it to you,” Lijnders offered, scooping Florrie into his arms. “I’ve not seen one of these for years! There’s The Entangled Mermaid, The Golden Helmet, The Boar with Golden Bristles…”

Klopp and Sir Ferguson watched Lijnders and Florrie head back into the office, chattering away. When they finally closed the door, the German looked up at the Scot.

“Thanks again, Sir Ferguson,” he said, finally exhaling a sigh of relief. “If something happened to Florrie, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“It’s my pleasure, Jurgen,” the former manager replied. “Don’t tell anybody I told you this, but you’re a good young man. Keep on managing.”

The two shook hands before parting ways, back to their respective rival clubs.

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gufettogrigio · 2 years

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Things you said without thinking

(Sir Alex)

You would like to say that you regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth but the truth is: you didn’t even realize what you had done until you looked up and caught the glimmer of tears into Gary’s eyes. It catches you off guard, kills the next shout in your throat.

You’ve always gone easy on him - not in the sense that you were soft with him or that he got away with anything special - but you always knew your disappointment was enough. Gary can put himself down enough by himself, his own harshest critic. Reality is the mirror he looks in every morning, reality being the friends he plays with, the gifted, the geniuses, the Giggsy, the Scholes, the Ronaldos. Everything he isn’t. You know you don’t need to remind him of it. You never do.

Except you just did. You just did because you’re two-nil down and he fucked up a cross. You just did because you are mad; you just did and did it loudly, publicly; you just did and did it horribly.

“You just need to set your head straight and stop playing like a fucking sissy!”

You watch him now, dark eyes flying up to the ceiling because they’re swimming in tears already and if he blinks, they’ll spill over. That won’t happen. He stands there in the middle of the dressing room, shoulder to shoulder with Rio, and he says nothing, just rolls his eyes up and tilts his head in a nod and doesn’t say anything. His back stays straight - the captain of Manchester United - but you can see. He doesn’t swallow, his throat knotted, his hands fisted by his sides. From the back it probably looks like nothing is wrong, like he’s just mad, ready to talk back, but you can see the way his breathing stutters, comes back quicker; you can almost hear the rabbit fast beat of his heart. The color is gone from his face.

In the years to come you’ll wish you had just kept screaming. You think then nobody would have noticed. But you didn’t because you hadn’t meant to break and you know Gary - Gaz, tiny Gaz in his oversized kit - and you know you’ve shattered. It’s probably the horror on your face that gives it away too. In the silence that has fallen in the dressing room, you watch the realization sink in. Rio’s head whips to the side, Rooney’s mouth hits the floor.

Stop playing like a fucking…

You remember him being sixteen and Eric raging at the school teacher that had taken too long to break up the playground fight. They had brought him back with an icepack on his broken nose and a sprained wrist wrapped up in paper towels and tape.

“His own fault” - the teacher had said with a shrug - “he started it.”

And he’d whipped his head around and scoffed at Gary when the boy had tried to speak up. “You kiss a guy, you’s asking for it.”

And you’d thought “Well, this is a headache” but you’d also thought that anyone who manages to kick a fake potted plant at their math teacher's head from across a room and hit him too is a headache worth having. But it was your headache to have and his business to keep.

Rio’s hand is on Gary’s shoulder. Your captain blinks, looks down at his shoes. Then he looks up, looks at you, a bit more steady.

“Bit hard to do, boss.” - he says - “But I can probably not fuck up the cross again.”

You hug him, later, coming victorious off the pitch. You don’t say “I’m sorry” because there aren’t words to acknowledge the magnitude of your mistake. You will do so later or maybe you won’t; maybe you’ll let the mental tally of all the people who’ve shied away from his touch in the second half do the talking at the next transfer window. For now, he hugs you back and you feel him shake:fear, relief, a mix of both. Before he goes for the interviews, you take a moment to adjust his captain’s armband firmly in place.

#Sir Alex & Gary Neville #fanfic #tiny fic #I had a list of prompts starting with things you said for october and it went downhill #tw homophobia #homophobic slurs #tw outing #being outed #the situation is fucked up #because I was talking to a coworker about use of slurs and micro aggressions and how words aren't just words #their connotations often stay the same even when you use them outside of a certain context #and it matters

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elise-51-blog · 2 months

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Gary Neville is a REF

So inspired by this. Working on a WIP, another which may it see the light of day someday. An AU where Gary gets kicked out the the United youth academy and becomes a referee instead. Carra has his Liverpool career.

[[Absolutely inspired by this marvelous fic here as well, where both of them became refs instead of footballers, please give it love: PLAY THE WHISTLE by saltstreets ]] credit: @zevons

Snippet of my WIP here.....

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“It’s a fuckin’ shambles, Gaz.”

Gary should’ve known better than to answer his phone. It’s a beautiful day for football. Which has fuck all to do with Gary. Gary’s on holiday. At home maybe, but it still counts. He’d even had a lie-in ‘til nearly half seven.

He doesn’t, won’t, can’t hold back a weary sigh, soul-deep. He’s got a headache already. Worse, he already knows he won’t say no in the end.

Still.

“I can’t fuckin’ do it, Stuart. I’m on holiday.”

“What, in fuckin’ Bury?”

“How d’you know I’m still in Bury? Maybe I’m in Ibiza!”

“Fuck you are, you boring cunt. You’ve probably been in the back garden, tellin’ the daisies which way to grow.”

“Fuck off.” They both laugh, it’s fucking true innit.

“Fuck me.” He can’t do it. He will do it.

“Already got me lad on the way, son. He’ll scoop you up, you’ll be on the pitch in thirty. Lovely day for it.”

“They’ll not go for it, Stu.” For fucking obvious reasons. “Raffa won’t, anyways.”

“Already had it out with ‘em, you mong, ‘course I have. Sir Alex and Raffa are well up for it. Talked you up, didn’t I? No one I’d trust to do the job right. Sterling lad, absolutely professional he is, our Gary Neville, no one else for it.”

“No one else stupid enough to take it on, you mean.”

“Right you are, son!”

Stuart laughs some more at Gary’s pain. It’s a thing they do. “It don’t hurt you’re a short taxi ride away, either.”

“This is mad, this is.” Gary shakes his head. “If the scousers even let me off the pitch in one piece, I’m gonna get absolutely killed by the fans, no matter the result. Both sides, probably.”

“Yeah. But you’ll be golden in my books, Nev, don’t you worry about that.”

Gary feels a bit sick. “This is me fucked, you understand that, right?”

“Listen,” Stuart actually sounds worryingly sincere. “I wouldn’t ask it if we didn’t need you, Gaz. Really. I know it’s unorthodox, but I’ve made everything absolutely crystal with the managers. The press is being made aware. It’s the wrong time of year for a re-play, innit. Everyone wants to play today. I’ll protect you, lad, I swear it. It’ll be alright.”

He can see it now: Ex-Academy Player Officiates Derby Match, Ripped to Pieces By Former Teammates and Blood-Thirsty Scousers Alike!!

Gary tries to grasp at anything to make the situation better in his mind. “It’ll be Keane and Gerrard to captain, I assume?”

There’s a suspicious pause. Stuart sounds mildly apologetic.

“Err, well. Gerrard’s out today, actually, knee’s acting up again. It’ll be Carragher in his place.”

Oh, well, fuck Gary Neville then. Just fuck him all day long.

“Oh, well, that’s more good news then, Stuart. The only moderately sane man in Liverpool is out on injury, in his stead an Actual Fucking Lunatic.” He is absolutely insane is Carragher. “Between him and Keane, it’s gonna be sunshine and fucking daisies. I can’t wait to be spoken to with nothing but dignity and respect for ninety minutes.”

Suddenly, Gary hears the desperate honks of a car horn idling impatiently just outside the kitchen window. Stuart must hear it over the phone, he sounds absolutely elated to ring off.

“That’ll be our Dave, then. Off you go, Gaz, that’s a good lad! Don’t forget your whistle, you’re gonna need it today, sure!”

Christ.

It’s gonna be a fuckin’ shambles.

#fic wip #carraville #Gary Neville is a Ref #i am writing this just so i can have that title #if anyone knows a good reference to the history of pgmol please send it my way #i made up stuart but i do like him #Youtube

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player1064 · 3 months

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If you're still doing drabbles, would love one of the CO92, Roy Keane and Sir Alex giving Carra the shovel talk. It would be hilarious to watch Carra have to deal with them. Bonus: if Lampard and Stam also give him a shovel talk bts of stick to football 😂😂

LOVE this idea. unfortunately even though I set out aiming for comedy it came out a lot sweeter than I intended so here we are with just. 1.5k words of people genuinely caring about Gary 😭 oops?

---

“Jamie, can I have a word?”

Jamie looks up at where Roy is hovering near his seat, frowning at the formality: Roy is hardly one to wait for permission to say what’s on his mind. Still, he nods and follows him to a quiet corner away from set.

“Y’alright, Roy?” he asks.

Roy crosses his arms.

“No offense, Jamie, but you’re not that high up on my list of people to talk to if I wasn’t alright, so.”

Again, Jamie wonders what it is exactly that he’s meant to be doing here. They’d not got into any arguments during filming – not that it’d be a problem if they had, they know they’ll get more views if they play those things up – so he’s pretty sure he doesn’t owe Roy an apology for anything.

“So what –”

“—I know about you and Gary.”

“Oh.”

Well, there are worse people that could’ve found out. Better people, sure, but definitely more that are worse. Gary’s going to have a fit when Jamie tells him, though he’s always so pissy about being careful.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Roy says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve hardly been spying on you. He told me the other week, said I shouldn’t mention it to you.”

And yet here he is, mentioning it. Jamie raises an eyebrow.

Roy huffs. “Look, Gary’s… I’ve known Gary a long time, haven’t I? Since he was a bloody teenager. And that’s a weird relationship to have with someone. Makes you feel sort of responsible, like.”

“Um,” Jamie says intelligently, because he still can’t quite work out where this conversation is meant to be going.

“Jesus, alright. Look, Jamie. We’re – well, I wouldn’t say friends, but we get on alright, don’t we?”

Jamie nods, not wanting to say that he probably would have said friends.

“Right. Well, all I wanted to say is that that’ll mean fuck all if you mess him about, okay? He’s one of my own.”

Huh.

That might just be the nicest thing he’s ever heard Roy say about Gary. Shame he can’t tell Gary if he doesn’t want to be teased about this for the next ten years.

Or twenty, or the rest of their lives. Whatever.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, “yeah, ‘course. ‘Course.”

It’s a surprise when Jamie’s phone lights up with a call from Phil Neville, more because he hadn’t realised he had Phil Neville’s number saved in his phone than anything else. It’s late evening (‘timezones, innit’, Gary says when he complains about getting calls at this hour), and when he questioningly shows Gary the name on his screen he just gets a shrug in response.

“Uh, hi, Phil,” he greets.

“Hiya Carra,” comes Phil’s voice from the other end of the line. “You with Gaz right now?”

Jamie glances to the side to meet eyes with Gary, who’s looking up at him from where he’s resting his head on his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, “why, is ‘e not answering ‘is phone? I can hand you over to him –”

“—Oh no, no, I called to talk to you. D’you think we can talk in private?”

“Uh. Sure, yeah,” Jamie replies, pulling a face at Gary as he extracts himself from the sofa. He puts his phone to the side for a second, asks “need anything from kitchen?” so that he doesn’t have to listen to him moaning when he comes back empty handed.

“Cuppa tea if you’re makin’, ta,” says Gary, which of course means ‘you are going to make me tea even if you don’t want any yourself.’

He goes into the kitchen and turns on the kettle, before getting back on the phone and asking “so what’s up, Phil?”

“Oh, nothin’” Phil says, his voice a pitch higher than usual. “Just wanted to see how you’re doin’, y’know, friend stuff.”

“Right.”

“So how are you doing?”

Jamie might at times say that Phil is the better Neville, if he’s trying to get on Gary’s nerves, but Christ the kid’s annoying.

(Yes, he’s older than Jamie. But he’s also a younger brother, which has gotta deduct at least ten years off him.)

“’m fine,” Jamie replies with a frankly quite stunning amount of patience. “Kind of busy, though, so –”

“Tha’s good, that. And how’s things with Gaz?”

Ah, there it is.

“Bane of my existence,” he jokes. “But thankfully the sex is quite good.”

He smirks, self-satisfied, when he hears Phil sputter.

“That’s good then,” Phil eventually says, sounding awkward. “Just, y’know, he’s my big brother, and –”

“—I won’t do anythin’ to hurt him, y’don’t have to worry about that,” Jamie cuts in with, to spare poor Phil the trouble of trying to threaten him.

He hears Phil breathe a sigh of relief. “I like you, Jamie,” he says. “Oh! Maybe one day we’ll be brothers-in-law –”

Jamie hangs up on him before he has to deal with that can of worms.

“Um,” says David Beckham.

Jamie looks up from his phone, pulling his glasses off as he does. “Fun show, eh? Thanks for comin’ on, you know how hard Gary’s been tryin’ to get this podcast thing off the ground.”

David smiles, his shoulders relax a fraction. “No, no, not at all. I’ll always help Gaz out if I can.”

“You’ll be headin’ to London soon, then?”

“In a bit.” He glances around the emptying room, shuffles a bit from side to side. “Thought maybe we could have a word, ‘fore I head out. About Gary.”

Jesus, not this again. Gary is a grown man, he doesn’t need all these bloody knights in shining armour trying to save him from the big bad Scouser! Jamie’s not even that bad, in fact some people (Gary) might go so far as to call him tolerable. He does not need another shovel talk.

And from David fucking Beckham, of all people.

He purses his lips. “Not sure you’re the right person to be warnin’ me off hurting ‘im,” he says icily.

David has the decency to blush in embarrassment. “Yeah, no, you’re probably right,” he says, scratching the back of his head. But then he lifts his chin a fraction, meets Jamie’s eyes. “But – I know you have no reason to listen to me, but – but don’t. Don’t hurt him, Jamie, he deserves better’n that.”

“Yeah, he does.”

David gives him a sad sort of smile. “Thanks.”

“I don’t much like you, Carragher.”

Jamie looks at Ryan Giggs and has to hold himself back from saying good, ‘cause I can’t fucking stand you.

“No skin off my back,” he says instead, shrugging.

“But Gary seems sort of… attached, so I suppose we’ll have to learn to get on.”

“How noble of you.”

Ryan holds out a hand for Jamie to shake. “Don’t do anything to make me regret this.”

Jamie grimaces and takes his hand.

“D’you know, me ‘n Gaz used to come here every morning before a match.”

Jamie actually did know this, because Gary had once excitedly dragged him in here during his ‘grand tour of Manchester’ (a terrible date idea, but Jamie’s no good at denying him things). Still, he looks around the café and pretends to be unimpressed. “Bit of a shithole, in’t it?”

Scholes laughs. “Yeah, it is a bit.”

“Is he meetin’ us here, then?”

“Said he’d be a few minutes, I think.”

They both go back to sitting in silence. Not an uncomfortable one, mind – Jamie’s been hanging around Paul Scholes for long enough now to know he’s not one for idle chit-chat. He’s about to unlock his phone to find something to fill the time, when Paul suddenly starts speaking again.

“Don’t tell ‘im I said this, his head’ll get big, but he’s prob’ly my best friend.”

Jamie looks up at him and smiles. “He’d say the same about you, y’know.”

“Obviously,” Paul says with a scoff. “Though I reckon you’re pretty high up there.”

“’s different though, that.”

Paul shrugs. “It is and it isn’t. But, er. You know y’wouldn’t’ve been my first choice, for him. Or any choice, really. But I thought I should say – I am glad. That it’s you. Seems to work, so.”

He’s not looking at Jamie, is staring down at his hands as he twists them together. Jamie reaches across the table to give him a light pat on the forearm.

“Thanks,” he says gently. “’m glad it’s me, too.”

“’e’s not the easiest person to love, is our Gaz.”

“Christ, don’t I know it. He makes it harder every day, can’t fuckin’ stand him most of the time.”

Paul smiles at that, easy, simple. “Nobody can, to be fair, you’re doin’ an alright job of it. But look, Carragher, I don’t want to have to –”

“I know.”

“Good.”

When Gary arrives a few minutes later, he looks between the two of them with a suspicious squint and asks “Were you talkin’ about me?”

“Ooh, someone’s full of ‘imself,” Jamie teases, at the same time as Paul’s saying “what the fuck would we wanna talk about you for?”

#im always on my 'we should kill ryan giggs' agenda. tbh.#ALSO always on my 'gaz and scholesy best friends forever' agenda......#thanks for the prompt!#carraville #drabbles

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standupofficial · 7 months

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David Beckham Gary Neville pictured attendance funeral Sir Alex Ferguson...

#youtube

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topsportnews · 8 months

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Manchester United: Mike Phelan discusses working with Sir Alex Ferguson, Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, Ralf Rangnick and Erik ten Hag's progress

Former Manchester United assistant manager Mike Phelan speaks exclusively to Sky Sports; the 60-year-old worked under Sir Alex Ferguson, Ole Gunnar Solskjaer and Ralf Ragnick; Phelan gives his lowdown on Harry Maguire, Cristiano Ronaldo, Gary Neville and Erik ten Hag Manchester United assistant manager Mike Phelan discusses Cristiano Ronaldo’s two spells at Old Trafford and reflects on his…

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#Manchester United: Mike Phelan discusses working with Sir Alex Ferguson #Ole Gunnar Solskjaer #Ralf Rangnick and Erik ten Hag&039;s progress

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soccerdailyuk · 11 months

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Sir Alex Ferguson advice to Erik ten Hag on ideal Man Utd captain

Sir Alex Ferguson advice to Erik ten Hag on ideal Man Utd captain Manchester United is preparing for a captaincy change due to uncertainty surrounding Harry Maguire's future. Erik ten Hag, the new manager, is expected to select a new captain as Maguire is no longer favored and may be sold soon. Sir Alex Ferguson previously emphasized the important qualities needed for the captain's role. Ferguson had a remarkable list of captains during his successful tenure, including memorable figures like Roy Keane, Eric Cantona, Steve Bruce, and Gary Neville. However, Bryan Robson stood out as the standout captain for Ferguson. Speaking in 2021 he said: “The players loved him. They responded to him and he was the longest-serving captain in my time anyway. It’s difficult for a captain because sometimes he has to tell the truth to players, you know? The encouragement he’s got to give them sometimes can be quite volatile and he was like that, but the players did love him. “They appreciated the time he took on them and another thing, he’s the only captain I knew who could make a decision on the pitch. He didn’t need to look over to me. He would do that and that’s unusual. In fact it’s very unusual because he had the balls to do that.” According to The Sun, regardless of Harry Maguire's future club, he will be removed as the captain, and Bruno Fernandes is expected to assume the role. Although Fernandes has previously captained the team, he is now anticipated to be entrusted with the captaincy on a long-term basis. Ten Hag previously praised Fernandes and referred to him as the team's captain, even though Maguire still officially held the role. In an interview with MUTV, Ten Hag said: "Of course he's ready, it's Bruno Fernandes. He's tough, he takes responsibility, he wants to play and, of course, we're happy he's there because he's a big players for us and he makes a big impact in every game. He's our captain, so we're really happy." Fernandes has faced criticism for his behavior on the pitch in the past, with former Manchester United players expressing their disappointment over his tendency to criticize his teammates. However, Fernandes himself maintains that he is never intentionally "disrespectful," although he acknowledges that he occasionally crosses the line. "Sometimes I go over the line," he told Sky Sports. "I know that. It can happen in the game and it is difficult to control emotions. But I never try to be disrespectful with anyone. We are all competitive and we all want to win. The way I play and feel the game, the passion I feel for it, is how I feel better and how I give the most for my team and to my club. That's why I play in that way." Sir Alex Ferguson advice to Erik ten Hag on ideal Man Utd captain Read the full article

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liverpoolfixtures · 1 year

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There was a time in my life as a Liverpool fan where I would have to sit and endure Manchester United at the top of the footballing tree – the Red Devils were the cream of the crop and winning trophy after trophy, year after year and it seemed it would never end. Fast forward to the present day and oh how things have changed. Liverpool are Premier League champions and defending their title – and the Manchester United legends of my youth now sit in envy of Jurgen Klopp’s side, much like Gary Neville below – who has even had the kind heart to compare Klopp to one of the world’s greatest ever managers and his former boss, Sir Alex Ferguson… 🗣 "Jurgen Klopp wants 5 subs and better kick-off times for Liverpool just as my manager for 20 years argued, he wanted the benefit for Manchester United"@GNev2 compares Jurgen Klopp's motives to Sir Alex Ferguson's pic.twitter.com/OzDMN7oiEP — Football Daily (@footballdaily) November 30, 2020 Albeit not quite in the type of comparison you may have expected, but a comparison nonetheless. Neville has stated how Klopp’s recent calls for 5 substitutes and a change in the kick-off times for clubs playing midweek in Europe are no different to Ferguson’s calls 20 years ago when with United. Neville makes the point that Liverpool would easily win the league if the squad was fully fit and without the current injuries they are experiencing at the moment, they are by far the best team in the league – a great thing to hear for a Liverpool fan. It is evident that Klopp’s calls aren’t just for the benefit of Liverpool but for every team in the league – his concerns are over the welfare of the players and it’s as simple as that. The 5 substitute rule would be a great start to seeing if their will be an improvement in players’ injuries and would be easier to implement than completely reshuffling the kick-off times – who knows, maybe even just the substitute change could be enough to make a difference. What do you think Liverpool fans, do you agree with what Gary Neville has to say? Let us know your thoughts in the comments section down below… #premierleague, #livematch, #livestream, #skysports, #premierleaguetv, #epl, #epl2023, #premier league, #premierleaguetable, #epl table, #eplfixtures, #ipl2021 live, #premierleaguefixtures, #fantasypremier eague, #eplresults, #epllivescores, #premierleague results, #pltable, #chelseafixtures, #eplscores, #arsenalfixtures, #premier leaguestandings, #eplstandings, #plfixtures, #eplschedule, #ipllive 2023, #dstvpremiership, #premierleaguetable2023, #pslfixtures, #epllive, #premiershiptable, #eplresultstoday, #eplfixturestoday, #Bitcoin, #Dolars

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goodthoughts001 · 1 year

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Obral Musim Panas bursa303 - Rumor Mulai

Siapa? - Kevin Phillips - bursa303 Dimana dia? - West Bromwich Albion Dengan siapa dia terhubung? - Wigan Atletik

Kevin Phillips tampaknya akan bermain sepak bola Premiership tahun depan, tapi mungkin tidak dengan promosi favorit West Brom. Striker veteran - yang merupakan pencetak gol terbanyak bersama Championship dengan 22 gol - telah menolak tawaran kontrak baru dengan Baggies, dilaporkan menginginkan kontrak dua tahun daripada yang ditawarkan. Sebuah sumber yang dekat dengan Phillips mengatakan: "Kevin kecewa dengan kontrak yang telah ditawarkan kepadanya di Hawthorns. Dia merasa persyaratan tersebut tidak mencerminkan pencapaiannya musim ini." Ini telah mengingatkan bos Wigan Steve Bruce yang yakin Phillips masih bisa memotongnya di level tertinggi.

Siapa? - Steven Sidwell - Spekulasi Dimana dia? - Chelsea Dengan siapa dia dikaitkan? - Villa Aston

Gelandang Chelsea Steve Sidwell mungkin sedang dalam perjalanan ke Aston Villa. Mantan bintang Arsenal dan Reading itu tidak mampu melewati rival superstarnya Chelsea dan hanya tampil tujuh kali sebagai starter untuk tim asuhan Avram Grant. Setelah pindah dengan status bebas transfer dari Reading di musim panas, Chelsea akan sangat ingin mendapat untung 5 juta dari transfer ke Villa. Martin O'Neill melihat Sidwell sebagai pengganti yang ideal untuk Gareth Barry, yang secara konsisten dikaitkan dengan Liverpool.

Siapa? - Daniel Alves - Spekulasi Dimana dia? - Seville Dengan siapa dia terhubung? -Manchester United, Chelsea

Bek sayap Sevilla Daniel Alves telah muncul sebagai target kejutan untuk Manchester United, dengan Chelsea juga diketahui tertarik. The Blues memiliki tawaran yang ditolak untuk bek Brasil musim panas lalu dan pasti akan menyaingi minat dari Sir Alex Ferguson. Pemain berusia 24 tahun ini secara luas dipandang sebagai salah satu yang terbaik di posisinya dan, dengan Gary Neville di tahap akhir karirnya, bisa menjadi tambahan yang ideal untuk skuat United. Alves tertarik untuk pindah dan berkata: "Saya kecewa ketika Sevilla menolak tawaran Chelsea. Tetapi jika saya pergi musim panas ini dan mendapatkan kesepakatan yang membuat saya bahagia maka mungkin itu bukan bencana. Saya tahu Barca, Real Madrid , Chelsea dan United menginginkan saya dan saya akan merasa terhormat untuk pergi ke salah satu dari mereka."

Dari desas-desus ini yang paling gigih dan kemungkinan besar adalah Alves datang ke Liga Utama dan saya merasa Chelsea akan memenangkan perang penawaran, sementara Sidwell yang telah menjadi pemain bagian kecil untuk blues musim ini hampir pasti akan melompat dari jembatan dan mungkin mendarat. di sebuah Vila bersama dengan koloni Martin O`Neills yang tumbuh dari talenta muda Inggris yang baik.

Adapun kuda perang tua Kevin Phillips di mana pun dia bermain musim depan dia tidak menjamin satu upaya dan gol 100%!

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soikeo388bet · 2 years

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News 388: Bị Elon Musk mang ra làm trò đùa, Man Utd quả thực đáng thương

Lời bông đùa của tỷ phú Elon Musk liên quan đến việc mua Man Utd cho thấy tên tuổi hào hùng ngày nào của "Quỷ đỏ" giờ đang trở thành đề tài để người khác giễu cợt.

Xem thêm: https://388bet.me/Asia/vn/tip-keo.html

"Tôi đang muốn mua lại Man Utd", đó là tuyên bố của tỷ phú Elon Musk vào sáng 17/8. Tuyên bố của doanh nhân người Mỹ lập tức gây bão trên mạng xã hội, với 100.000 lượt thích và hàng chục nghìn lượt chia sẻ sau khoảng 1 giờ đăng tải.

Sức hút của tuyên bố giao thoa từ tầm ảnh hưởng của hai thương hiệu lớn. Elon Musk là tỷ phú Mỹ, sở hữu khối tài sản gấp tới 46 lần so với chủ của Man Utd hiện tại, nhà Glazer (4,7 tỷ USD). Elon Musk không chỉ giàu, mà còn có nhiều tuyên bố gây "bão" và nhiều lần tạo xu hướng chỉ với những dòng trạng thái ngắn gọn trên Twitter.

Đối tượng mà Elon Musk nhắm đến cũng là một thương hiệu khổng lồ mang tên Man Utd - một trong những CLB được định giá cao nhất thế giới.

Bên trong cơn bão bình luận về thông tin Elon Musk muốn mua lại Man Utd, bất chấp những tuyên bố ngông cuồng của tỷ phú này trong quá khứ (khẳng định mình là người ngoài hành tinh, xây dựng trang trại thủy canh trên sao Hỏa), đã có những hy vọng lóe lên.

"Hãy mua lại đội bóng", "Hãy biến điều đó trở thành sự thật", "Xin đừng làm tôi thất vọng, tôi mong chờ điều này quá lâu rồi",... là những bình luận dưới bài đăng của Elon Musk.

Cổ động viên Man Utd đang trải qua những ngày tồi tệ. "Quỷ đỏ" xếp cuối bảng, thi đấu kém cỏi triền miên suốt gần một thập kỷ qua. Người hâm mộ đã chán ngấy chủ sở hữu CLB, đó là anh em nhà Glazer. Nhiều người chỉ chờ đợi ngày Man Utd đổi chủ.

Tuyên bố của Elon Musk mang đến niềm tin (dù mơ hồ) về cơ hội chuyển mình của nửa đỏ thành Manchester.

Nhưng điều đó không xảy ra. Elon Musk khẳng định những tuyên bố trước đó của ông chỉ là trò đùa. Một câu đùa giúp tên tuổi của Elon Musk lại được nhắc đến nhiều. Tỷ phú người Mỹ chẳng mất gì với lời bông đùa ấy. Còn với những người lỡ chờ đợi vào cơ hội thay đổi của Man Utd, nỗi buồn chỉ thêm dài.

Man Utd từng là thương hiệu lẫy lừng trong quá khứ. Nửa đỏ thành Manchester có 20 lần vô địch Anh, 3 lần đăng quang tại Champions League và nhiều năm thống trị xứ sương mù. Tuy nhiên, quãng thời gian 9 năm sau thời Sir Alex Ferguson chứng kiến sự tụt dốc của "Quỷ đỏ".

"Man Utd đã đạt đến giới hạn tồi tệ mới", cựu hậu vệ Gary Neville bình luận về đội bóng cũ. Tờ The Athletic cũng nhấn mạnh "ai cũng biết David de Gea không phải mẫu giỏi chơi chân, Harry Maguire đang mất tự tin, Fred không phải Fabinho hay Rodri - những cầu thủ mang lại cân bằng cho đội bóng, nhưng không thể tin được Man Utd lại thua Brentford tới 0-4".

Cách Elon Musk thản nhiên đùa cợt với tên tuổi Man Utd, có lẽ còn xát thêm muối vào lòng những người yêu mến đội bóng này. Elon Musk là tỷ phú cuồng ngôn, nhưng ông hiếm khi có những phát ngôn liên quan đến thể thao. Việc Elon Musk đề cập đến chuyện mua "Quỷ đỏ" như một thú tiêu khiển, có lẽ chỉ để cho vui.

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enfotimes · 2 years

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Gary Neville backs Steve McClaren for key Manchester United role as Erik Ten Hag era begins

Former England boss McClaren, who worked under Sir Alex Ferguson at Old Trafford between 1999 and 2001, will join the Dutchman as he begins life in Manchester. Kidd, meanwhile, was another to have worked alongside Ferguson before joining City in 2009, as Guardiola’s assistant until 2021. Neville believes McClaren will help Ten Hag qualify for the Premier League, providing crucial experience after…

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zingaplanet · 2 years

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Wakey wakey lovelies United has just dropped a new Carraville single:

Highlights:

Har har to no one's surprise, it was truly Gary who dragged his husband to the match and Carra prob relented because he feels bad seeing the old man suffering alone:

“Originally, when I got the call, he wasn’t playing, so I called him out on Twitter and he’s ended up playing.

This is probably why we don't see Carra on the squad list until the very last minute. Gary Neville's doing god's work here people.

Also Jamie Carragher being the absolute sassy tool that he is, when asked why he's not participating gives the most badass idiotic answer ever??? Give your man some slack Carra:

“His original excuse was that basically he didn’t want to get injured for the Liverpool title parade on the Sunday… [laughs] he said it was a big day for him at Sky.

And I'm sorry, have to close with this banger of a quote that came out of the one and only Gary Neville:

“I think he’s worried someone’s going to top him! They’re more likely going to top me, to be fair…”

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I have no words. I don't even know what to think.

That's it guys, that's the comment. I'll come back to you after I process this with 3 cups of espressos.

#new carraville single just dropped #honestly at this point I even believe sir alex shipped them #not official MU and Liv instas dishing out the carraville contents #i'm gone gary has a dirtier mind than I would've thought #carraville #your regular gay disasters #jamie carragher #gary neville #football rpf #manchester united #liverpool man u #liverpool fc #liverpool

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player1064 · 3 months

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Sir Alex finding out and confronting Jamie would be hilarious. SAF showing up to what he thinks is just Jamie's home (we all know nobody denies SAF info when he's asking about the partner of one of his beloved players) but while he's giving the shovel talk, Gary wanders over since he's living with his partner. Would love to see SAF call Gary son and act like a slightly overprotective Scottish father to his not so wee lad 😉

(+ there was another anonymous request for sir alex finding out/giving a shovel talk... two birds one stone babeeeyy!)

ALSO bonus Mickey bc we were talking about him in the carraville discord earlier so he's on my mind today

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“Fuck. Jamie, fuck,” is the first thing Jamie hears when he picks up the phone. “Jamie, are you home right now?”

Jamie frowns, pulls his phone away from his face to double check the caller ID, then quickly says “Michael? What’s wrong, what do you need?”

There’s a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach; besides exchanging polite small talk at the couple of fixtures they face each other each season, Jamie’s not spoken to Mickey in years. So to get a call from him – obviously, his mind is going to jump to the worst conclusions.

“What?” Mickey says, still slightly breathless. “No, I’m fine. It’s, fuck, it’s the boss. He knows about you and Neville.”

He wants to ask Mickey how the fuck he knows about ‘him and Neville’, when he can count on one hand the only people who should know about them, but that seems like something to be dealt with after –

“Wha’d’you mean, the boss knows?” he says, looking around the room, panicked. Because he knows exactly what Mickey means, and it’s not something he needs his idiot boyfriend to overhear. “Your boss, Michael? That boss? The one who Ga – the one who Neville’s had lording over him since he were fuckin’ eleven? That boss?”

“Yes, that boss, Jamie, obviously that boss. Look, he got your address off someone at Liverpool and then I think someone saw him drive off, but – it’s a fair drive, over to Liverpool, you’ve probably got time to –”

To flee the country? It sounds tempting, Jamie has no desire to have a conversation with Sir Alex fucking Ferguson, but there’s one teeny tiny flaw in the plan. “—Mickey,” he says, trying to sound gentle because he can acknowledge that it’s a little bit fucked that someone he used to call his best friend doesn’t know this, “I don’t live in Liverpool.”

The doorbell rings.

Alex Ferguson isn’t actually that tall, but he has this sort of presence that makes you feel like you’re shrinking under his gaze. He stands in the hallway of Jamie’s house and he looks around, unimpressed.

“Carragher,” he greets.

“Fergie,” Jamie replies, taking a tiny bit of pleasure in the way his lips press together at the nickname. “Not sure Rafa’s gonna be too happy when he hears you’re showin’ up on my doorstep in the middle of season.”

“This is purely a social call, not anything he need concern himself with.”

Of course, he’s gonna be hearing about it, social call or no. Jamie can’t risk him hearing through the rumour mill that he’s been entertaining Alex Ferguson at his house.

“I’d hope so,” he snaps, “’cause I only do business stuff through me agents. And they know to respond to anything from Manchester United with a ‘fuck off’.”

“How about you make us a cup of tea, Carragher?”

Jamie reluctantly leads him through to the kitchen and turns the kettle on. “Look,” he tries, “we both know why you’re here, so go on then. Tell me to leave your precious captain alone ‘n’ I’ll tell you to go fuck yerself, and we can call it a day.”

“I don’t know what stories you’ve been hearing, boy, but I’m not some imperious dictator. I have no interest in controlling my players’ private lives.”

Jamie snorts, because really? He’s heard plenty of ‘stories’ first hand that would suggest the contrary.

Sir Alex gives him a level stare, cool and detached. “I don’t, but you need to think of your career. You both do. This cannot get out.”

“This is the first you’re hearin’ of it in three years, so.”

They have been so careful. Not like they’ve got any other choice, is it? Three years, and the only person he’s told is Stevie. Same for Gary, only his parents and Scholes know. Not even fucking Philip does.

The question remains of how the fuck anyone at United found out, but he can’t even think about that right now.

He hears footsteps coming down the stairs, and just barely manages not to drop his head to the counter in frustration.

Gary shuffles into the kitchen in his pyjamas, sleep-ruffled and squinting at Jamie.

“Jamie?” he croaks. “Thought I heard doorbell, what –” he must suddenly gain some awareness of his surroundings, because his eyes go wide and he cuts himself off with a hum.

“Jamie,” he starts again, slowly, “please tell me I’m out me mind from the painkillers.”

“Sorry, lad,” Jamie says gently, ushering Gary into a seat before he realises that his meds aren’t miracle workers and his ankle gives up on him, “think this’d be my nightmare, not yours.”

“Fuck,” Gary mutters. He turns to Ferguson, eyebrows drawn together, and says “Boss, I’m so sorry I didn’t – I thought, if we were careful we – but I know, I know it’ll be bad for the club if it – so I can –“ he gulps, darts his eyes to Jamie for just a second, “I can call it. Obviously, I can – I can call it.”

The last part comes out more as a sob, and Jamie wonders if maybe this could’ve waited a week or so for when Gary’s sprained ankle is healed and he’s not high on painkillers. He’d wrap his arms around him, but he can’t, not in front of fucking Ferguson.

Maybe it hurts, just a bit, that Gary’s so willing to drop him at Sir Alex’s command. But he does get it. And again, he knows (hopes) that if Gary weren’t high as a kite this whole conversation would be going a lot differently.

“Like fuck you’re callin’ it,” he bites out.

“Nobody’s calling anything,” says Ferguson. “Gary. Son. Nobody’s calling anything, okay? It’s fine. This is fine. I trust you. And we can talk to people at the club, work out a strategy for if it ever does get out.”

Jamie clears his throat, looks pointedly at Gary’s ankle.

“When you’re well,” Ferguson adds, shooting a look at Jamie like stay out of this. “Obviously. Focus on getting well, first.”

Gary sniffs. “’course, boss.”

#thank u to both people who sent sir alex prompts dsfkjhsdgdsf!#took me a while bc I wasn't quite feeling the vibe. but then something clicked today idk #carraville #drabbles

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