There was a flash of red. Then there was another. He remembered raising his hand in a last act of defiance and pointing at nothing before he lost consciousness.
He woke up to the eerie, deafening silence of death and destruction. The battle had been lost, the recriminations had begun. Not once or twice but thrice had he been slain by the Scousers. His fort that he had held against every other aggressor, had crumbled in a blaze of red.
El Nino, as they called their finest warrior, had outwitted him yet again. Three battles had gone by, with them tasting nothing but their own blood; retreating, attacking and getting slaughtered without a way into the Anfield Fortress. Thee battle... had well and truly been lost.
But the war raged on relentlessly. After 18 long years and two generations of the finest warriors in the land, they were finally on level pegging with the Scousers. Man by man, sword by sword, they had rebuilt a bruised, battered and beleaguered army. Every man had seen and taken blood. Now at the cusp of the decisive year in the war, they had lost yet another crucial battle. He who had held off the finest of English, Portuguese, Italian and German fighters had failed yet again to a solitary Spanish conquistador.
He tried shifting inside his premature coffin and felt the blows that he had taken. Unconsciously his hand traced the two scars that the Scousers had left on his heart. His hand trembled as he slowly moved to the third, fresh stab mark. He thought of the 10 other men who had stood with him shoulder to shoulder and given their soul to the cause. Each of them would be going through this very misery in their self-made prisons
As he moved his hand on the stab mark, he felt something thick and circular. He could trace a devil holding a flag. The letters above and below the red devil were all too familiar to him. Every time the Scousers’ sword slit his heart and stopped it, thee devil and the letters had kept the blood flowing through his veins. As his fingers moved across the devil, he could feel as much the devils that had fought and died before him as he felt in himself. He could feel the irrepressible force that united him with the legends of yore.
Out of nowhere, he could feel the force in him and the shackles looked weak and intimidated. He moved to break free but the force did it for him. In yet another blaze of red, this time laced with gold, he was free. And fit and ready for more.
He looked around him and saw not just the presence of Rooney, Giggs and Scholes but the aura of Edwards, Charlton, Best, Robson and Ronaldo. The Red Devils were back. They would retreat to their Old Trafford castle and mount yet another assault. If it failed, then they would launch another. And they wouldn’t stop till the heavens acknowledged their supremacy. Some felt pride in never walking alone. They, the inimitable Red Devils, would walk all alone... at the top.
Glory Glory Man United
1 comment:
Brilliant !!!
Sensational !!!
GGMU
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