April 13 was the reason for our trip here, to see Manchester United play in Old Trafford, the Mecca of soccer. Robin and I flew into London on Wednesday and checked into our room at the Hilton London Olympiad. Thursday morning we took a cab to London Heathrow Airport, and went through their version of TSA to board a flight for Manchester.
An hour later, we touched down in Manchester, and sat down at a bistro to have some breakfast and plan our next steps. We decided to take a tram into Manchester. Robin explained the difference between a tram and a train; A tram is a light train that goes above ground, a train can go underground. So we headed to the station, found the tram to Old Trafford, and away we went.
As we got onto the tram, I noticed a very large man slumped over in his seat. I hoped he was asleep, as Robin and I took our seats. After awhile I pointed him out to Robin. “I think he’s dead,” I told her. Robin, ever the tender-hearted, said, “No, I think he’s just sleeping.” At that time, like a whale breaching front the ocean, he sat up with a groan, took a couple of breaths, and slumped back down again. I looked at Robin and said, “Well, I guess he’s alive.”
We reached our stop at Trafford Hall, and began walking to Old Trafford and Hotel Football, our destination. It was a nice walk, with only a slight rain. At the first glimpse of Old Trafford, We stopped to take a picture.
We continued on toward our goal. At one point, an argument occurred, as will happen along married couples, from time to time. My hat got blown off by the wind, and Robin and a stranger went to retrieve it. We were both very tired from jet lag, so our tempers were a bit short. I put the hat back on, and Robin said, “Maybe you should carry it.” I replied, “No, I’m good.” She began to say something else and I barked at her, and not in the man’s-best-friend kinda of way. The air began to swirl around Robin, clouds formed dark and close around her, lightning flashed, and all plants and animals with 30 feet died. Deep in my sleep befuddled brain, I sensed that, perhaps, I had erred. I did what I normally do in such dire circumstances, I whistled past the graveyard. I’ve whistled past more than my fair share of graveyards. Have you heard of the game where if a guy does something wrong, he can lose points with the woman? This guy can blow through a lot of points…
A bit later we ended up at Hotel Football and went to the bar to wait for the cafe was open so we could get some lunch. We sat at an open table, and drinks everywhere froze. All the men in the bar suddenly found very interesting things in their menus, and tiny little sympathy storms spun up over all the women. I knew I was in real trouble. To forestall the groveling and begging that was to come, I called the credit card company. Earlier I had received a fraud alert, which I had called and gotten cleared. We had indicated online that were were traveling, and that info had not gotten to the goblins in charge of the fraud department. Apparently they had cast a spell of account freezing, again, prompting the call.
This time around, and it for all the world sounded like the goblin I had spoken to first, the phone system took me through the same steps as before. All was going well until she asked if there was another phone number they could use to send a 2-step verification text to. I gave her my number, and the goblin replied, “Nope.” I gave her my wife’s number, and she said, “That number won’t work as we’ve used it before, and it appears to have Voldamort’s Death Curse on it, so we can’t use it.” I asked what other options I had, and the goblin replied, “We can send you a letter, which you should receive in 5-7 business days.”
After a long pause in which I imagined life in prison for the thoughts I was having I said, with as much civility as I could muster, said, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard today. I’ve told you folks, once online, once this very morning, and at the beginning of this phone call that my wife and I are overseas, so obviously I won’t be able to receive the letter in 5-7 business days, even if I were inclined to subsist on begging and panhandling to get by until I didn’t receive the letter in 5-7 business days. How about you be a fine goblin and let me speak to the Head Goblin?”
After a slightly miffed, “She’ll tell you the same thing I’m telling you,” she got the Head Goblin. After recounting everything that had gone on before, and the thickly veiled reference to leading a band of Crusaders in storming their headquarters, the Head Goblin restored my account and “put a note” in my file about the transactions occurring overseas. I went back to Robin and explained all that had happened. She found favor with the outcome, and the subsequent bowing and scraping and gushing apologies. The storm clouds dissipated, life was restored, and all the drinks thawed out. Conversations returned to the bar, the men look relieved and the woman looked pleased. We moved to the cafe and had lunch.
We checked into the hotel at 3:00pm, got ourselves situated, took a short nap, and headed over to Old Trafford to check out what was going on prior to the match. Robin took a picture of me in front of an iconic statue. The three legends are George Best, Denis Law and Bobby Charlton, who won the European Championships three times.
As you can see in the photo, I’ve got a wide, shit-eating grin that pretty much started the moment I saw Old Trafford, waned under the dark magic of Robin’s Wrath, and returned when we showed up on the pavilion in front of the stadium. From there, we went to our hospitality place, Victoria Warehouse. There we watched Manchester United TV (MUTV), had free drinks, free food, and met two young men from the States. With an hour left until the match, we left for the stadium.
Our next visit was to the Manchester United MegaStore, located in the front of the stadium. I got an updated team jersey and a light jacket, and some gifts for the grandsons. After nipping over to the hotel for an emergency restroom run (DAMN you, Crohn’s!), we headed back over to the stadium for the match.
There were people everywhere. Masses of people. The attendance ended up being 72,850. Reminded me of the time I went to the IU v Ohio State football game in Ohio State. That was a huge crowd as well.
Robin was in front of me as we walked up the stairs to the the seating area. I could hear the crowds but as I stepped out of the tunnel, the sound hit me like a physical hug. It was…indescribable! Pictures or videos cannot do it justice. The match, my dreams, my imagination all became real in that moment. If I were a woman, I would have wept. As it was, a stray, onion-cutting ninja caused a tear to leak out of one of my manly eyes. Another one trickled out of my left eye when I realized our tickets were five rows up from the pitch! Old Trafford is referred to as the Theater of Dreams.
It absolutely lived up to its moniker!
Manchester United scored four times during the match. Unfortunately, Towle of them were scored for the other team. After 80 minutes out of 90, Crohn’s came calling when we were up 2-0. I had just been telling Robin we needed more goals. As I got to the end of the row, Our defender had the ball go off of him and into goal. I was muttering under my breath as I rushed to the restroom. The muttering continued as I climbed back up the stairs, and blossomed into outright profanity as I saw that the other team had another goal. I wasn’t going to climb back over everyone to get to my seat for what little time remained, so I found an empty seat pitch-side and motioned to Robin so she knew where I was. It was there that I found out the we had scored another own goal. That is how the match ended. We head to Sevilla on April 20 for a winner-takes-all chance to make it to the Europa League Final Four.
After the match, Robin and I headed back to our hotel and crashed. The title above promises a High Tea, but I will Save that for my next blog!
Meditations of a Bald, Fat Guy 