Prelude
It’s as if it were yesterday. I moved from promising youth sensation to a bar brawling waste of life; at least that’s what I last heard from the very man that caused this to happen to me. My father. I can remember the headlines and stories that were published and broadcasted. “Promising English starlet walks out of Manchester United Academy.” Heh, ”walks out,” at least the media were on my side at that time, very little people knew what happened that day, when I personally banned myself, never to step foot near Carrington again. Come to think of it, very little people would know it was me, because I was Spanish with English citizenship.
If it weren’t for my temper I could of very well been one of Fergie’s Fledglings, the youngest and better looking of them too and not toot my own horn, probably the best. Who knows? I was going through a lot then, my dad had cheated on my mom and walked out on his family before I even hit a year old, and then had the nerve to come back 15 years later to pretend to be a father simply because my talent, that he took no part in nurturing, started to show.
He came knocking at 5am offering to take me to training, as if he was ever present in before that morning. Mom looked puzzled and my grandmother had her frying pan in arms waiting to strike. I struck before she did though, one of the best right hooks I’ve thrown to this day and I’ve thrown many since my slump began.
Tears streaming down my face and fist clenched I ran off to training. When I got there Eric Harrison’s expression showed that he knew something was wrong with me. He was the closest thing to a father figure I had next to Fergie himself. I avoided eye contact with him and began training, still running around off emotion. Then it happened.
A strong tackle from a then fresh Gary Neville came in on me, he missed the ball entirely. It didn’t bring much harm to anyone, but I was already ****** off and I foolishly took this as my opportunity to vent. That’s when my second right hook of my slump came. It brushed his face, as he was able to dodge it quickly, swear he would of gotten brain damage if it had hit him though. He didn’t react in anger though but I was still boiling and kicked out at him but Giggsy and Becks held me by now, still they weren’t enough and I broke free rushing and Gary again. Brian Kidd had stepped in my path before I got to him though but my head was down and my eyes were closed holding back the tears from my earlier encounter with my dad and now my released rage. I tackled him to the ground and before I could swing I heard a firm voice yell, “Stop now Cris!” It was Eric Harrison.
It’s been 15 years since I walked away from a life of football. Probably the worst decision I’ve ever made since it’s the only thing I was good at. As some sort of celebration at my decision making skills, or lack thereof, and failure I come to the bar the 15th of June every year to do a lil’ binge drinking. Oddly enough, almost every year something of note happens and sadly enough, these are usually more exciting that what happens a month from now, my birthday.
In 2002 I was arrested for a brawl that took place outside the bar. Some City fan that apparently remembered my story came running his mouth with a bunch of his groupies reminding me about my failure, I didn’t appreciate his way of celebrating with me so I lost it. Luckily I got off as a first time offender at court, all thanks to my girlfriend Serenity, well thanks to her father, but mostly thanks to her because he doesn’t like me much, said I was a thug. In 2003, they found me an alley the next morning passed out, my celebration went well I thought, except, I couldn’t find my wallet.
Things changed in 2005 though.
If it weren’t for my temper I could of very well been one of Fergie’s Fledglings, the youngest and better looking of them too and not toot my own horn, probably the best. Who knows? I was going through a lot then, my dad had cheated on my mom and walked out on his family before I even hit a year old, and then had the nerve to come back 15 years later to pretend to be a father simply because my talent, that he took no part in nurturing, started to show.
He came knocking at 5am offering to take me to training, as if he was ever present in before that morning. Mom looked puzzled and my grandmother had her frying pan in arms waiting to strike. I struck before she did though, one of the best right hooks I’ve thrown to this day and I’ve thrown many since my slump began.
Tears streaming down my face and fist clenched I ran off to training. When I got there Eric Harrison’s expression showed that he knew something was wrong with me. He was the closest thing to a father figure I had next to Fergie himself. I avoided eye contact with him and began training, still running around off emotion. Then it happened.
A strong tackle from a then fresh Gary Neville came in on me, he missed the ball entirely. It didn’t bring much harm to anyone, but I was already ****** off and I foolishly took this as my opportunity to vent. That’s when my second right hook of my slump came. It brushed his face, as he was able to dodge it quickly, swear he would of gotten brain damage if it had hit him though. He didn’t react in anger though but I was still boiling and kicked out at him but Giggsy and Becks held me by now, still they weren’t enough and I broke free rushing and Gary again. Brian Kidd had stepped in my path before I got to him though but my head was down and my eyes were closed holding back the tears from my earlier encounter with my dad and now my released rage. I tackled him to the ground and before I could swing I heard a firm voice yell, “Stop now Cris!” It was Eric Harrison.
It’s been 15 years since I walked away from a life of football. Probably the worst decision I’ve ever made since it’s the only thing I was good at. As some sort of celebration at my decision making skills, or lack thereof, and failure I come to the bar the 15th of June every year to do a lil’ binge drinking. Oddly enough, almost every year something of note happens and sadly enough, these are usually more exciting that what happens a month from now, my birthday.
In 2002 I was arrested for a brawl that took place outside the bar. Some City fan that apparently remembered my story came running his mouth with a bunch of his groupies reminding me about my failure, I didn’t appreciate his way of celebrating with me so I lost it. Luckily I got off as a first time offender at court, all thanks to my girlfriend Serenity, well thanks to her father, but mostly thanks to her because he doesn’t like me much, said I was a thug. In 2003, they found me an alley the next morning passed out, my celebration went well I thought, except, I couldn’t find my wallet.
Things changed in 2005 though.
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