The Prodigal Son: A Manchester United Story
Prelude:
31st January, 2005:
31st January, 2005:
Training. The regime of runs, stretches and general exercise was strenuous to say the least, but Manchester United's youth coach René Meulensteen was known for his hard-faced approach and, with the most promising group of youngsters coming through since Fergie's Fledglings themselves, he had every reason to ensure his team worked hard.
Meulensteen's team had won the Youth Cup twice already, even with the average age only being 17 years old. Their star striker, one Giuseppe Rossi, netted over 40 goals in the last campaign, and looked likely to outshine that feat this season. Being nearly 20, I was the so-called veteran of the squad, ironically also the goalkeeper, and with the 4th round of the cup approaching, it looked likely I would get my chance in the United 1st team. Tim Howard had been rested for the important game against Chelsea the weekend after, and Ben Foster had picked up an injury during training the previous week.
Into practice games, which I usually thrived in. Joining me on my side was Rossi and Darron Gibson, a young lad touted as the next Roy Keane, so, being the competitive sod I am, I was confident we'd win easily. Against us, was Sylvain Ebanks-Blake, who at 19, was also on the brink of breaking through, and the centre-back Gerard Pique, Barcelona-born, and a handful in the air.
The game started well, with Rossi netting within a couple of minutes to give us an early lead. Gibson was pulling the strings in midfield, and the rest of the lads could hardly touch the ball. At the 10th minute, however, a misplaced pass led to Ebanks-Blake running through, clean on goal, and he fired a curling shot toward the far post. With it being on my favoured right, however, I diverted it around the post for a corner.
I set my defense out to cover the danger-men, except for Pique, who came over to mark me near the front post. I was confident I would beat him in the air, even with his extra 2 inches of height; I knew I could out jump him. The ball came in at just above head height, I came forward, ready to jump and catch the ball. At that moment, I felt a weight hit me in the side, propelling me into the goalposts. I heard a sickening crack, and felt a searing pain run up my leg. Collapsing to the floor, I looked down and saw my left leg hanging at a horrific angle from where it should be, and instinctively knew my hopeful career was over before it had begun.
One hour later, in the Salford Royal Hospital, the doctors and Mike Phelan pondered over me and my newly plastered leg. The damning conclusion came as the Head Surgeon came over to me and said:
With a double fracture like that, you'll be lucky to even walk as well as you used to, never mind return to Manchester United as a player, you will never play football again.
You will never play football again.
Led in my hospital bed that night with the surgeon's words echoing in my head, I decided that I, Danny Newton, would not be kept out of the game that I loved. If I couldn't play, I would gain my coaching badges and become a successful Football Manager, hopefully one day returning to my beloved Old Trafford, possibly even to take charge of the club that I loved.