The Prodigal Son: A Manchester United Story

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The Prodigal Son: A Manchester United Story​
​
Prelude:
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.
​
 
Chapter 1:
13th​ June, 2011

“Sevilla boss walks out after impressive La Liga season”
Marca was a bit off the pace with that headline. As I flicked through the Spanish paper on the flight from Seville to Manchester International Airport I thought back to the last few years or so since I gained my coaching badges. How far I'd come in the last few years, since I was the head coach at my local Droylesden FC. After Droylesden I took over struggling Bury in League 2, hitting midtable when the odds were massively stacked against them, and making myself known as a talented manager.

Post-Bury came Derby, and after a successful promotion campaign, I’d been approached during the end-of-season break by Sevilla, who gave me my chance at top level management. I couldn’t say no to such a high level team, so I upped sticks and shifted to Southern Spain. After a good start to my first season in charge, there was talk of me going on to bigger and better things. By April we’d secured Champions League football and had 2 points on 3rd​ placed Real, which since Barcelona had already won the league by this point, all we were playing for was pride.

In the run-up to the deciding game at the Bernabeu, there was talk in the lead-up to the game that Sir Alex Ferguson had been taken ill and that he would step down at the end of the season. Not only that, but La Marca had run a story with a full sheet on me entitled “Newton para el próximo entrenador Del Manchester United?” (Newton for next United manager?). Admittedly, the idea of replacing the great man had stuck in my mind. Which made accepting the call from David Gill to meet him in Manchester to discuss taking the hot seat easier.
 
Chapter 2:
29th June, 2011.

As I walked into familiar surroundings of the reception at Old Trafford I remembered how I used to dream of walking out in front of all the fans onto the pitch. That dream had ended due to my injury, but now I had a second chance. I continued to stroll towards the press room, where David Gill was waiting in front of the press to officially announce me as the new Manchester United manager. I had large shoes to fill, taking over from the great Sir Alex, but I was confident.

Some of the press had decided to ambush me just outside the press conference, and the questions flowed forth.

How do you feel to be appointed United manager?
Are you sure you can take charge with such little experience?
Do you have any targets in mind?

Targets?! I hadn't even talked to the chairman as manager yet, and this guy was asking me about targets? I brushed them away with a simple, 'You'll find out', and continued through the door. The spotlights around the room blazed as I took my seat next to Gill, and I listened as he explained the goals of the club for the next seasons. I snapped out of daydreaming when I heard my name.

I introduce to you, our new manager, Danny Newton!

Snapping back to reality I cleared my throat, and started to take questions. Was I happy to be United boss? Yes, of course I was, since a young boy I’d supported them.
Would I bring in any players? With the backing of the board, I would attempt to sign the best available.
What sort of football would I play? I would play football that would be enjoyable to watch, and would still win the games we needed to.

After other questions about coaching staff, ambitions and my own plans, Gill called the conference to a halt and the press began to filter out. There I was, now officially the new manager of my boyhood club! The club was by far the biggest on my resume, with only Droylesden, Bury, Derby County and, most recently, Sevilla before this appointment. None of this mattered, however, as this was a new chapter, one which was both only a few miles, and yet a million miles, away from that day at Carrington where my professional career ended, and where I hit the lowest point in my life.
 
Chapter 3:
15th​ February, 2005
Salford Royal Hospital


I can’t believe the news today? Oh, I can’t close my eyes and make it go away...

Here I was, bedridden, with my leg suspended in plaster above me, feeling sorry for myself. I let Bono’s words wash over as I stared at the ceiling. Sunday, ****** Sunday it was, for me anyway. Only 2 weeks after that fateful day and I’d hit a new low. I’d got to the point of giving up, when the lads decided to pay me a visit. All the squad present that day, and some of the players and staff from my local (and former) club Droylesden, and all of them, even Gerard Pique, who at 6 foot, 4 inches tall and imposing at the best of times, looked genuinely sad to see the extent of the injury.
“Here’s something for you, mate.” Sylvain handed over a bottle of clear liquid. “Maybe when you’re more active we’ll go out on the lash again?”

I turned it over. Smirnoff, and the pure stuff too. Smiling to myself, I thanked them all for coming and hid the bottle behind a large card.

Sod the nurse’s “No Alcohol” rule. I turned towards it now and took a mouthful of the spirit, straight from the bottle. Washing over me like a wave, the alcohol eased the pain of the injury and calmed my nerves. Taking another hit, I stared out of the window. One day, I told myself. One day I’d go back to the game I loved.
 
Really a pleasure reading it. Keep it up mate :)
 
Nice start Danny, Keep up the great work :)
 
Brilliant story, looking forward to reading more. Keep up the good work.
 
Chapter 4:
July 15th​, 2011:
Salford, Manchester.

And they say, she’s in the class A team, stuck in her daydream, been this way since 18, and lately...

Ed Sheeran’s wistful lyrics echoed around my car as I drove back from the first day’s training with the team. I had some ideas for signings, whether I’d get the cash for them would be another matter. My first problem would be to address the central midfield role, made worse by Scholesy retiring. Martin Ferguson was set to head to Italy in the coming days, so I had a word with him about keeping a sharp eye for a playmaker.

Getting back to the manager’s office, I found a couple of e-mails waiting in my club inbox. One was from Gill, telling me that the club had given me a £40m warchest to rebuild due to the retirements of Scholes and Neville, and the departures of Hargreaves, Brown and O’Shea. The other was from David Friio, the scout watching Chivas in Mexico.

“Take a look at my report on this Erick Torres lad. Looks like he could be a world-beater.”

I opened the attachment. David had noted that he was quick and good on the ball, tall for his stature and a confident finisher. Watching the video in the e-mail, I stared in awe as this lad beat one, two, three players before confidently faking the ball onto his right and flicking the ball over the keeper. Below the video was a number labelled “They know he's good. Offer a couple of million. – DF”

I picked up the phone on my desk and dialled. This was a talent I wasn’t going to lose out on.
 
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good stuff man, follow my Newcastle story 'Geordie Nation' please! :)
 
Chapter 5:
29th​ July, 2011:
Old Trafford, Manchester.

  • Alan Brennan, Sky Sports News. How much of an impact do you expect Erick to have at this club?
As I sat in the press room of Old Trafford alongside David Gill and new signing Erick Torres, I thought for a second about the answer to the journalist’s questions.

“I feel the lad can make an instant impact, although he may have to accept that coming to United means you have to step up your game to keep your place.”

Apparently satisfied, he noted my response down in his notebook, probably to be twisted into a more interesting story later on.
“That concludes our conference, I’m sure Erick will be happy to answer any questions personally, in private.”

The press began to file out, and Gill came over to me. “Nice bit of business, heard a lot about this lad. The fans are really looking forward to his debut.”

And with a pat on the back, he left too. As I headed to my car, I thought about my first month in charge. Along with Torres, I’d brought in a young Czech striker I’d admired as a player for a couple of years in Vaclav Kadlec. The midfield position still needed to be filled, especially since I’d let Michael Carrick and Anderson leave the club for a collective £31m. This freed up the bank balance for the big signing the fans wanted, and with a large amount of names banded around in both the media and by word of mouth, I’d settled on a couple of targets. Jack Rodwell was a name known to almost everyone in England, and a target for nearly every top club in Europe, whilst a lesser known talent had come to my attention via Martin Ferguson. Marek Hamsik, the Napoli playmaker had caught his eye whilst out on the continent.

However, that would be another day, with a friendly against Sporting Lisbon coming up in a couple of days. At least the fans would get to see why we were insistent upon getting Erick so quickly.
 
Another update's on it's way lads, been busy with college and work atm.
 
Chapter 6:
2nd​ March, 2005,
Salford, Greater Manchester.

Over the hills and far away, he swears he will return one day... Sure as the rivers reach the seas, back in his arms again she’ll be...

“GET THE **** OUT OF MY HOUSE, NOW!”
Gary Moore’s dulcet tones were drowned out as I roared after Alice, my ex-girlfriend, as she ran back down the hall and out the door. As I hobbled back, on the crutches I was given into my room, I glanced around at the myriad of happy memories and felt the tears well up in my eyes. Pictures of holidays gone by, in Dorset on my 18th​ birthday, London at Christmas, all, me and her with gleaming smiles, not a care in the world. I picked up the nearest one, Plymouth, her red hair billowing in the wind and a gleam of laughter in her eyes.

2 months later I’d caught her sleeping with one of my ex-teammates. Some people believe I was poached from the Bloods, but a training ground spat with the other player had ended with me almost fracturing his skull with a removable goalpost. I was called into the manager’s office later that day.

“In the last few days we had received an offer from Manchester United for you. This “incident” has forced us to let you go. Good luck, and I hope you won’t forget us here at Droylesden”

How could I forget? Today had been a horror show. My psychiatrist had been on the phone earlier, basically telling me I was clinically depressed and an alcoholic. Then she’d arrived, seemingly genuinely unhappy to see me in such a state. I had actually enjoyed her company, until I glanced out of the window and saw a shining black Audi, of which I had no doubts whom it belonged to. I’d seen red and flipped.

Reaching for the bottle on the side, I popped 2 anti-depressants from their tabs and took a long hit from the vodka. **** it, I thought, reaching for the painkillers, taking all 6 that remained in the packet and chasing them down with the rest of the alcohol. I lead back and felt an odd numbness spreading around my body, a welcoming feeling. Closing my eyes, I wanted it all to just end.
 
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And you say my storys too personal? Haha, good update mate :)
 
Chapter 7:
3rd​ August 2011,
Old Trafford, Manchester.

“Just stand a bit to your right, Mr. Newton. That’s it, now keep the shirts raised”

I was stood on the touchline in front of the home dugout, with the two newest additions to my squad. To my left, Liverpudlian ex-Everton midfielder Jack Rodwell had a massive grin on his face as he held up the red shirt, his name and the number 26 emblazoned on the back. At £19m, he was the cheaper signing of the two, yet only a few days beforehand I was sure we had lost him to Manchester City, who offered £24m. Yet Jack turned them down, citing he’d rather win trophies now than earn millions for sitting on the bench.

To my right, Slovak playmaker Marek Hamsik was shifting up slightly, allowing the photographer to get all 3 of us in. At £29m, he was an expensive purchase, but a necessary one, (Martin Ferguson had described him as a “young Scholesy, with the potential to be even better”) as I now felt we had truly patched up the gap left by the midfield magician himself.

After the shoot, I walked out of the doors toward the car park. Looking up, I saw the famous statue of Sir Matt, and told myself that one day, I’d hope to be even half as great as him.

First step, however, was Saturday’s game down in London. Manchester City in the Community Shield.
 
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