Return of the Prodigal Son
Prologue, February 2012 - May 2012
14th February 2012:
Newton takes time out – cites ‘Personal Issues’, Thompson takes Manchester United reins.
29th April 2012:
United reach Champions League Final, to play Real Madrid.
7th May 2012:
United claim 20th Premier League title, still no sign of Newton.
20th May 2012:
United heartbreak as Ronaldo steals the show in 5-4 Madrid victory...
20th May 2012, Costa Del Sol, Spain.
Here I was. Sat in a Spanish bar, listening to the Madrid fans going wild at their victory. We’d come so close, I mused as I nursed the whiskey in front of me. Three months had passed since Alice had passed away, overdosed on my own medication, and the pain still hurt – even with a bottle of booze inside me.
I’d watched as Thommo steered my squad to the title, knowing that I should’ve been there. Should’ve been celebrating with the team. With Alice at my side... No. I told myself. You can’t just keep drinking yourself to oblivion. I was pulled from my thoughts as a Madrid fan recognised me, probably from my Sevilla days. The mocking got worse, now aimed at me as one of them put his face close to mine, shouting mostly intelligibly in broken English, but I picked some up. “You fail! Manchester lose!” He wheeled away, grinning before I brought the bottle down on his head, dropping him like a stone. I was already on my way out.
There was no doubt about it as I walked the streets back towards the hotel. I was going to clean myself up.
And then, I was coming home.
Prologue, February 2012 - May 2012
14th February 2012:
Newton takes time out – cites ‘Personal Issues’, Thompson takes Manchester United reins.
29th April 2012:
United reach Champions League Final, to play Real Madrid.
7th May 2012:
United claim 20th Premier League title, still no sign of Newton.
20th May 2012:
United heartbreak as Ronaldo steals the show in 5-4 Madrid victory...
20th May 2012, Costa Del Sol, Spain.
Here I was. Sat in a Spanish bar, listening to the Madrid fans going wild at their victory. We’d come so close, I mused as I nursed the whiskey in front of me. Three months had passed since Alice had passed away, overdosed on my own medication, and the pain still hurt – even with a bottle of booze inside me.
I’d watched as Thommo steered my squad to the title, knowing that I should’ve been there. Should’ve been celebrating with the team. With Alice at my side... No. I told myself. You can’t just keep drinking yourself to oblivion. I was pulled from my thoughts as a Madrid fan recognised me, probably from my Sevilla days. The mocking got worse, now aimed at me as one of them put his face close to mine, shouting mostly intelligibly in broken English, but I picked some up. “You fail! Manchester lose!” He wheeled away, grinning before I brought the bottle down on his head, dropping him like a stone. I was already on my way out.
There was no doubt about it as I walked the streets back towards the hotel. I was going to clean myself up.
And then, I was coming home.
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