The score line says it all: Rooney (56), Ronaldo (69), Berbatov (71) and Nani (90). Everyone from SAF to United bloggers expected this form would come, especially after the free-flowing-football that intoxicated us against Blackburn and Rooney’s scintillating form for England. Now that it’s here, firstly, we give thanks to the football Gods, and secondly, given this blog is being written 30+ hours after the match, I’ll resist the temptation to analyze anything or add to the obvious platitudes for Rooney.
About the only original commentary to provide is a quick view into a few moments of United fandom smack-dab in the middle of North America.
First off, I must admit to taking the easy route this week, watching the game live off our dish with my United pal, Bill, and making no effort whatsoever to watch at The Local, an Irish pub that shows the Premier League in Minneapolis. (A Cliff Claven trivia fact: The Local’s patrons consume more Jamison Irish whiskey than any other pub on the planet. Yes, that’s right – the champion resides in Minnesota. Take that Galway, Dublin, and Donegal.)
Since Bill arrives primarily to watch football, our 12-year-old fox terrier, Ms. Reilly, immediately knows what’s about to transpire next: random, unexpected noise bursts. These celebrations literally scare the bejesus out of her fist-sized brain, and usually, she cuddles up to Bill at kickoff, as he’s less demonstrative than me. On Saturday, however, she gave us one dirty look, as if to say “Much howling imminent – I go away now” and trekked upstairs to avoid the inevitable.
Nil-nil at half: I suspect for both of us watching versus playing does add a nervy edge precisely because we can’t do a single, solitary thing about the outcome. Trips to the bathroom were made. We pace around our coffee table thinking silently to ourselves “we can’t possibly draw with the Baggies – can we?!” The second-half begins, and you know the rest: amazing, attacking football and goals. Ah – much, much better. Our nerves relieved, our Saturday saved, our club rules.
Soon after the game, alpha-female (my wife, Jill) returns home from yoga. Ms. Reilly hears the arrival of her true pack leader, races down the stairs, past the scary men, and greets her with extra joy and relief. Not long afterwards, sensing calmer times are upon us, Ms. Reilly wanders over to Bill for some well-deserved belly-scratching. About ten seconds into her new-found attention, I get this turn of the head and sheepish look from Ms. Reilly, as if she still wasn’t entirely sure I didn’t have another “ROOOO-NEEY!!!!!!” left in me. Ah, such is Rooney’s form – even a fox terrier an ocean away can feel its powerful sway.
No comments:
Post a Comment