FAC33 - Shaky was cool

My first son Ryan is 9 years old.

He was born in Inverness and currently lives in the outskirts of Glasgow. Football daft, if you were to ask him which team he supports the answer you will receive will be similar to a few million or so other 9 year olds - Manchester United. He will of course grow out of this - aged 9 I thought Shakin Stevens, Bucks Fizz and the Nolan sisters were the epitome of cool. He will eventually end up supporting a proper team, a team he should support, but for now I am happy to go along with this childish madness.

That is why as a pre-Christmas treat we found ourselves driving South from Glasgow to do something the majority of United fans have never done - go and see a game at Old Trafford.

In my experience, tickets for games can be acquired in a number of ways, online, at the game, from a mate or paying through the nose from a tout outside the game.

Not Manchester United, no. To get tickets officially, one has to dress up in a camel suit and jump through hoops the size of needle eyes and pay double for the privilege. Persuading President Ahmadinejad to wear a Yarmulke would be simpler.

Anyhow this did give me the perfect opportunity to do some last minute Christmas shopping and after taking some advice we found ourselves in what can only be described as shopping hell, or heaven, depending on your gender: The Trafford Center. It is probably the largest collection of shops in the universe, certainly the largest I have ever visited. They are housed in a air-conditioned Vegas style shopping mall complete with fake sky, about 10 Starbuck coffee houses and a food court, the great hall, approximately the size of Bolivia.

So on to the match.
A taxi took us to within spitting distance of Old Trafford and even I, as a total neutral, was impressed by the ground. Large, famous buildings all have the ability to suck in its surroundings, when you are in the vicinity, it’s pretty much all you see. I remember drinking a beer outside the Pantheon in Rome and for the life of me I cannot remember anything but the Pantheon. I know there is a lot of life and architecture in the surrounds but it is so big, and so imposing, everything else becomes lost - an architectural black hole. The best football grounds, although having not quite the same gravitas as the Pantheon, have a similar effect and Old Trafford is no exception.

There is much to see and do outside - walk up Sir Matt Busby way and buy knock-off scarves or hats from the touts, eat fish and chips from The Lou Macari fish bar, shake our heads at the drunks (I was with a 9yr old) or if you are feeling very adventurous visit the "Megastore" and be prepared to batter the plastic.

All this entertainment and before a ball has been kicked!

Inside it continues, including the ability to buy beer - something I did not realise was possible given this has been outlawed in Scotland all my drinking years. We eventually found our seats and with the players warming up within touching distance even I was finding the experience quite exciting. Ryan was pointing out every player and as they left then reappeared to the Rocky theme tune he turned to me to tell me this was the best Christmas present he had ever had. The camel suit and needles suddenly petered away.

Kick off.
Someone on the pitch is "fuching shit" according to the mental sitting next to me, I nod in agreement hoping the conversation will cease, immediately. It does not and I keep nodding, only catching every second word from an unintelligible stream and praying he will not see through my thinly veiled United/Mancunian facade. I could have told him I couldn’t give a shit but felt that might ruin the one sided conversation somewhat.

At some point during the game Ryan stops shouting at the pitch to throw into the limited conversation “they should take off Park and put on Berbatov".

"Good call son" the mental agrees. I belatedly agree also, sort of, perhaps.

Within a minute Park leaves the pitch to be replaced by Berbatov.

This was a zenith for Ryan, he had correctly understood the tactical need to replace an underperforming midfielder with an out and out striker within minutes of Sir Alex Ferguson deciding it. I was impressed and so was our incomprehensible neighbour.

It had no impact on the result but that didn’t really matter, Ryan had been to Old Trafford, he had seen Rooney, Giggs and co in the flesh and had called the substitution correctly.

We, and 76,000 others, slowly left the ground. Cold, our throats sore from shouting we herded our way to the Holy Trinity statue, where we had agreed to meet up with our friends after the game.

I had anticipated a day of significant expense and little entertainment and was pleasantly proved wrong. The game was a sideshow to the excitement of a 9 year old experiencing the team he has supported from a distance for some time.

One day he will understand that he has only one team and that team will be St Mirren given they play only 10 minutes from his house. Until that time I am only too happy to take him to his chosen team, I only hope soon he decides that Man Utd are not for him and the Honolulu Bulls become his team of choice.

Now that would be a needle eye worth jumping through.