As I stood there with my arms stretched out, my eyes drifted upwards soaking all the insults from the crowd, drawn by some instinct I couldn't name, towards the directors' box. And I saw him.
Sir Alex Ferguson. The greatest manager in the history of the game. The man who had built this club, this stadium, this culture of expectation and dominance. He was not angry. He was not disgusted.
He was just watching me, his expression unreadable, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. Our eyes locked across the vast, noisy expanse of the stadium, a silent, intense, private exchange between the old king and the new. A moment that lasted no more than two seconds but felt like a lifetime.
And then, he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
A nod of acknowledgement. A nod of respect. From the greatest to the newest. I held his gaze for one more second, and then I turned away.
