John Simmons was no stranger to match day rituals. He had been a Manchester United fan for as long as he could remember, and no matter how many years had passed, his love for the club remained as strong as ever. As the sun peeked through his bedroom window, the faint glow of early morning light nudged him awake. He squinted at the clock on his nightstand. It was 8:30 AM, far earlier than any sane person would be awake on a Saturday. But this wasn't just any Saturday—today, Manchester United was facing Derby County, and he had tickets.
With a groan, John pushed the duvet off himself and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had been up late watching a documentary on United's golden years, and now, despite the lack of sleep, his body hummed with excitement. His old knees creaked as he stood up, and he sighed with a mix of appreciation for the passage of time and a small twinge of regret for the toll the years had taken. But there was no time to dwell on that—he had a match to attend.
"Right then," he muttered to himself. "Let's do this."
John shuffled into the kitchen, greeted by the familiar scent of stale coffee from the night before. The old kettle, worn from years of use, whistled as he filled it with water. It wasn't exactly the ideal way to start a day, but it was the way John had been doing it for years. His wife, Linda, was still asleep, probably making up for the early mornings she'd endured raising their kids.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, taking a sip as he glanced at the matchday program on the kitchen table. It had arrived in the post the day before, and he'd already gone through it twice. A small, satisfied smile spread across his face as he read the names of the players who would take the pitch later that afternoon. Wayne Rooney. Bruno Fernandes. There was a certain energy about the team this season that had John feeling hopeful. They were moving in the right direction, despite some bumps along the way.
"Right," he said to no one in particular. "Let's get the old matchday gear on."
John opened his wardrobe, his hands reaching for the red jersey hanging there like a prized possession. It was a bit faded now, the logo slightly peeling, but to John, it was priceless. His United shirt—number 7, with Cristiano Ronaldo's name emblazoned across the back. A moment of nostalgia hit him hard. The years had flown by, but that number had always symbolized something special to him: passion, skill, and the thrill of watching a player who could turn a match on its head in an instant.
He pulled the shirt on over his head, a bit tight around the middle, but it fit well enough for the occasion. Next, he grabbed his old scarf, the one that was starting to look like it had been through a war. It was frayed at the edges, but that only made it feel more authentic. He tied it around his neck with a sense of pride.
"Linda!" he called out. "I'm off to the match! See you later!"
He heard a muffled response from upstairs, probably a disinterested grunt, before she rolled over and went back to sleep. It wasn't like she didn't like football—she just didn't have the same kind of passion for it as John did.
John stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air. It was cool, but not too cold—perfect football weather. The streets were relatively quiet, most people still lounging around, waiting for the weekend to properly kick off. But for John, the day was already in full swing. He hopped into his old but reliable Ford Focus and started the engine.
The drive to Old Trafford was always an adventure. John had lived in Manchester for most of his life, and even though he wasn't originally from the city, he'd adopted it as his own years ago. He knew the streets like the back of his hand, the shortcuts and the best places to grab a bite before the match. But today, there was a special sense of excitement.
The radio was playing an old United anthem, and John couldn't help but hum along as he navigated the city streets. Every traffic light was an opportunity to feel more connected to the city. He passed the old pubs he used to frequent with friends, places that held memories of louder, younger days.
As he got closer to the stadium, the crowds began to form. Fans were starting to filter into the area, their voices rising in a chorus of excitement. John's heart quickened, and he couldn't help but grin as he found a parking spot a few blocks away from Old Trafford.
Walking toward the stadium, John was surrounded by fans of all ages, each one with a different story, but all united by the same passion. He could hear snippets of conversation—some fans were discussing team lineups, others were debating the best moments of the season, while some just bemoaned the weather.
"I think Bruno is going to pull something special off today," one fan said as he passed by, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
"You're right," his mate replied, nodding. "He's been amazing this season. And Rooney's back too—gives them a real edge. If anyone can break the deadlock today and score us, it's him."
"Let's hope Rashford starts today," another fan added. "The lad needs to get back to scoring."
John smiled as he listened to their chatter. It was typical of fans to have high hopes before a match, but today felt different. This was the kind of game they needed to win to show that United was back on track.
"3-1 today, I reckon," another fan chimed in confidently. "Rooney will get one, I just know it."
The group all nodded in agreement, their excitement palpable. "If we can win this, it'll set the tone for the rest of the season," one of them added.
John couldn't help but feel the same sense of optimism. It had been a turbulent few seasons, but things were looking up for United. The addition of Bruno Fernandes had been a game-changer, and with ole at the helm, there was a renewed sense of hope. Maybe this was the turning point.
As John approached the gates of Old Trafford, he felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. The stadium was colossal, a structure that had seen the rise and fall of many great teams. Today, however, it was full of hope. There were signs everywhere, encouraging the fans to get ready for the big match.
He handed over his ticket at the entrance, grinning at the security guard, who nodded back with a polite smile. "Enjoy the match," the guard said, and John waved in acknowledgment.
Walking into the stands, John was hit with the familiar smells of food and the excited chatter of fans around him. He settled into his seat in the lower tier, just a few rows back from the front. It was a great spot, and he couldn't wait for the match to begin.
"Come on, Rooney!" someone shouted nearby, and the chant spread like wildfire. "Come on, Rooney!"
John joined in, his voice blending with the chorus of other fans. The atmosphere was electric, and he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. There was something magical about Old Trafford on match day—the way the crowd moved as one, their voices rising and falling with each pass, each shot, each challenge.
Just as John was getting comfortable, the lights dimmed, and the anticipation in the crowd reached a fever pitch. The announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, introducing the starting lineups for both teams.
"Here they come!" John shouted, his eyes glued to the tunnel as the players began to make their way onto the pitch.
There was a wave of cheer when Wayne Rooney stepped out. Not just because he was a legend, but because he had returned to play for Derby County. The crowd was ecstatic to see him again. He was, after all, one of their own. The United faithful had always adored him, and today, it felt like a homecoming, even if he was wearing the Derby County kit.
"Go on, lads!" John shouted, clapping along with the others. "Show them what United's all about!"
As the players lined up, John found himself scanning the Derby County team, but his focus quickly returned to United as the familiar names filled the pitch. He watched with admiration as Bruno Fernandes gave a cheeky wave to the fans, and Rooney, ever the leader, pointed toward his teammates, shouting instructions. Rashford, though quiet, looked fired up and ready for action.
The whistle blew, and John leaned forward in his seat, his heart pounding with anticipation. The game had begun, and everything was set for what promised to be a thrilling match.