Chapter 61: Match day
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!"