At this moment, Denis Irwin, sitting in the MUTV commentary booth, felt as if he were on pins and needles. He had witnessed everything unfolding on the pitch, and the chaos had caused him to fumble his words repeatedly during the broadcast.
If not for his veteran co-commentator covering for him, Irwin would have faced an inevitable storm of fan backlash—or worse, losing his job.
As Claire's uncle, Irwin had brought him back to Manchester United with the intention of leveraging his own connections to pave a smooth path for Claire's football career. But he never expected his nephew to make such a massive splash in the British media overnight—let alone one that seemed to benefit him.
Yet with great opportunity came great risk.
For men of Irwin's generation, protecting their children was second nature. He was no exception. But Claire had already stepped far beyond the boundaries Irwin had set for him.
And Claire's musical talent? That had completely blindsided him.
Still, he was just a kid. To ensure Claire's future remained stable, Irwin had conspired with Sir Alex Ferguson to temper his sudden rise to fame.
But capitalists would always be capitalists.
Malcolm Glazer's masterstroke on the pitch had effortlessly crushed Irwin and Ferguson's resistance, using Claire's fans and the electrified Old Trafford crowd to achieve his own ends.
Irwin didn't yet know how Glazer had manipulated Claire into demanding to play, but as a seasoned figure at United, he knew Glazer's motives were anything but pure.
Watching Claire stride onto the pitch with unshakable determination, Irwin exhaled heavily. "I might not be able to protect you anymore, kid. From now on, you're on your own."
On the Pitch
Jogging across the pristine turf, Claire felt a rush of emotions unlike anything he'd experienced at Loftus Road. The sheer scale of Old Trafford, the deafening chants—even the absence of his name being called out sent a strange thrill through him. His skin prickled, his blood burned, and for the first time, football didn't feel like just a means to an end.
"Is this what top-tier football feels like?"
Controlling his breathing, Claire moved into position. As he passed Ronaldo, he flashed a quick, bright-eyed glance.
Ronaldo, however, looked conflicted. "You shouldn't have come on now."
"I want to fight for my own fate," Claire replied. "I know you all mean well, but I refuse to surrender without trying."
Ronaldo sighed but said nothing. Behind him, Robin van Persie sneered. "What's this? Giving up already? Sending out your golden boy to milk the fans?"
Ignoring him, Ronaldo glanced toward Ferguson, who was rapidly signaling new instructions.
Ronaldo's eyes widened.
So did Wayne Rooney's, as he wiped sweat from his brow.
Because Ferguson's orders were clear: Claire was to spearhead the counterattack.
The entire team felt a flicker of disbelief. They'd only tested this tactic once in training—and it had failed spectacularly due to Claire's lack of physicality.
Rooney had chewed him out for it.
But in football, as in war, orders were absolute.
Arsenal's Onslaught
The ball was at the feet of Emmanuel Adebayor, Arsenal's towering striker and tonight's standout performer. His dark skin glistened with sweat, his expression fierce.
Midfielder Park Ji-sung, perhaps overeager, suddenly broke formation, charging recklessly toward Adebayor from the right flank.
The move destabilized United's entire defensive structure.
Adebayor, unfazed, slipped a quick pass to Alexander Hleb before bulldozing forward.
Three United midfielders lunged—and missed.
Paul Scholes, exhausted, crumpled under Adebayor's shoulder charge.
Ronaldo's heart sank.
"Fall back! FALL BACK!" Rooney bellowed from the opposite half.
This was supposed to be a carefully rehearsed counter—a system built around Claire's precise through-balls and his lower-league instincts.
The strategy relied on United's defenders playing high, enabling rapid transitions into enemy territory.
Its strength? Lightning-fast breaks and deadly efficiency.
Its weakness? A single physical, agile striker—like Adebayor—could shred it to pieces.
And shred it he did.
With brute force and a clever one-two with Cesc Fàbregas, Adebayor tore through United's backline like tissue paper.
Now, staring down an exposed Edwin van der Sar, he licked his lips.
The stadium fell eerily silent—save for a few scattered screams from Arsenal fans:
"LOOK OUT!"
Adebayor barely had time to process the warning before a gust of wind—and a furious, guttural roar—slammed into him from behind.
"F**! COUNTER! COUNTER!"*