Monday afternoon in the offices of a Dublin travel agency. "Have a great trip - please God they'll win," said the woman as she handed me my flight and match tickets. "You have a valid passport, don't you," she asked, rhetorically, as I scampered out the door.
Do I have a valid passport? Huh! Does this woman think I'm a complete eejit?
The queue in the passport office was frightening, 104 people ahead of me, to be precise. About 86 of them were United fans, who probably reckoned, like me, that United's European Cup hopes expired, along with their passports, in April when Juventus went 2-0 up in the second leg of the semi-finals. (One of the 86, who remembered my stressed mug from Monday afternoon, tapped me on the shoulder at Barcelona airport on Tuesday evening. "You got your passport then love," he said, winking. "I did," I said, blushing. "We're a right pair," we agreed, giggling.)
I sat down beside a mother and her young daughter who was being subjected to an evangelising session from an older woman who appeared to have a thing about saints. "And if you pray to St so-and-so he'll help you find something you've lost; and if you pray to St so-and-so he'll make sure you have a safe journey; and if you pray to St so-and-so he'll give you hope when all hope is lost; and if you pray to . . ." I sighed. I yawned. The young girl, eyes glazing over, nodded politely. "Thanks be to Jaysus," she whispered to me when the woman's departure was prompted by her number popping up on the board.
Injury time at the Nou Camp. United, 1-0 down, win a corner. Hopeless cases and lost causes? WHO did the woman in the passport office say looked after THEM? Think. Think. THINK. Anthony? No! Christopher? No! Beckham whips the ball over. Heart pumping. Head throbbing. Hands shaking. Stomach churning. Hopeless cases and lost causes, hopeless cases and lost causes? JUDE! Hey, Jude! Are you up there? The ball's half cleared. Jude, pleeease? I'll never doubt ya again. Giggs knocks it back in towards Sheringham, who, up until a fortnight ago was United's very own hopeless case and lost cause. And now, thanks to the intervention of St Jude, he's a Manchester United legend. Edwards, Best, Law, Charlton and Sheringham? God, but it's a funny old game. Pandemonium. It's been the same all season, especially in Europe. You take your seat at the start of a game and smile nervously at the tattooed skinhead from Salford who's beside you. But then you share a moment with the same fella that you'll never forget for as long as you live. Like when United equalised against Juventus in Turin. Or, in the same game, when Andy Cole scored the winner seven minutes from time.
The skinhead dissolves into tears, blubbers all over your shoulder and, in a high-pitched voice, tells you he's loves United more than life itself. You hug him and tell him you feel the same way. Later, on reflection, you might feel silly but at that moment that's how you feel and there's not a feeling like it in the world. Later he'll brush himself down, compose himself, remove any traces of tear stains from his face, sharpen his Stanley knife and will sport that mean and nasty look again. But when Teddy Sheringham equalised on Wednesday night he was a pussycat, as threatening as a Tellytubbie. "Do you know the best thing for me about supporting United," said Colm from Dublin, one of a group of us who sat outside a Barcelona bar in one of the city's many glorious boulevards on Wednesday afternoon. "It gives me something to talk to my Da about." We all laughed and said "me too!" "I ring him up and ask him `how's things?'. "Fine," he says. Any news? `No, none,' he says. The car's going alright? `Fine.' And I'm there frantically trying to think of something to say. Anything. And then I say "what d'you think of Giggs's goal last night?' and he's off. We chat for an hour, and I think `thank God for United'."
I'd guess the countless thousands of Irish United fans wandering about Barcelona on Wednesday would feel the same way. And the English, Scottish, Welsh, Norwegian, Danish, Swedish and Maltese United fans. And probably Mike and Warren from Sydney, who'd made the ultimate pilgrimage to see their team chase the ultimate dream. "It's the new nationalism," said Colm, as we watched this United Nations' of United Supporters ambling down the streets of Barcelona. Yes, United are an English club but their English supporters have spent much of the season chanting "you can shove your `England' up yer arse" and "Republic of Manchester", waving Argentina flags at games (in response to the manner in which the English nation turned on David Beckham after his sending off in that World Cup match).
At Wembley, when England are playing, the home supporters boo United players every time they touch the ball. When Beckham went to take a corner for England when they played Luxembourg away last October he was showered in spit. Spit from the mouths of a section of England supporters who can't decide which is worse, to be black or to be a United player.
The United manager said, when offered the England job, "I would only take over England if I could sabotage their team". United fans didn't call for his sacking. They smiled and sang Ferguson's Red and White Army with renewed gusto. On Thursday morning Tony Blair spoke of England's delight at United's success. It simply showed how out of touch he is with his own nation. Half of England rejoiced on Wednesday night, the other half - lovers of all things German for the first time in their lives - was distraught. So, English supporters of United feel a whole lot closer to United fans from Mountmellick or Malmo than they do to a Spurs fan from North London. The pre-match hugging, kissing and hand-shaking around Barcelona on Wednesday simply confirmed this.
That night United fielded players from Denmark, Ireland, Holland, Norway, England, Sweden, Wales and Trinidad and Tobago and their manager was from Scotland. So, those who get upset about Irish fans supporting an English club should think on, it's not that simple. Manchester United belongs to no country, it belongs to its supporters, wherever they're from. And let no hysterical ABUs persuade you otherwise. On Wednesday evening the name of a lad from Mayfield, Cork rang around the Nou Camp as close on 60,000 United fans paid homage to the club captain as they made their way to the ground. Roy Keane, the same player booed by some of his own at Lansdowne Road when he wore the green of Ireland but adored by anyone who follows United.
He didn't play on Wednesday but no single player played a bigger part in getting United to the final. He's been called "the heart and soul" of the team and that's exactly what he is. He hung back from the celebrations on the pitch at the end until the United supporters sang his name again and let him know that they knew they wouldn't even have been there only for him, not least because of his performance against Juventus in the second leg of the semi-finals.
And then there was the lad from Togher, Cork. Denis Irwin. Has there ever been a finer Irish sportsman? A Leeds United reject, signed by Alex Ferguson in June 1990 after he excelled for Oldham against United in the FA Cup semi-final and replay that year. Hardly anyone noticed him moving to Old Trafford because all the attention was on the Irish squad preparing for the World Cup that summer. Typical Irwin, no fuss, no fanfare. But what a footballer. Those who object to proposals that he and Keane should be made Freemen of Cork should just hump off and take their miserable, begrudging, bitter little minds elsewhere. Pathetic.
I'd hardly got the skinhead from Salford, by now a shivering, emotional wreck, back on his feet when Ole Gunnar Solskjaer scored the goal that won Manchester United the European Cup.
When oxygen finally found its way back in to his lungs he bellowed the name of the lad from Mayfield, along with every other United fan in that magnificent stadium. And then I had a quick word with St Jude.
"Doubtcha Boy," I said.
