The player tunnel at Old Trafford is heavy with history.
But today, it was filled with warmth.
The Manchester United players broke rank, ignoring the pre-match tension to embrace the stocky, bearded man in the blue kit.
Handshakes turned into hugs.
"Long time no see, Wazza." "Good to see you, legend."
Wayne Rooney, the club's all-time leading goalscorer, smiled, patting cheeks and gripping shoulders.
As the referee signaled for the teams to line up, Rooney instinctively turned to his left, beginning the walk toward the front of the line—the captain's spot, the Manchester United side.
He took two steps before he froze.
A complex expression washed over his face—a mix of muscle memory and sudden, jarring realization.
He looked down at his chest.
It was Everton blue, not United red.
He stopped, shook his head with a rueful grin, and stepped over to the visitors' line.
It was a small moment, but it spoke volumes.
A few minutes later, the referee team led the players out into the cauldron.
As Rooney emerged from the tunnel, Old Trafford seemed to inhale.
The fans rubbed their eyes, the image of that Scouser in blue triggering a decade of memories.
Then, the applause began.
It started as a ripple and swelled into a roar.
It wasn't just polite clapping; it was a thunderous, standing ovation.
Although his departure had been quiet, his thirteen years of service, the goals, the trophies, the sheer bloody-minded will to win—that was indelible.
Rooney looked up, his eyes glistening slightly, and waved to the Stretford End.
But as the applause died down, the gaze of the Old Trafford faithful shifted.
They looked past the legend of yesterday to the figure standing on the left wing in red.
The black-haired teenager, Jeremy Ling.
The sentiment in the stands shifted from nostalgia to a buzzing, electric anticipation.
'We loved the past', the crowd seemed to say, 'but how far can you take us in the future?'
...
🎙️ Sky Sports Live Broadcast Room
"Good evening, dear viewers! Welcome to the Theatre of Dreams!"
Martin Tyler's voice was crisp and energetic, cutting through the ambient noise of the stadium feed.
"Today, we are broadcasting the fifth round of the 2017-18 Premier League season. It's Manchester United versus Everton! A classic fixture with a heavy narrative weight today."
"Let me introduce the starting lineups. In the red shirts, attacking from left to right, is Manchester United. Mourinho continues with the 4-2-3-1 formation. And look at this, Jeremy Ling, is making his second Premier League start!"
"Facing them in blue is Everton. Ronald Koeman persists with a three-at-the-back system: Jagielka, Ashley Williams, and Michael Keane. Leighton Baines and Cuco Martina occupy the wing-back positions, while Schneiderlin and Idrissa Gueye anchor the midfield."
"Dangerous players lurk up top: the 'Icelandic Sniper' Gylfi Sigurðsson and young Tom Davies supporting Wayne Rooney."
...
The match began at a breakneck pace.
The formations of the two teams immediately intertwined like fingers lacing together.
Everton, emboldened by Koeman's instructions, didn't sit back.
They pressed high, aiming to seize the initiative and rattle the hosts.
Under this high-intensity pressure, Manchester United's greatest fear was realized: the absence of Paul Pogba was a gaping wound.
Without the Frenchman's ability to hold the ball and glide past challenges, the link between midfield and attack was severed.
Fellaini and Matić were strong, but they lacked that fluid creativity.
In the 4th minute, the cracks showed.
Morgan Schneiderlin, reading the game with the familiarity of a man who used to train on this pitch, anticipated a pass intended for Fellaini.
He stepped in, intercepted the ball cleanly, and immediately slotted a diagonal pass into the half-space.
Tom Davies received it, holding off Matić with his back to goal, and laid it off to the flank.
"It's Sigurðsson!" Martin tyler shouted.
The Icelandic playmaker didn't hesitate. Finding himself with a yard of space 30 meters out, he unleashed a venomous drive.
BANG!
The ball flew like a bullet from a sniper rifle, swerving violently toward the top left corner.
But David De Gea was the best in the world for a reason.
He had been tracking the movement, his muscles coiled.
He exploded sideways, his body fully extended, and parried the ball out for a corner with a strong left hand.
"Brilliant save!" Tyler exclaimed. "Just minutes in, and we have a blockbuster on our hands!"
De Gea scrambled up, roaring at his defenders.
"Close him down! Don't give him that space! I can't save them every time!"
It wasn't blame; it was a command.
On the touchline, Mourinho stood motionless, but his eyes narrowed.
Everton was clogging the middle, daring United to play through a concrete wall.
He glanced at Koeman, who stood with his hands in his pockets, looking utterly confident.
The Dutchman had a reputation as a "Giant Killer" from his days managing Ajax, Benfica, and PSV.
He believed he had Mourinho's number.
He believed he could turn this game into an attritional war and win on mistakes.
...
As the first half progressed, United struggled to advance centrally.
Every time Mkhitaryan or Mata tried to turn, Gueye or Schneiderlin was there, snapping at their heels.
So, the flow of the game shifted.
By design or by necessity, the ball found its way to the left flank.
To Jeremy Ling.
Cuco Martina, the Everton right-back, crouched low.
He had watched the tapes.
He knew if he dove in, this kid would embarrass him. So he retreated, giving Ling space but denying the breakthrough.
Ling controlled the ball.
In the past, he would have driven straight at Martina, trying to force a dribble.
But today, a voice echoed in his head.
'Be the magnet. Draw them in.'
Ling didn't sprint down the line.
Instead, he cut inside, driving diagonally into the "half-space"—that dangerous channel between the fullback and the center-back.
Behind him, Ashley Young recognized the cue and thundered forward on the overlap, screaming for the ball.
Martina panicked.
He had to respect the overlap, but he couldn't let Ling drive into the box.
He hesitated, stepping back.
This movement triggered Idrissa Gueye.
The Everton defensive midfielder saw Ling drifting inside and saw the danger. He abandoned his central post to close Ling down.
It was a pincer movement.
Martina blocking the line, Gueye closing from the center. From a bird's-eye view, Everton's shape compressed around the young winger.
They were hunting him.
Perfect, Ling thought.
He wasn't the prey. He was the bait.
As Gueye rushed in, leaving his zone, a massive pocket of space opened up in the center of the park—right where Nemanja Matić was standing, completely unmarked.
Ling waited until the last possible second, until he could smell the grass on Gueye's boots.
Then, with a lightning-fast flick of his ankle—CRACK!
It wasn't a dribble. It wasn't a shot. I
t was a sharp, reverse pass that sliced against the grain of play.
The ball rolled perfectly into the vacuum Gueye had just vacated.
The Everton players were baffled.
They had collapsed on the winger, and suddenly the ball was gone.
Matić didn't even have to take a touch to settle it.
He stepped onto the rolling ball, his head up. Because Gueye was gone, the passing lane to the striker was wide open.
Like a knife through butter, Matić played a weighted, piercing through-ball, splitting Jagielka and Williams.
Romelu Lukaku had already started his run.
The big Belgian, facing his former club, muscled past the defenders and latched onto the pass.
Jordan Pickford rushed off his line, shouting, making himself big.
But it was too late.
Lukaku kept his composure. He opened his body and firmly slotted the ball into the far corner, the net rippling with a satisfying swish.
1-0!!!
Old Trafford erupted.
Lukaku didn't celebrate out of respect for his old team, merely pointing to the sky, but his teammates swarmed him.
On the sideline, Mourinho didn't look at the goalscorer.
He looked at Ling, who was high-fiving Ashley Young. He nodded with a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
The magnet had worked.
The lock was picked.