So, farewell then, CR7.
The long goodbye that began in earnest in summer
2008, with Real Madrid’s entreaties, and the drip-drip of public
pronouncements from sloganeers, has finally played itself out. The
fabled shirt is vacant once more.
For those who mourn the passing of one of the modern game’s finest
talents, a word of advice: don’t dab your eyes as he dots the ‘I’s
on his new contract. Memories are wonderful and precious things,
but that, ultimately, is all they are. They will not win trophies,
nor push us forward; and the quest for fresh challenges has always
kept Sir Alex one step ahead of the chasing pack.
Manchester United, as the boss has always said, are bigger than one
man. A constant summer of constant speculation would have benefited
no-one.
We’ve been down this road before, of course. We were told we should
never have sold the goals of Ruud van Nistelrooy; that we would
never replace David Beckham’s dead-ball expertise, or transplant
the lungs and heart of Roy Keane anew. We did and we have. There
will be new names to conjure with, new songs to learn and
sing.
Of course, we will miss Ronaldo’s quest for invention; yes we will
smile fondly as we recall the astonishing, buck-toothed,
spaghetti-haired kid who bewildered Bolton’s defence for 29-minutes
six summers back. That initial cameo was a performance so dripping
with wit and wonder, those fortunate enough to have seen George
Best in the flesh were moved to make comparison. Six summers: half
a career.
Will he burn brightly enough to score 42 goals in a
season in Spain? Who knows? Will he miss the arm of Sir Alex, the
paternal, protective touch in those long, dark moments of the soul?
Probably. Will we miss him? Yes, of course – those capable of
pinging in 40-yarders to order are in short order. But we can and
will move on. The adventure continues.
Goodbye Cristiano and good luck. You will live in interesting
times; the times you leave behind may yet prove to have been the
most interesting.