Oh Me of Little Faith

I woke up late and missed the first five minutes of the Derby—Manchester United hosting our rivals Manchester City.

The Reds actually started out quite smoothly, and, although I was hoping for a loss, albeit a CLOSE loss to the powder blues, I just have seen enough games of City to see firsthand the unrivalled scoring power of their offense.

I would settle for a one-goal loss; it would show an improving trend against better teams in the table.

I know, blasphemy.


Why would I think there was anything other than business as usual (and business is bad)?

The manager comes in and, as they all do, he wants to put his stamp on the team he is building.

So who would be the one person to take down to show his unquestioned authority than arguably, the greatest player to have ever played the game?


He deserved better.

United should operate with more class than that.

So each step he made, I criticized.

I dogged him when he kept Marcus Rashford too long before playing him and opening up his game which, when at top form as he is right now, is something to behold and oh, by the way, one point out of second place.

He was putting together shite for lineups.

I dogged him when he brought in that midget Lisandro Martinez from Argentina.

I dogged him as he brought in players who would fit his system and not necessarily the biggest names or attention-getters.

Who were these guys?

I thought Casemiro was a waste of money.

So then I questioned Ten Hag’s managerial resume.

A couple of titles.

In the Netherlands.

My dogs Murphy and Bruiser have won as many Premier League titles as Ten Hag has.

So we started losing and when Villa popped us in a 3-1 defeat, I figured we were doomed to settle for being a perennial top TEN team and forget about top four.

Out of the question.

So all I had left was to call him names because of his bald head: baldie, skinhead, cue ball, egghead, chrome dome, and my personal favorite baldielocks.

I guess part of that was jealousy because he is one of the guys who actually looks good with a bald pate.

I look like a lice-ridden skeleton of a prisoner-of-war.

With no hair.

Not a pretty sight.

So, back to Derby Day.

I could not believe what I was looking at. The Reds were swarming and winning every contested ball. They dominated the midfield all match long. They shut down the powerful City scoring machine and there was something that was creeping up on us. It was that old feeling that by God, Manchester United are back and there’s hell to pay!

The 2-1 final score sent the frenzied fans home with a smile that will last until we meet City next.

There will be a lot of johnny-come-lately bandwagon jumpers, but not me.

I knew it all along.

Stay well.

Published by maddogg09

I am an unmotivated genius with an extreme love for anything that moves the emotional needles of our lives.

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