In almost three decades of following United, my memories of events on the field are as much about sharing them with my dad as the action itself. I can still see him losing it after Kiko’s winner against Villa, leaping and screaming his way through the 1999 Champions League final, wincing and cursing after he’d been coined while celebrating Coley’s clincher in Turin. I could list thousands more amazing moments made all the sweeter by their familial association.
It’s credit to him that he kept trying to coax me to Old Trafford during my formative years. For a lazy, rotund youth like me, sport held little appeal.