At Old Trafford, football  is a beautiful way of life

You always imagine it, dream it even. How it must feel like to watch your favourite team, players square it out with their rivals on the immaculately manicured grass.

You watch as fans fill the stadium dressed mostly in red, screaming, singing, chanting and clapping as they watch their do what they do best.

Everything is just but a dream, you know that it ranks high up your bucket list and you know that if your body and wallet stay fit and God keeps you alive, that list must be ticked. It becomes a goal. A challenge. A prayer.

Then one day, everything falls into place, you find yourself on a plane to Manchester headed to the hallowed grounds of Old Trafford.

My body is fit, my wallet, well, it can do better but thanks to the good folks at Guinness and their “Get booked” campaign, the dream is about to turn to reality at the Theatre of Dreams, the European capital of trophies, the home of Manchester United.

I am at London’s Heathrow Airport and in a few hours, if there are no delays, I will be seated at the Sir Alex Ferguson Stand Tier 2 watching the team I have supported for years play Newcastle. I can’t wait, my sports Mecca awaits. This is a pilgrimage.

At Heathrow, I see a smattering of Manchester United red jerseys and I get excited. I expected the whole plane to be full of Manchester United fans but then I remember Manchester is not just about football, it is a city of more than 500,000 and whose metropolitan economy is the third largest in the United Kingdom.

The fans are calm, I expected loud and boisterous people walking in packs but that is not the case. One has his headphones on and was reading the Daily Mail, another was busy petting his girlfriend’s hair.

These are normal people, not the fans I expected. You will have to forgive me, in Nairobi whenever the two biggest football teams — Gor Mahia and AFC Leopards — are playing, you see them, scratch that, you feel them. They are loud, a nuisance, especially when a few decide to take over the roads… Back to Manchester.

The flight is on time and together with my new found friend, Rama, a Twitter bigwig, can’t wait to watch our favourite team “live live”. The flight is just 60 minutes long but might as well be nine hours like from Nairobi to Heathrow when you are full of anticipation.

Finally at our destination, I discover British Airways didn’t get my bags to Manchester. Any other time, I would have blown a gasket, but not today, nothing will ruin this momentous day. I just report to the customer care desk who assure me I will get my bags before end of the day.

BEAUTIFUL CITY

The city is beautiful, a perfect blend of old and new. One part of the city is stuck in 1820 during the industrial revolution and has been perfectly preserved over the years.

You drive a few metres and find imposing modernity in the name of The Beetham Tower, one of the world’s slimmest skyscrapers. I do not have time to enjoy the view, I am looking for one thing, Old Trafford. I know we are near when I see crowds all headed in one direction.

Silent. Like they are under the spell of the pied piper.

 Again, I expected loud and overexcited people but what I got were people who this is their culture. They might as well have been going to work. This is a walk they have done for years so no need for whistles, drums, perched on other people’s cars. That is for amateurs.

We turn a corner and all you can see is a sea of red. People everywhere. Thousands of people in perfect harmony. There is no traffic, you don’t need to watch out for pickpockets, these are people with one thing on their mind, football. If this was Kenya, every third person would be an anti-riot police with the baton and tear gas on the ready.

The driver stops and says he can’t drive up anymore so we will have to walk. We alight and that is when I see it. Old Trafford. It is real and I am here. It is huge, majestic actually. The words Manchester United proudly let me know that I am not lost. I take selfies, don’t judge me, this is allowed.

But while I was excited about the outside, my heart would literally skip a beat when the steward took my ticket and showed me my seat. Row 12, seat 6. It was surreal, I fast realised my dreams did not do the place justice.

I get to my seat,  and then I look up, look, there’s Rooney, wait, it’s Schweinsteiger, oh my, is that Mata? Calm down my poor heart, as I try not to make a fool of myself.

I want to scream out their names but quickly remember I am in the VIP section so I have to act like I have been here before, like it is no big deal. But it is a big deal. I just smile and take a photo. I want to take a selfie but nobody around me is even on their phone so I tuck mine in my pocket and start taking it all in.

A whooping 75,500 fans showed up for the match. I have never seen these many people in one place in my life.

The crowd on my right at the Stretford End stands are having all the fun, that is where all the chants, songs and excitement are coming from. They do not sit even for a minute, I love the VIP stand but Stretford End is where life is.

Nobody is on phone, it is not illegal, just that the people are not here to tweet or post selfies on Instagram, they are here to watch their team play.

Time moves faster than it does on TV, at least that is the feeling. 90 minutes are very short, this should go on for hours. I don’t want to leave.

But since I have to, I am praying for a goal, I want to feel the maddening cheers that fill the stadium when the team scores. That never comes but never takes away the excitement.

Wayne Rooney almost scores, we all rise — almost never counts here but it brings with it chants of “Come on Reds” and “United”.

The final whistle comes and the disappointed but upbeat supporters quickly head to the exit. The one thing that shocks you is how fast the stadium empties. Rama and I are in no rush to leave and we start taking photos and we get a pleasant surprise. No, Rooney never shows up but rather a fellow Kenyan who works at Old Trafford as a marshal.“Vipi wasee?” he salutes us.

We turn, shocked to hear Swahili so many miles away from home. “Mnatoka Kenya? Mimi natoka Mombasa nimekua hapa miaka kumi.”

We get him to take a few photos before the stadium is closed. Outside, people have left, still no traffic despite 75,000 people walking and driving home. If this was back home… Forget it, this is was my home for 90 minutes and I have good memories to last me until the next time I show up and join my brothers and sisters at Stretford