Arriving in Manchester, again
I arrived in the UK Tuesday to cover a month of women's soccer this side of the Atlantic. Here's my meandering catalog of Mancunian nostalgia, an ode to jet lag & Opening Day at Old Trafford
Flowers and homes, not hotels
For some reason I recall that the first time I arrived in Manchester back in 2017- coincidentally, the summer the last Women’s Euro began- the first thing I did was buy flowers. I’d strolled aimlessly, arriving to a bit of town I didn’t know then but do know now is the Northern Quarter, and decided on something purple. Just a bit of purple, something to place on the desk in the small room near Piccadilly that was newly mine.
The Bud and the Pot’s still there on Oldham Street. It shares street space with the old Castle Hotel, a giant mural of Lionesses’ former-captain Steph Houghton, and a Blockbusters themed cocktail bar. The streets surrounding still overflow with trendy young couples in crop tops and trainers and tattoo sleeves, the signs on the sidewalk still read, “live music tonight”.
Of course, to buy flowers is to intend fleeting permanence upon a place, no matter the transient bloom. One doesn’t buy bouquets for a hotel. Aesthetic surplus is for the places you intend to know, not visit. I was here to stay! For some space of time, anyway.
For some reason as I recalled that specific set of flowers on Oldham Street, I remembered that Brenden Aaronson told me he was buying a house in Leeds, just one hour north of here. His Switzerland space was a rental, he’d said, sitting with me in the lobby of a Cincinnati hotel the night before a friendly against Morocco. But he was moving to England soon, and intended a home in the north. I suppose he intends to stay. For some space of time, anyway.
American explosions, from near and far
I’d taken flight on Independence Day, watching America’s explosions from near and then far. Six hours to Dublin, said the pilot, as I pressed my head to the window, watching the colorful sparks crackling up the coast.
It wasn’t until I arrived in Manchester I learned there were gun explosions beneath the colorful kind that I’d watched from the sky over Philadelphia. Celebratory bursts on the Parkway, interrupted by another crack, the one we all know and fear now. The crowd went running, two cops were shot.
Sleep evaded me through the two flights that brought me here and the jet lag has got me nocturnal. Up at 2 AM Wednesday, I sat staring out another window, this one Manchester lit by night. Resigned to my alert disposition I sipped coffee in the dark, sitting upon a couch perfectly placed to contemplate the view - of here, and of there from here.
I read a bit and listened a bit and wondered a bit for hours in that spot. At one point, I turned on a debate between Peter Hitchens and Owen Jones, then a video labeled, “Is American democracy at its end?”, suggested up next.
Truth be told, sitting-thinking-window-watching is high on my list of preferred hobbies. I’d do it all day, left to my own devices. And in part due to the opportunity it affords me to do this uninterrupted, severe jet lag can sometimes create my favorite moments of frozen time.
I feel exceedingly nostalgic, for example, for the days I worked in Southeast Asia- a 12-hour time-difference from east coast USA- when visits home would send me on weeks-long nocturnal tailspins upon return.
I can still feel myself waking in the midnight hour, laying there on my mattress on the floor in the hot Thai night, waiting for futile sleep’s return. Then descending- sleep defeated- to that old living room couch, reading a copy of The World by Jan Morris still wrapped in its library plastic, snacking on crackers, watching time.
The street below my new perch in Manchester was empty of car and person when first I arrived. But their slow emergence at early sun had coalesced into a congestion by 9 AM, when I decided to take a nap. Just a few hours, enough to get me through Opening Day of the 2022 Women’s Euro at Old Trafford that night.
Conversations in transit, on transit
I’d befriended a woman from Blackpool at the Dublin Airport who didn’t know there was a tournament on. She was on her way home from Alaska, disappointed not to have seen any bears. Would I be traveling by car or train then? There’s a strike on, she wanted me to know, cautioning the resolving can take quite some time.
For some reason she thought I lived in the United Kingdom, asked me for how long. “Well it seems you know the place” she said as we talked. It’s her husband that loves the football, anyhow. “I have no idea”, she’d laughed. Her husband and son and daughter all watch. She writes novels in the other room.
Manchester’s airport is small and familiar and the train into the center had me living in my head a few years back. When once I dwelled here, I oversaw visiting students, and spent non-insignificant time shuttling them to and fro on that line.
The train made slow progress past the green accents on red brick lining the tracks into town. “Taking our time, aren’t we!” laughed the man in yellow vest checking my ticket, as a voice through speaker announced we’d be 7 minutes late.
Oh, the brick. So much brick! Neat red brick suburbs encircling a red brick town. More high-rises on the skyline, though, than I last remember… none of them made of brick- or red- for that matter. I’d counted construction cranes from the sky descending, from the train rattling in, from my jet lagged window-perch in the center of town.
Perhaps unrelated, but I’d spotted a discreet paper sign on the wall of a “proper old English pub”- as the old friend I’d met there put it- which read, ‘the owners intend to go about developing, we need your help to stick around’.
A different kind of crowd
That same friend traversed the city to Old Trafford with me, dropping me off at Sir Alex Ferguson’s gate. Walking down the red brick homes on Sir Matt Busby Way, he pointed out the Munich air disaster memorial banner, the cars parked in odd spots “there’s no parking”, the noticeable demographic difference from a men’s game. So many families, so many young girls.
I’ve seen England’s men play once before, at the World Cup in 2018. Among my first thoughts spectating the women’s side was how different “England!” chants sound in a sold-out crowd not entirely composed of men. “Lionesses” flags flew beside St. George's Cross. Female toilets were near impossible to find. (And an eternity-line to wade through on arrival). “I know it’s an old stadium”, a fellow attendee said, “but surely that’s something you can fix”.
I befriended a man from London as I’d wheeled around looking for one, “Are you lost?”, he’d wanted to know, laughing when I responded no even though I was. “You sure?”
He seemed pleasantly shocked when I said that in fact, I wanted England to win the whole thing, and thought they could, emphasizing the impact on growth of the game here. We mulled over the various threats to that end.
Somehow- because it often feels inevitable- one of us (he) brought up the subject of guns. “Everybody thinks America’s the worst country ever because of the guns,” he said, “but we all have problems. We’re voting on whether to send refugees to Rwanda!” he’d offered, eyes wide to convey the shock of this. And not to mention, tumult in the background that evening with Boris.
In the waning pre-match minutes, we managed to work through comparisons between the United States and European Union, the feasibility of having one country composed of states that are like countries stitched together by constitution, “Which is a horrible idea”, he’d said, and worked through his comical rendition of colleagues in Chicago telling him, “I guess we’re not the best country in the world anymore”, while looking solemnly distraught into distant air.
Before taking off to my seat, I offered my own take or two on American affairs, ending, “Hopefully we figure it out.” To which he replied, “you won’t”, sharing his assured lack of faith in us in a way that felt somehow affectionate and warm.
England’s tournament to lose now
England played reasonably well to start their campaign. Beneath the weight of sold-out crowd, high expectation, and societal implication, they did look shaky at times, perhaps nervous. Austria played tight defensively and lacked threat offensively, a gift, given a few early mistakes from England at the back. Mistakes that included newly crowned captain, Leah Williamson, passing directly to Austria in the box. A flummox other teams would punish.
An elder man sitting behind me yelled, rather comically, LEFT!!, every time the backline gathered the ball. Big Lauren Hemp fan, I imagine, or an astute Fran Kirby observer, anyhow. Lauren Hemp worked the left wing and was named player of the match, teaming up with Fran Kirby who’d shift over going forward as they overloaded the left, gathered the ball, and found runners in the middle. Which is exactly how Beth Mead found England’s only goal in the 16th minute off an assist from Fran Kirby. To the left indeed.
The squad looked well managed and of course their manager, Sarina Wiegman, is no stranger to tournament success. Wiegman famously reneged on her home nation and reigning champions, the Netherlands, to lead England in their present campaign for tournament glory. 1-0 at Old Trafford is a fine way to start that quest.
Though, England’s big early test awaits them Monday 280 miles south, where they’ll have an evening in Brighton with the Norwegians. Norway is newly equipped with their formerly striking (As in, I’m not playing for you until conditions improve) striker, Ada Hegerberg, and is a team exceedingly well-versed in how to win. They share space with the United States and Germany as among the most successful women’s teams. Going head to head with England, they’ve won seven times, drawn once, and lost twice, scoring 23 goals to England’s 7 across those games.
But it’s a new summer and new history is ripe for making. The momentum to me feels firmly in the host nation’s favor. Should the Lionesses’ really “bring it home”, the impact would be immense on the women’s game, not just here but everywhere, given the cultural impact of this nation upon the sport.
I left Old Trafford contemplating a train to Sheffield- where I’ll watch the reigning champions kickoff against the eternal threat of Sweden, who are high on the list of England’s threats- affirmed in my suspicion. This is England’s tournament to lose now.
Welcome back to Manchester