Come on United, don’t take the Michael?!

Some people love spring, the early blossoming of daffodils, the first day of genuine T-shirt weather. Others, they love Christmas, presents, family, good food and drink, terrible television. Me, I love this time of year. The new football season has finally begun, the cricket is exciting, and the new football season has finally begun. The Football League is well under way and the Premier League is 12 days and 16 matches old. Markers have been set down, new signings have been blooded, and pundits have made their predictions.


Liverpool have given us a glimpse of the bad and the nearly beautiful, with Glen ‘Armitage Shanks’ Johnson in particular, looking very impressive. Manchester City look like they have spent more wisely than many had anticipated. Some big names in football, Sir Alex included, rubbished there chances this term, lets just hope someone buys the Scot a hat made from liqueur chocolates this Xmas, he may need it. Ancelotti’s Chelsea, 2 from 2 so far, look like being as strong as ever, if by ever you mean the last five years. Arsenal will in all likelihood, continue to thrash all comers beyond redemption without troubling the engraver and his pencil come May.


The real story of this first week and a half though, is at Old Trafford, and the travails of a certain half-pint sized striker. A substitute on Sunday, as United squeaked past Birmingham, he was on from the start Wednesday night, as Burnley sprang a shock 1-0 victory. The Clarets win does not mean they will stay up, and United’s defeat does not mean they won’t win the league, far too early for predictions of that sort. However, what screams at me from the match at Turf Moor is this. You have lost two major forwards from your side in Ronaldo and Tevez. Your only major signing up front to these vacancies is an ex-England striker, who has failed to score in pre-season and has a point to prove. Late in the first half, 1-0 down, you get a penalty, over to you, fill your boots, get off the mark Michael….. CARRICK???


When Michael Owen appears on the television at the moment, I have to look away. His body language is terrible, shoulders hunched, he looks almost embarrassed to be there. He wears on his tormented face the harrowing memories of every moment of his Newcastle nightmare. Michael Owen, shoulders hunched, failure, relegated, injured too much, dropped from the England squad. An England squad he has been part of since he was 17 years of age. This is Owen’s last chance to fulfil his potential, and he knows it. His last chance to win a League Title, a Champions League, perhaps even a World Cut to sit on the mantle with his golden boots, Ballon d’Or and assorted cups from a glorious heyday at Liverpool.


What should not be forgotten is that officially, Owen is in his prime. Yes, his pace will never come close to that which destroyed the Argentinean rearguard in 1998. Perhaps he will never again feel the love of supporters that greeted his early career at Anfield. But this is Michael Owen. England’s top striker for the last decade, 9 goals short of Sir Bobby Charlton’s record in an England shirt, and this is a World Cup year. Now forgive me for being a sentimentalist, but it all looks set up for Owen to have one last hurrah. Just imagine, the World Cup final, the 90th minute, Argentina and England tied at one apiece, and Owen nips in at the near post to snatch the winner, his 50th for his country. All he needs is a goal to get him started, to wipe that hang-dog expression off his face, put the spring back in his step. So please Manchester United, next time you get a penalty, for everyone’s sake, give it to the right Michael.