Chapter 25: Echoes of a Classic

30 September 2012

The morning after felt electric.

Newspapers were splashed with bold headlines:

"Baby-Faced Saviour" – The Sun

"Marshall Rescues United in Six-Goal Thriller" – Telegraph Sport

"A Star is Born?" – BBC Football

On Sky Sports, a special panel dissected every detail.

Gary Neville "Look at this touch here — just look at it. He brings the ball down like he's been doing it for ten years. That final goal… composure, balance, and timing. Sixteen, folks. Let that sink in."

Roy Keane gruffly "He's talented, sure. But let's not crown him yet. Let's see how he responds when things don't go his way."

Jamie Carragher "Still needs to bulk up — but the intelligence off the ball, the decision-making, that's elite. I didn't like how he made our midfield look like cones last week, but credit where it's due."

Gary Lineker laughing "If he keeps this up, England might not bottle another tournament!"

Online Buzz

On RedCafe and fan forums, opinions were flying fast:

@RedDevilDave92:

"He's 16 and playing like Özil in 2010. We're cooking something special."

@ToffeeTerror:

"One game. Relax. Seen wonderkids flop before."

@MarshallSzn (new fan account):

"I'll walk barefoot to Old Trafford if he doesn't win Young Player of the Year."

The Marshall Household – Manchester

Alex sat curled on the couch in his United hoodie, a bowl of Frosties in his lap, half-watching the replay of last night's match on Match of the Day. His phone buzzed on the coffee table every few seconds — Twitter notifications, missed calls, messages from old schoolmates, reporters, and a couple of blue ticks he didn't recognize.

His mum leaned on the doorway frame, her arms crossed, a tea towel slung over one shoulder, and a grin that stretched across her face.

"You're all over the telly again," she said, shaking her head. "I can't even go to Tesco without someone asking if I'm your mum."

Alex chewed slowly, pretending to ponder."Tell them no," he said through a mouthful of cereal. "Say your son's a humble doctor. Lives in Leeds. Drives a used Honda."

"Humble doctor doesn't get chased by Sky Sports vans," she shot back, walking in to ruffle his already messy blonde hair.

On the recliner opposite, his dad folded up the Manchester Evening News, the page still open to a match report that called Alex "the brightest talent to emerge from Carrington in the last decade."

He looked at his son — not just with pride, but with something deeper. Almost reverence.

"You didn't just play well," he said quietly. "You showed you belong."

Alex paused mid-chew. That landed heavier than any headline. He nodded once. A small one. But meaningful.

Just then, his older brother, Jamie, wandered in with a smirk, arms full of toast and a half-charged phone.

"Oi, starboy," Jamie said, dropping into the armchair with dramatic flair. "Might be time to ask for your autograph, eh? Could flog it on eBay before you get too expensive."

Alex grabbed a throw pillow and chucked it at him.

"You'd sell my autograph?"

"Not if you promise me a free boot deal."

"You don't even wear boots," Alex said, laughing.

"Exactly. That's why I'll need them free."

Their mum rolled her eyes. "Right, enough of that. Both of you — no fighting unless it's over the dishes."

Jamie leaned over and tapped Alex's buzzing phone."By the way, Gareth Bale just followed you on Instagram. And so did some lad from Barcelona's academy. Think you're international now, bro."

Alex's eyes widened slightly.

"Wait, what?"

He grabbed his phone — sure enough, the notifications were insane. Mentions in different languages. A message request from someone named F. Totti. A blue tick from @GarethBale11.

"What is happening," he muttered, scrolling.His dad raised an eyebrow. "Better get used to it, son. This... is only the beginning."

The room fell quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft voice of the MOTD commentator on TV, repeating the line:

"...Alexander Marshall. Just sixteen. But already rewriting expectations at Old Trafford."

Alex looked up at his family — their eyes, their pride, their love — and felt the weight settle.

"Guess I better keep earning it."

Somewhere in Lisbon – Jorge Mendes' Office

Dim lighting. Smooth jazz drifted from a hidden speaker. The room smelled of sandalwood and leather — minimalist, expensive, sharp.

A glowing screen on the wall played extended highlights from Manchester United vs Tottenham. The clip looped for the third time.

Alexander Marshall: one touch, a burst of acceleration, a subtle delay in his run — then that perfectly weighted strike.

Jorge Mendes didn't blink.

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on the glass desk, the reflection of the screen flickering across his tailored suit.

He'd seen plenty of wonderkids. Most were all flash and fumes — gone the moment they faced adversity.

But this one…

That touch... that burst... that pause before the final strike. He doesn't think like a kid. He thinks like a killer. A decision-maker. Cold eyes under a babyface.

His desk was bare, except for a gold Montblanc pen and a small notebook made of crocodile leather. On the cover: a single embossed word — clients.

Alexander Marshall's name wasn't in there.

Yet.

Then his phone buzzed. Mendes picked it up without looking.

"Luís," he said calmly. "You're still close with Nani, yes?"

A laugh came from the other end. "Of course. We played poker last week."

"Call him." Mendes' tone was still quiet, but there was something electric in his stillness. "I want to know everything about Alexander Marshall. What he's like. How he trains. If he listens."

There was a pause. "Is he that good?"

Mendes stood and walked toward the glass wall, gazing over Lisbon's skyline.

"I think," he said slowly, "he's going to be better than good. I think he might be next."

Later That Evening 

Nani answered with a laugh. "Why do you always call when someone scores a banger?"

"Because I know talent before the world does," Mendes replied, walking with a glass of wine in hand. "Tell me about the boy."

Nani's voice grew more thoughtful.

"He's grounded. Sharp. Doesn't act like a star — but he plays like one. The lads rate him. And Sir Alex…"He hesitated."Sir Alex watches him like a project. Like he's building something one last time."

Mendes smiled faintly.

"And what about the ego?"

"None. Not yet," Nani said. "But he's got fire. You can see it when he's quiet. He's not here to play around — he wants to win."

Mendes returned to his desk and opened the leather notebook. He wrote in elegant, fast strokes:

Alexander MarshallAge 16. Position: AM/W. United DNA. Killer instincts. Humble. Obsessed. Potential captaincy profile.

He underlined one word: Special.

"I'll be in Manchester soon," he said quietly, as the screen replayed the final goal one more time behind him.

A boy who moved like he had déjà vu on the pitch.He doesn't just play like a professional…He plays like he's seen the future.