CHAPTER 44: THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

25 December 2012

The morning of December 25th was crisp and quiet, mist hanging low over the cobbled streets of Manchester. Inside the Marshall household, the glow of the Christmas tree spilled warm light across the living room. The air smelled of cinnamon and freshly baked pastries.

Alex sank into the couch, a cup of hot chocolate between his hands, as his family exchanged gifts. His mum handed him a hand‑knitted scarf, brushing hair from his forehead as she smiled. "Something to keep you warm when you're running down the wing," she said.

Alex pulled it on and grinned. "Perfect, Mum. You always think of everything."

His father handed him a framed photograph — Alex making his United debut, captured mid‑dribble. "For the memories, son," he said, voice thick with emotion. "For every chapter you write, we're proud of you."

Jamie waved a long, thin parcel and winked. "Go on, open it." Inside was a whistle, wrapped in United colors. "For when you forget to track back," he said with a smirk.

Alex laughed, shaking his head. "Very funny. Might come in handy when you're barking orders from the touchline one day." He handed Jamie a crisp new United coaching manual, grinning as Jamie flipped through the pages.

Then Alex stood and pulled out two envelopes. "I've got something for both of you, too," he said quietly, voice softening as he passed them to Mum and Dad. Inside were gift vouchers for a long weekend away — a cozy lodge in the Lake District for Mum, and tickets for Dad to watch a classic United match in the executive box.

Mum pressed a hand to her mouth, brushing a tear from her cheek. "Alex… this is too much."

Dad smiled, brushing a hand over Jamie's shoulder, voice wavering just a little. "That's my boy — making moves on the pitch, and making sure those he loves are looked after. Whatever path you walk, son, we're with you."

The room felt warm, rooted in belonging. Whatever came next for the Marshall brothers, this was the foundation they would carry with them — a family built on love, loyalty, and quiet pride.

Later that morning, Alex pulled up to the gates of Carrington, a bag of wrapped gifts slung over his shoulder. The air was crisp, and the staff were just starting to filter in.

At the equipment room, he spotted Tommy, the veteran kitman. The man had been with the club for over 20 years — always a wink, a smile, and a crisp shirt for every match."Morning, Tommy," Alex said, holding out a wrapped parcel. "For all the hours you've kept us looking sharp."

Tommy unwrapped it slowly, brushing a hand across the vintage United shirt inside. "Alex… this is class, lad. You didn't have to."

Alex shrugged, grinning. "You've been part of this club longer than I've been alive. We wouldn't be here without you."

Tommy smiled, swallowing hard, and pulled the shirt to his chest. "Thank you, son. Means more than you know."

Out by the gates, Steve, the security guard, waved as usual. Alex stopped and handed him a thermos wrapped in a red ribbon. "For those long nights when you're holding down the fort, Steve."

The big man gave a shy smile, turning the thermos over in his hands. "Cheers, Alex. Might finally save me from drinking that awful vending machine tea," he said, chuckling.

Then came John, the quiet janitor, brushing leaves off the pathway. He always offered a nod and a shy smile as the lads came in for training.Alex waved him over, holding out a small envelope. "For all the times you've kept this place running like clockwork, John. Treat yourself to a cuppa and a sandwich down at the café. You deserve it."

John's voice was soft. "Thank you, lad. Never expected anything like this… but it means a lot." He shook Alex's hand, smiling like he meant every word.

Each gift was met with genuine gratitude — a handshake, a clap on the shoulder, a quiet word. To Alex, those moments felt just as rewarding as any goal he'd put away. In a world that so often celebrated the stars, it felt right to honor the quiet hands that kept the club beating.

In the quiet of the locker room, Alex pulled his boots from his bag, brushing the dried mud from their soles. His mind wandered back over the last two matches.

The 3–1 win over Sunderland had felt like a statement. United had been sharp, clinical, and confident. Alex came off the bench to help kill the game, making a strong impression down the right flank. The 1–1 draw with Swansea, however, was harder to swallow. United had dominated, but Swansea had refused to break. The sting of dropping points still lingered.

But the biggest test was to come: Newcastle United, Boxing Day, Old Trafford.

26 December 2012

The atmosphere was electric. Old Trafford was packed, a sea of red scarves and Santa hats, the December chill doing nothing to dampen the spirits of the faithful. The sound of songs and chants surged as the camera panned across the stadium, capturing the anticipation on every face.

Martin Tyler "Welcome to Old Trafford for a Boxing Day special — Manchester United versus Newcastle United. The Red Devils, sitting pretty at the top spot in the table, have been in fine form. They have lost yet throughout the season in Premier League yet Gary. Newcastle, hoping to spring a festive surprise. This one promises to be a cracker."

Gary Neville "Absolutely, Martin. United have shown grit and quality this season, and after that draw with Swansea, Sir Alex will be looking for a strong reaction tonight. The crowd are ready, the players are lined up… it's a special atmosphere for this one."

Starting Lineups:

Manchester United (4–4–2):De Gea; Rafael, Ferdinand, Evans, Evra; Valencia, Carrick, Cleverley, Giggs; Van Persie, Hernández

Newcastle United (4–3–3):Krul; Simpson, Williamson, Coloccini, Santon; Tioté, Anita, Bigirimana; Cissé, Ba, Obertan

"A strong United side tonight — Van Persie and Hernández up top, the veteran Ryan Giggs starting on the left, and Michael Carrick pulling the strings in midfield. Meanwhile, Alan Pardew has set up Newcastle with a solid three-man midfield and two lively wingers to test United's fullbacks."

"It's a classic Boxing Day clash. Both sides have quality in attack, and the Old Trafford faithful will be hoping to witness another festive thriller. The referee's whistle goes… and we're underway!"

The ball was rolling, and United surged forward with intent as the noise from the stands rose to a deafening pitch. The theatre was set. The drama was about to unfold.

Jonny Evans broke the deadlock in the 25th minute, and it was far from glamorous — but they all counted the same.

A corner whipped in by Giggs caused chaos in the box. Van Persie flicked it on, and after a brief scramble, the ball deflected off a Newcastle defender's shin. Evans reacted first, stabbing it past Krul from close range.

"It's scrappy, but Evans won't care! Manchester United take the lead on Boxing Day!"

"Just what they needed after a tense few matches. Evans showing a striker's instinct there!"

Old Trafford erupted, a wave of red and white rising to its feet. But Newcastle weren't in the mood to roll over.

Just three minutes later, the visitors silenced the crowd.

Cheick Tioté unleashed a low drive from the edge of the area. De Gea parried it awkwardly, and James Perch was the first to react, sliding in to turn the rebound home.

"And Newcastle hit back immediately! It's 1–1!"

"Poor clearance, shaky hands from De Gea — and Perch pounces. You can't give this Newcastle side a sniff."

The rest of the first half was end-to-end — chances for both sides. Van Persie curled just wide. Demba Ba thundered a header off the bar. Giggs nearly scored with a late run into the box.

The whistle for halftime came like a gasp of air after a fistfight.

It was 1–1, but the drama was far from over

The second half began with urgency — United pushing higher, hungrier, their shape tighter. The words of Sir Alex at halftime had clearly done their job.

In the 58th minute, Old Trafford exploded again.

Robin van Persie jogged over for a corner and whipped in a teasing, curling delivery. Patrice Evra, not known for towering headers, darted between two defenders and met it perfectly — a bullet header into the bottom corner.

"EVRA! What a header! And United are back in front — 2–1!"

"Would you believe it? The left-back with the hunger of a number nine! That's a captain's goal if I've ever seen one."

The Stretford End roared his name. Evra sprinted toward the touchline, sliding on his knees with a clenched fist, teammates piling on.

But Newcastle weren't done.

Just ten minutes later, they struck back on the break. A sloppy pass in midfield was intercepted by Tioté, who quickly released Papiss Cissé. The striker raced toward the box, drew two defenders, and slipped in Sylvain Marveaux on the left. Marveaux took a touch and clipped it past De Gea with composure.

"This is unreal — Newcastle draw level again! 2–2 at Old Trafford!"

"United just can't shake them off. That's a quality counterattack — clinical from the Magpies."

The crowd groaned, nerves growing. What had started as a festive Boxing Day clash was now a knife fight in the cold. With over twenty minutes left to play, it was anyone's game.

Then came Van Persie.

It was the 71st minute when United strung together a move straight from the training ground — Carrick with a clever switch to Valencia, a quick touch inside to Cleverley, then a deft flick into the path of Rooney. With a single glance, Rooney threaded the needle to Van Persie inside the box.

The Dutchman didn't hesitate. One touch to steady, one to strike — low, fierce, and into the bottom corner. The Stretford End erupted.

"Van Persie again! Ruthless finish — and that is why Sir Alex brought him to Old Trafford!"

"Ice in his veins. That was a world-class striker doing what he does best — and United are back in front!"

From the back, Rio let out a roar. "That's why we signed him!" he yelled, pointing toward the crowd with a grin as players surrounded Van Persie.

But Newcastle still weren't done.

Just six minutes later, the visitors hit back. A corner swung in, panic in the box, and it fell kindly for Papiss Cissé, who rifled home through a crowd. 3–3.

The Etihad hadn't been this tense, but Old Trafford now felt just as breathless.

"Newcastle refuse to die! This match is absolutely insane!"

"What a game we have here — every time United think they've wrapped it up, the Magpies claw right back in!"

Alex stood on the sidelines, heart pounding, already going through warm-up motions. Sir Alex turned toward him, jaw tight.

"Get ready, son," the gaffer muttered. "We're not letting this slip."

The board had gone up: +4 minutes.

Old Trafford was on the edge of its seat. 3–3. A wild, relentless Christmas cracker of a match.

Alex stood just inside Newcastle's half, the ball at his feet. A shout from Sir Alex: "Last chance, make it count!"

He took a deep breath… and took off.

Cissé lunged — Alex spun past him.

Tioté closed in — he chopped the ball back inside, leaving the midfielder grasping at air.

Then came Coloccini — the veteran stepped in with strength — but Alex feinted, slid the ball through his legs, and burst forward down the right edge of the box.

"Oh my word, Alexander Marshall! He's slicing through this defence like it's nothing!"

"This kid is 16! SIXTEEN! What a run!"

Reaching the byline, Alex looked up once. Hernández was darting across the near post. No hesitation.

A perfectly weighted cross zipped in low and sharp.

Hernández met it with a diving header — glancing it past the sprawling Krul and into the far corner.

GOAL! 4–3 UNITED!

Old Trafford exploded.

"Chicharito wins it! What a ball from Marshall! What a finish! United do it at the death!"

"That assist from Marshall was sheer magic — breathtaking. And the poacher supreme finishes the job!"

Hernández ripped his shirt off as he wheeled away in celebration, teammates mobbing him in the corner. Alex dropped to his knees on the sideline, pumping both fists in the air, chest heaving, the sound of 75,000 fans shaking the very soul of the stadium.

Sir Alex turned to his bench, smiling beneath his breath.

"That boy," he muttered. "That bloody boy..."

The final whistle blew seconds later.

United 4. Newcastle 3. A match for the ages — and a moment that would live forever in the legend of Alexander Marshall.

 Sir Alex found him after the match, resting a hand on his shoulder. "That's the work, lad. Might not be on the scoresheet tonight, but you kept that right side solid when we needed it. Never forget — the little things win titles."

Alex smiled, brushing hair out of his eyes, brushing off the sting of the draw with Swansea and focusing on the resilience shown tonight.

As he stood at the edge of the pitch after the match, floodlights still burning, the air crisp and electric, Alex felt a quiet sense of belonging. Christmas with family, moments of giving thanks, victories hard‑won, setbacks learned from — this was life. This was football.

And for Alex Marshall, it was only the beginning. Whatever came next, he was ready.