CR7 - prodigal son returning home

The time is currently 4:22am.

I’m sitting in a hotel in Stratford, London—on a weekend trip visiting family, away from home in little old Small Heath, Birmingham—where the feeling of jubilation still hasn’t come down from its climax.

A spontaneous post about Ronaldo? No. This is a post about the prodigal son returning home.

Some things transcend teams, competition, and even sport. This is one of those things.

The saga may now be over, but the rhythm still lingers—like a beautiful crescendo resolving into cathartic revelation. Watching from the outside in, we witnessed the opera of Ronaldo’s Serie A frustration, the whispers of a ‘new challenge’, the heart-sinking news that Manchester City were in talks, and then the gut-punch that they had ‘agreed personal terms’ just a day later.

I didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. United fans everywhere were in shock. Disbelief. Incredulity. The idea that our golden child, the crown jewel of our past, would join our noisy neighbours? It felt like betrayal on an unspeakable level. Not just a missed signing—this would have been the son you raised turning his back. The star-crossed lover walking away. A piece of our footballing soul being scrubbed from history.

But life, as it does, had other plans. Like a classic CR7 knuckleball free-kick—it dipped, curved, and found the corner.

Returning from Jumu’a (Friday prayers) around 1:30pm, my phone exploded with Twitter notifications. Snippets from Ole’s press conference, Fabrizio Romano stoking the flames of hope. I showed my younger brother the tweets, and we both smiled. “If Ole pulls this off, I’m Ole in again,” he said. I laughed: “It’s not even Ole that does the signings! But if we get Ronaldo, forget London. I’m cancelling family—Ronaldo’s back!”

I paced up and down the house: living room to attic and back again, in a state of unshakable anticipation. My mind was off London entirely. I procrastinated with purpose, refreshing Fabrizio’s Twitter, watching United Stand, United View. Mark Goldbridge was live—what was he saying? Were the tables turning?

I managed to fix myself a plate of food, more out of habit than hunger, as we left for London. In Asian households, newlyweds visiting family are welcomed with grand hospitality. I had several visits planned—gifts, feasts, five-star treatment. All of that suddenly felt distant. My head was split between TV, phone, and MacBook, clinging to every shred of hope that the hero of my boyhood was coming home.

The rumours intensified. Speculation turned to belief. And then:

Fabrizio Romano, 27/08/21, 4:48pm: “HERE WE GOOOO.”

The internet melted. United fans everywhere lost their minds.

Somehow, I managed to get dressed. Sky Sports News confirmed it. Manchester United had re-signed Cristiano Ronaldo. I don’t usually watch SSN anymore—mocked now as “Slow Sports News”—but this moment felt poetic. Before the days of Twitter, it was all I had. We couldn’t afford sports channels growing up. MOTD and SSN were my lifelines to United.

It took me right back. To the night I screamed “Dimitarrrrrr!” into the early hours when Berbatov signed. To the obsessive excitement over Tevez, Obertan, Nani, the Da Silva twins. Here I was at 24, beaming at a TV channel I hadn’t truly engaged with in years, watching them announce the return of my hero—as if I were in primary school again.

Another flashback: first day at my new secondary school (post-managed move). Bryan Swanson’s face on SSN announcing Ronaldo’s dream move to Real Madrid. £80 million. A world record.

My world shattered.

I’ve always been sentimental. My loyalty to United came from family tradition, but my adoration for Ronaldo? That came from a naïve moment on Pro Evo. I picked him by chance—liked the name, liked the style. From that point on, he was my player.

I had every United shirt with a 7 on the back. That became my lucky number. I was a fat kid with self-esteem issues who hated shopping for clothes—but I wore those shirts with pride. Two Eids a year, without fail. From Year 6 till he left in Year 9.

The day he left broke me. It wasn’t just about football. It symbolised a shift. An end to a chapter I’d clung to. That moment was stitched into the tapestry of difficult personal times that followed. Ronaldo came to symbolise a happier part of life. His departure coincided with darker moments. His return? It felt like the exorcism of that sadness.

You might roll your eyes. I get it. But if you know, you know.

Ronaldo coming back wasn’t about trophies. It wasn’t about tactics. It wasn’t even about nostalgia in the shallow sense. It was deeper. Cultural. Emotional. Psychological. The prodigal son had returned.

And it wasn’t just Ronaldo. Ole had restored a sense of identity. Sancho had signed. Varane had signed. The Sikh Musketeers were back at Old Trafford. I got married. I got a promotion. Everything felt aligned.

To rival fans: we’re not saying Ronaldo would win us the league. This was never just about football. It was about a feeling—rare, irreplicable, and meaningful in ways only we can fully grasp.

Cristiano R7onaldo returned home.

SUUUUUUU!

Update: 17.03.24

By most accounts, Ronaldo’s return ended up bittersweet. But I echo my own words:

“We are not saying he will be the footballing miracle to success/trophies for us. Again this is just a different type of feeling you wouldn’t know unless you experienced it—laced with so much wholesome fondness, sentiment and nostalgic value it is a rarity which is, and will be embraced regardless of his performances on the pitch.”

Do I regret the transfer? No.

Would I do it again? Absolutely.

Sometimes you lead with the heart.

And CR7’s return will always be one for the culture.

SIUU!