Sir Alex has left the building.

Us human beings are suckers when it comes to dealing with death and other such deep, dark places. Denial is usually our favourite companion during such times. It helps us live under an illusion of comfort, not allowing the feeling to sink in. It stops the machismo, that we so often flaunt, from being washed down by tears. It prevents the candle of hope, that even hooligans keep lit alongside their knives, from being put out by a silly old breeze that creeps through the cracked garage window. Sir Alex’s retirement has been one such dark, deep place for me. A space I share with a friend. A friend I call denial.

For me, and several others who are my age, Sir Alex Ferguson is Manchester United. Players have gone, players have come, but Fergie remained. He has been the constant, an inevitability that straight-armed every juggernaut that came its way – Be it foreign money, younger managers or most importantly, time.

It’s been 15 years since I’ve been following Manchester United. It’s been 15 years since I’ve been listening to ‘Glory, glory’. It’s been 15 years since I began worshipping the ‘Wily Scot’. It’s been 15 years of chewing his gum, sitting all pink in the dugout, walking down the touchline in anger, giving the fourth official a mouthful, and most famously, knocking on the dial of his watch as if the world depended on it. And of course, the boyish fist pumping. Very much a part of my life, I would say. And mean it.

As the great Scot steps down, after 26 glorious years, talks are aplenty of the new man at the helm. Mourino? Moyes? Klopp? God? Rumour mill is relentless. But one thing’s for sure. Manchester United might be a huge club, and will have a hundred people lined up. And they will, without doubt, find a successor. A successor that is. A replacement? Never.

When I switch on the television the next season, things would have changed. A sense of immortality lost. There won’t be the traditional gum chewing. There will be no news of the usual hairdryer. There will be no ‘Fergie time’. Football will be played over 90 minutes again. Even the rival manager will shake a stranger’s hand, taking a moment to accept the change. And me. I will be there, for sure. My eyes strained in the direction of the players’ tunnel. The one adjacent to the Stretford End. With a flickering glint in my eyes. With the expectation of a child. For Fergie to emerge, waving his hand and beaming a smile. And alongside me will be my friend. A friend I call denial.

FYI, this article made its first appearance on http://www.fansonstands.com.