It poured that night at Old Trafford
Not just rain
But pressure
Cristiano stood on the sideline
Drenched
Boots soaked
Hair slicked back from the storm
The crowd chanted but it wasn't for him
Not yet
The scoreboard flashed
United were down one nil
Time was running out
Sir Alex gave a nod
Cristiano peeled off his jacket
He didn't feel the cold anymore
He ran onto the pitch like a man chasing something invisible
The ball found his feet within seconds
Stepovers
Then acceleration
Then a crunching tackle
The defender didn't hold back
Neither did Cristiano when he stood up like nothing happened
Roy Keane shouted from midfield
"Play the ball
Not the show"
Cristiano ignored it
Because this wasn't a show
It was war
He started drifting wide
Pulling defenders
Testing gaps
Every touch was sharper
Every run heavier
Then it happened
A low cross came from Neville
The ball skipped on the wet grass
Cristiano sprinted past two men
Threw his whole body at the shot
Contact
The net shook
One one
He didn't celebrate
He just turned to the stands and raised both arms
Not with arrogance
But defiance
The camera zoomed in
Rain dripped down his face
But his eyes looked dry
Like someone who'd bled in silence for years and now tasted what it meant to fight back
In the tunnel after the game
Scholes clapped him on the back
"Not bad kid
You've got guts"
Cristiano didn't answer
He walked straight to the dressing room
Opened his bag
Took out a second pair of boots
Dry ones
He wasn't done training