In 1982, at the tender age of six, I was infected with a serious childhood illness. The illness was all-consuming, and there was no cure. The most violent outbreaks always came at the same time: on Saturdays at 4 p.m., usually in front of an analog television set, safely placed at home in our living room. The illness had a magical name – Manchester United Football Club.

For more than thirty years, the illness ravaged my body. It didn’t really let go until 2016. That year, the cure arrived at United’s home ground, Old Trafford. The cure came in human and Portuguese disguise. The cure bore the name of Jose Mourinho. He was solely concerned with winning. He never entertained. He had traveled around football Europe for many years. There, he cured other football supporters of the same type of illness.