I have arrived at Manchester Piccadilly station the day following a frustrating end for Manchester United, when they gave up a late goal in a draw against Burnley, who are facing relegation. Although the squad is all but out of the Champions League picture with four games remaining, they are still in the running to qualify for the Europa League. They are now sixth in the Premier League. Surpassing teams like Aston Villa and Newcastle is one thing; surpassing their old local rivals Manchester City—who are presently on course for a record-breaking fourth straight Premier League victory—is quite another. The only other team that has ever even approached this achievement is United.

Not far from the station exit is a busy restaurant that is well-known throughout the north. When I ask him about the game last night, the young man behind the counter shrugs after giving me my vegan banger roll. It was only, he maintains, “disappointing.” Curiously motivated by his brief answer, I ask a similar query in a strangely deserted Starbucks later. One barista says, as his colleague slides a mocha my way, “The team is good; it is just badly managed in my opinion.” About the players, I have nothing negative to say. I keep going, listening to any local voice whose opinions range from criticism of management to the effects of a string of bad injuries to the city being “blue” (Man City’s colours). It soon becomes apparent that, like tales of the Haçienda in its prime, everyone appears to have an opinion about Manchester United. Despite not winning a championship since 2013, they are the most followed and interactive Premier League team. Among all the English league titles they have won, 13 were under Sir Alex Ferguson. Their impact even gave me one of my middle names, Cole, taken from one of their top strikers, according to my father.

As I hoist my luggage into the hotel lift, the lingering scent of the local ’Spoons trails a shifty-looking chap, sliding between the doors before they close. After a friendly northern greeting and proud affirming of his support of the Red Devils, he reels off his favourite players in a tone that makes you question whether you’re mad for even asking. There’s the 28-year-old forward, Anthony Martial – calm, collected and speedy but sadly injury-prone in his nine-year tenure at the team. Bruno Fernandes, the 29-year-old midfielder, as creative as he is silky on the ball with 230 appearances and 79 goals across his four-year spell at the club. Then there’s Marcus Rashford, former Dazed cover star and pride of Manchester, acclaimed in the press for his achievements on the pitch (131 goals in 399 appearances) as well as off (campaigning for free school meals during the pandemic). Then comes a curveball. A name with barely a year’s experience under his belt playing for the senior team. A name with only 30 appearances and three goals but a name he mentioned with glee nonetheless. “Kobbie Mainoo. I mean… pftt, [Kobbie] is amazing. He’s an amazing player,” he says. ”But you don’t want to put too much pressure on him.”

Mainoo is only 19 with a baby-faced smile to account for the fact. His humility offsets his increasingly fearsome reputation on the pitch, with the gentle presence of a boy still growing into himself – the hem of his oversized Balenciaga football jersey grazing his knuckles a la Ariana Grande. Flanked by agents, brand reps and his two adorably supportive sisters, Mainoo appears with a small entourage whose level of care and sensitivity is heightened as the pressure around their young star becomes more palpable. We are meeting the following afternoon at one of Sale’s local sports clubs, a lot like those that he’d spent his youth playing in, shuttling hours back and forth between home, school and training grounds. Eye contact is consistent, handshakes solid but most interestingly, he bears no signs of the pressures bestowed upon him. No signs of any ego inflation, despite plenty of reasons for there to be.