The day after a frustrating conclusion for Manchester United—they conceded a late goal in a draw against Burnley, who are in danger of relegation—I arrived at Manchester Piccadilly station. 

With just four games left, the team is virtually out of the Champions League picture, but they are still in the running to make the Europa League. As things stand, they are sixth in the Premier League. One thing is beating teams like Aston Villa and Newcastle; another is beating their former local rivals Manchester City, who are currently on track to win the Premier League for the record fourth time. The only other team to have even come close to this feat is United.

A bustling restaurant well-known throughout the north is located not far from the station exit. Giving me my vegan banger roll, the young man behind the counter shrugs when I question him about the game last night. He only calls it “disappointing.” I pose a comparable question in a weirdly empty Starbucks later, curiously inspired by his succinct response. 

One barista comments, “The team is good; it is just badly managed in my opinion,” as his colleague slides a mocha my way. Nothing bad to say about the players. I keep going, listening to any local voice whose views range from blame of management to the consequences of a run of serious accidents to the city being “blue” (Man City’s colours). As with stories of the Haçienda in its heyday, it soon becomes clear that everyone has an opinion about Manchester United. They are the most talked about and watch Premier League team even if they have not won a championship since 2013. Thirteen of their English league championships were won when Sir Alex Ferguson was in charge. My father claims that their influence even gave me the middle name Cole, which he derived from one of their best forwards.

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.