c29: You Are Out of My Reach
The moment the referee blew the final whistle, every Everton player raised their arms in triumph. Even David Moyes couldn't contain himself, pumping his fists in celebration on the touchline.
Perhaps Moyes had dared to dream of victory at Old Trafford, but deep down he never truly believed it would happen like this snatching the win in enemy territory with a goal from an unproven youngster.
Vardy, on the other hand, had no such doubts. His belief ran deeper than Moyes's. He might not have expected to get minutes in such a high-profile fixture, but he was always mentally prepared to score. That was the difference.
As he walked along the edge of the pitch near the Sir Alex Ferguson Stand, facing a wall of furious Manchester United fans, Vardy flashed a wide, unapologetic grin.
Hush!
The louder the boos, the brighter his smile.
The louder the boos, the more bitter the defeat for United. Their pride wasn't just bruised it had been ripped apart. Even the fig leaf of home advantage had been stripped away.
I'm right here!
I'm the one who buried you today!
And all you can do is scream from the stands.
Tremble!
Vardy wasn't naïve he knew full well he was still technically a Manchester United player, on loan to Everton. There was a very real chance he'd be back wearing red, returning to this pitch not as a visitor, but as one of their own.
But that didn't bother him. Because when he did return, it wouldn't be as a fringe player.
It would be as a superstar.
And when that happened, the embarrassment wouldn't be his it would belong to the same fans who were now booing and cursing his name.
"Aren't you afraid someone'll toss a pig's head at you from the stands?" Tim Cahill suddenly appeared, grabbing Vardy by the arm and pulling him back toward the center circle.
Cahill and Vardy had joined Everton around the same time, but unlike Vardy, Cahill was already the heartbeat of the midfield. Serious, focused, and generally distant from newer players, he didn't usually engage much.
But tonight changed everything.
Vardy's impact his pace, his goal, his fearless energy was a revelation. Cahill had seen firsthand how Vardy's speed transformed Everton's usually rigid, defense-first strategy into a counterattacking threat that tore through United's back line.
Respect was earned, and Vardy had earned it tonight.
Before this game, Cahill had barely acknowledged the young forward. Now, he was walking off the pitch with him.
"Don't worry," Vardy replied with a smirk, "If someone really throws a pig's head, I'll thank their entire family. I love pork. Roasted, fried doesn't matter."
Cahill laughed despite himself, shaking his head as he steered the young striker away from the hostile section of the crowd.
When Vardy finally reached the bench, Moyes was waiting with open arms. The manager embraced him with such intensity that Vardy struggled to breathe.
"Your performance tonight… it blew me away. Bloody fantastic!" Moyes beamed, his usual restraint abandoned in a moment of raw joy. He looked ten years younger, as though this single match had revived him. The joy on his face was like that of a man who had just stumbled upon unexpected treasure.
"I'll keep working hard," Vardy said modestly. He knew full well that this performance had elevated his standing. From benchwarmer to game-winner in under 20 minutes this was the stuff that changed careers.
There was no debate over the man of the match. Even though he'd only been on the pitch for just over a quarter of the game, Vardy's decisive goal had tilted the scales entirely. As the official announcement echoed around the stadium, he stepped forward to accept the award.
A bottle of champagne the traditional prize.
The boos from lingering United fans rained down, but Vardy didn't flinch.
He'd always known he would be here.
And now the whole world did too.
Vardy was overjoyed when he received the Man of the Match champagne. He planned to keep the bottle as a memento his first ever professional award, earned in spectacular fashion at Old Trafford.
But before he even stepped foot into the dressing room, a group of his closest teammates led by Gravesen and Kilbane ambushed him, grabbed the champagne, popped it open, and soaked him from head to toe like he'd just won the Champions League.
By the time Vardy tried to chase them down for revenge, the culprits had already vanished like schoolkids after a prank—scattered across the hallway, laughing uncontrollably.
Vardy assumed Moyes might take him along to the post-match press conference he had scored the winning goal against Manchester United, after all. But Moyes, perhaps concerned about media experience or wanting to shield him from pressure, instead chose to take captain David Weir with him.
That was fine by Vardy. He had no desire to be grilled by journalists. What he wanted now was a shower, clean clothes, and maybe to replay the goal in his head a hundred more times.
But as he approached the tunnel entrance, a horde of reporters closed in like wolves scenting blood each desperate to interview the breakout name of the night.
And rightfully so. In his first-ever senior appearance, Vardy had scored a match-winning goal at the Theatre of Dreams—against the very club that owned him. The story practically wrote itself.
A teenage loanee from Manchester United, sent to Everton to gain experience, coming off the bench and carving through United's defense like prime Thierry Henry it was irresistible.
If any of these reporters landed the first exclusive quote, their front-page headlines would sell out by sunrise.
"Mr. Vardy, how did it feel when the ball hit the net?"
"Vardy, why did you taunt United fans during warm-up today?"
"Your contract still belongs to United why celebrate so wildly against them? Was it personal?"
"Vardy, do you have a girlfriend?"
The barrage of questions was relentless, their microphones and cameras closing in as if to trap him on the spot.
Among the swarm, Vardy recognized some familiar faces journalists who had hovered around Finch Farm weeks ago, skeptical and dismissive, mocking his lack of pedigree and even disrespecting Anne during that notorious tabloid scuffle.
Now, they all wanted a piece of him.
But Vardy hadn't forgotten.
You ignored me when I was invisible. But now I'm out of your reach.
He wasn't just thinking of himself he was thinking of Anne too. Of the disdain these same vultures had shown her.
"Sorry, gentlemen," Vardy said with a smirk, "I'm not in any shape for interviews right now. I've got to change into something dry." Without another word, he gently pushed past the scrum and walked into the dressing room without looking back.
The reporters were dumbfounded. Denied.
What "changing clothes"? Who in their right mind would believe that?
"He can't do that to us we're the uncrowned kings of football!"
"Exactly! Doesn't he know the power of the press?"
"Arrogant brat! Let's see how long that attitude lasts!"
Frustrated and humiliated, the journalists could only stew as Vardy disappeared behind the doors of the away dressing room.
Inside, chaos reigned but in the best possible way. The Everton players were celebrating like madmen. Jerseys were flying, boots scattered, laughter bouncing off the walls.
"Happy Nightclub tonight! On me!" Gravesen roared, twirling his shirt over his head like a lunatic.
The cheer that followed shook the walls and might've been heard inside the Manchester United changing room, where stunned silence lingered after the shock defeat.
Meanwhile, at the post-match press conference, even though Vardy wasn't present, he remained the headline act.
"It's a pity we lost this one," Sir Alex Ferguson told reporters, his face unreadable. "We had the lion's share of possession, created the chances, but didn't take them. Everton defended with heart. And that lad Vardy his goal was stunning. A real dagger."
There was no rant, no outburst. Just a flicker of regret beneath Ferguson's iconic steely demeanor.
"Sir Alex, did you say it was you who approved Vardy's loan move to Everton?" one reporter probed.
Ferguson nodded, his lips tightening.
"Yes. One of the academy coaches at Carrington brought Vardy to my attention. I saw his ability very quick, fearless, instinctive in front of goal. But with the depth we've got up front Ruud, Saha, Rooney, Smith he wasn't likely to get many minutes. So we loaned him out. And now... well, that might've been a mistake. A big one."
The room erupted with laughter and flashes of camera bulbs. It wasn't every day Sir Alex admitted fault—especially not on record.
But tonight, even he had to acknowledge what the world had just seen:
Vardy had arrived.
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