A new season brought another changing of the guard at Manchester United.
The squad that had dominated England and Europe for three consecutive years was gradually disappearing, replaced by younger players who carried far less experience but considerably more energy.
Some had arrived through the transfer market, while others had come through Carrington, leaving Mourinho in charge of a team that looked very different from the one that had lifted three straight Champions League trophies.
That youth offered enormous possibilities, but it inevitably created problems as well.
United had managed only the League Cup the previous season, yet the impression left by those three years of dominance remained so powerful that opponents continued treating them as though the old champions had never gone away.
Every away ground seemed louder when Manchester United arrived, struggling teams regularly discovered another level against them, and every title contender understood that allowing Mourinho's rebuilding side to regain its old momentum could mean dealing with the same nightmare all over again.
Across Manchester, City had gone about their own rebuilding far more quietly.
Pep Guardiola strengthened several positions before completing the most intimidating piece of business of all by bringing Erling Haaland from Borussia Dortmund.
By the final league fixture before Christmas, Ling had already seen enough of the Norwegian striker to understand exactly why City had wanted him.
Haaland powered through a challenge near the edge of the penalty area and hammered another shot into the net, celebrating with the uncomplicated aggression of a striker who seemed almost personally offended whenever defenders tried to stand between him and goal.
Ling watched from near midfield without any visible frustration.
If anything, the sight only sharpened the competitive fire in his eyes.
Strangely, it reminded him of several years earlier, when Manchester City had seemed overwhelmingly stronger and almost nobody outside Old Trafford believed United could overcome them.
United had eventually done exactly that, not because of their reputation or history, but because they had become good enough on the pitch to beat the team everyone else considered superior.
Now that pressure was settling onto Ling's shoulders again, and to his own surprise, he welcomed the weight.
Three seasons of almost uninterrupted success had inevitably made him proud, and somewhere along the way, winning had begun to feel dangerously close to normal.
The previous campaign had corrected that misconception rather effectively.
Trophies were never supposed to feel normal.
They were supposed to cost something before you earned them.
...
In the thirty-fourth minute, Haaland tried to receive with his back to goal, only for Maguire to stay tight behind him.
The Norwegian leaned into the defender and attempted to roll him, but Maguire held his ground before eventually muscling him away from the ball.
United broke immediately.
One quick pass released the attack down the flank before possession was swept diagonally across the pitch toward a runner advancing on the opposite side.
The first-time delivery back into the middle was perfectly judged, arriving just as Stones stepped across to meet Ling.
The two collided heavily.
Stones lost his balance and crashed onto the grass, while Ling absorbed the contact and continued forward.
Suddenly, there was nothing between him and Ederson.
The Brazilian goalkeeper rushed from his line and spread himself as much as possible, but Ling slowed fractionally and began the familiar pendulum movement, shifting his weight from one side to the other until Ederson finally committed.
Ling touched the ball around him and rolled it calmly into the empty net.
Old Trafford erupted.
For a moment, the player sprinting toward the corner looked remarkably similar to the teenager who had first broken into Manchester United's senior team years earlier.
Ling was older now, physically stronger and infinitely more experienced, but the same frightening speed remained, along with the same unmistakable excitement whenever the ball hit the net.
...
On the bench, Ashley Young watched Ling disappear beneath several celebrating teammates before glancing toward the teenager sitting nearby.
Kobbie Mainoo had already risen halfway from his seat without realizing it.
Young smiled. "You know, you remind me a little of him when he first came through. Academy, youth team, then suddenly training with the first team. The first time I really watched Jeremy, I had a feeling he was going somewhere."
Mainoo's eyes immediately brightened. "You think I could become like him?"
Young slowly turned his head and gave him a sideways look.
"What exactly have you been dreaming about?"
Mainoo laughed awkwardly.
It was not that he lacked confidence in his own ability.
Any teenager talented enough to train around Manchester United's first team needed a certain amount of arrogance simply to survive in that environment.
Imagining himself becoming Jeremy Ling, however, was an entirely different matter.
Even the most confident youngster at Carrington would hesitate before casually assuming there was a simple path from academy prospect to a career filled with Premier League titles, Champions League trophies, a Ballon d'Or, the Manchester United No. 7 shirt, the captaincy, and recognition as one of the defining footballers of his generation.
Mainoo was not foolish enough to believe he could simply follow the same road.
Still, the thought remained with him. Perhaps he did not need to become another Jeremy Ling.
Having the opportunity to learn beside him would already mean something.
Ling had entered Manchester United's senior side in 2017, while Mainoo joined the U18 setup in 2020.
During the years between those milestones, Carrington had gradually accumulated reminders of the No. 7 almost everywhere.
There were photographs lining the corridors, posters on the walls, historic match footage playing on television screens, images from trophy celebrations, and old training clips that occasionally resurfaced whenever someone wanted to remind a new generation what the previous one had looked like.
In some corners of the training ground, it almost felt impossible to walk twenty yards without encountering another piece of Ling's career.
Yet the man Mainoo was watching on the pitch remained strangely connected to the teenager in those old photographs.
The rawness of youth had disappeared, his football intelligence had developed enormously, his body had matured, and years of responsibility had changed the way he carried himself.
Even so, he still ran as though there was something ahead of him worth chasing.
Watching Ling celebrate, Mainoo found himself thinking about youth and what the word actually meant.
Perhaps it was not merely a period measured by age.
If someone devoted enough of himself to one thing, maybe a part of those years remained inside him permanently, surviving long after everything else had changed.
By the time Mainoo noticed what he was doing, he was already standing with the rest of the substitutes and applauding.
...
The match stretched deep into stoppage time before the referee finally brought it to an end with the clock showing 96:45.
Manchester United 2–1 Manchester City.
Ling had scored both goals.
Old Trafford celebrated as though the Manchester rivalry had never experienced a quiet day in its existence.
After completing the usual lap toward the supporters with his teammates, Ling eventually wandered over to the City technical area, where Pep was still speaking with members of his staff.
"Maria told me to ask whether you're coming home for dinner."
Guardiola turned toward him slowly.
"Fuck off. Do I need you to ask me that?"
He aimed a lazy kick at his son-in-law, but Ling had already skipped backward well before it could reach him.
Pep stared after him for a moment.
Two years earlier, his feelings toward Jeremy Ling had been comparatively simple.
He admired the player, worried about the young man dating his daughter, and had gradually accepted that the irritating bastard was probably going to remain part of the family whether Pep particularly liked it or not.
Now everything had become considerably more complicated.
Ling had married Maria, repeatedly beaten Manchester City, developed into one of the greatest players in world football, and would soon make Pep a grandfather.
Guardiola shook his head and muttered beneath his breath, "José really stepped in shit when he found this bastard."
A familiar voice appeared behind him almost immediately.
"Pep, speaking badly about people behind their backs isn't very elegant."
Guardiola closed his eyes for a moment before turning to find Mourinho standing nearby with an innocent shrug.
Pep rubbed two fingers against his temple.
At last, he understood exactly where Ling had learned some of his most irritating habits.
...
The January transfer window passed relatively quietly.
With the World Cup scheduled for the end of the year, many players were reluctant to gamble on uncertain moves.
Anyone already receiving regular minutes had an obvious incentive to remain where he was, protect his club position, and maximize his chances of being selected when national-team squads began taking shape.
Meanwhile, the Premier League's refusal to provide anything resembling a proper winter break earned another annual round of complaints from exhausted professionals.
The salaries involved made those complaints somewhat difficult for outsiders to sympathize with, but that did not make the schedule any less demanding.
A few days of rest disappeared almost immediately, after which everyone dragged themselves away from warm beds and returned to work.
This Manchester United side handled the difficult middle stretch considerably better than the team from the previous season.
Mourinho became more aggressive with rotation, recovery sessions were treated almost as seriously as tactical training, and medical data influenced individual workloads more heavily than ever.
Ling himself reluctantly accepted something he would once have resisted: playing every available minute was not necessarily proof of professionalism.
Sometimes the most useful thing he could do for Manchester United was sit through ninety minutes on the bench and ensure he was physically ready when another match arrived three days later.
The approach worked.
United made it through January without suffering the kind of collapse that had destroyed the previous campaign and remained five points clear at the top of the Premier League as the season moved into February.
Then came March, followed by April and May, and nothing about the journey remained comfortable for long.
...
The moment the rest of England realized Manchester United might genuinely be rebuilding themselves into champions again, memories of the previous dynasty returned very quickly.
Nobody wanted another three years of that.
Liverpool attacked them with everything they had, Chelsea did the same, and Manchester City refused to disappear from the race.
Even teams with little left to play for somehow produced performances against United that looked suspiciously like cup finals, because everyone wanted to become the side that stopped the rebuild before Mourinho's team could climb fully back onto the summit.
United's league position fluctuated throughout those months.
Their lead narrowed, grew again, disappeared altogether, and eventually returned as the title race shifted from one week to the next.
For the young players who had begun the season filled mainly with enthusiasm, the pressure gradually gave them something far more useful.
Experience.
They learned what happened after a disastrous away defeat when another match arrived seventy-two hours later and there was no time available for self-pity.
They learned how ugly a title race could become by March, how Mourinho sounded when a training session failed to meet his standards, and how Ling could spend one day patiently encouraging a teammate before tearing into the same player the next if he thought the effort had slipped.
Most importantly, they learned how to win matches when nothing felt comfortable.
By spring, the youthful uncertainty that had surrounded Manchester United at the beginning of the season had hardened into something much more dangerous.
Their confidence was no longer based only on talent, promise, or the belief that they might become a great team someday.
It had survived pressure.
That was what made it real.