The Weight of History, The Price of Complacency
Consider this scene: Manchester United, twenty-time champions of England, trailing 2-0 at halftime to Grimsby Town, a club whose annual wage bill equates to a fifth of Bruno Fernandes’s annual salary. The League Cup, that unloved midweek distraction, suddenly becomes a mirror. And what it reflects should make Old Trafford uncomfortable.
But here’s the question worth asking: Is this really surprising anymore? Or have we been watching a slow-motion unraveling that we’ve mistaken for temporary turbulence?
Let me offer you a different lens. Football, despite its history, is barely 200 years old. Younger than the United States, younger than photography, younger than the novel as we know it. In that brief window, we’ve already witnessed empires crumble into footnotes. Saint-Étienne collected ten French titles before sliding into provincial obscurity. Nottingham Forest conquered Europe twice, then spent two decades as Championship furniture. Schalke 04, seven-time champions of Germany, now yo-yo between divisions like a club without memory.
The pattern reveals itself: greatness in football isn’t inherited, it’s leased. And Manchester United might be behind on the rent.
The Arithmetic of Delusion
Since Alex Ferguson walked away in 2013, United have deployed nearly £2 billion in transfer fees. Their wage bill of £182 million could run Brighton’s entire operation for nearly three years, or Brentford’s for nearly five.1
Yet Brighton, with their £71 million payroll and laptop-wielding analysts, consistently punch above their weight. Brentford, operating on £38.7 million and a calculator, make Old Trafford look like a monument to inefficiency.2
This is a fundamental misunderstanding of what modern football demands. Money amplifies vision; it doesn’t create it. Without direction, wealth becomes weight.
Here’s what United’s boardroom perhaps hasn’t grasped: the Premier League isn’t what it was when Ferguson ruled. Television money has democratized ambition. The bottom club now earns what Bundesliga winners make. Aston Villa can outbid Juventus. Newcastle can cherry-pick from AC Milan. Even Nottingham Forest—yes, that Forest—can construct a squad that wouldn’t look out of place in Europe.
The arithmetic is brutal: with seven or eight clubs legitimately competing for four, possibly five, Champions League spots, mathematics alone suggests United will miss out more often than not. The league has evolved past the old hierarchies. What once guaranteed success—the badge, the history, the Theatre of Dreams marketing copy—now guarantees nothing.
The Business Model of Decline
Watch United against Liverpool or City the past two seasons. Suddenly, they remember what they’re supposed to be. Energy surges, patterns emerge, players discover reserves they forgot existed. Then watch them against Bournemouth or Wolves. The intensity evaporates like it was never there.
This isn’t about talent. It’s about something more insidious: at United, signing the contract has become the achievement. The club sells arrival, not aspiration. Players join to say they’ve made it, not to make something.
Compare that to Guardiola’s City, where complacency is treated like contagion. Or Arteta’s Arsenal, where young players speak of process with religious fervor. These clubs weaponize hunger. United monetizes nostalgia.
And perhaps that’s the most damning indictment. The Glazers, and now Jim Ratcliffe, have discovered something perverse: you can profit from decline if you package it correctly. United projected their total revenue for the 2024-25 fiscal year to be between £660 million and £670 million, with expectations to finish at the higher end of that range despite finishing 15th. The machine runs on memory, not merit.3
Every summer brings the same theater: a marquee signing, fresh promises of renaissance, carefully orchestrated optimism. The cycle has become the product. Hope sells better than success ever could, because success eventually demands delivery. Hope only demands tomorrow.
The Question Nobody’s Asking
So here’s the uncomfortable thought: What if this is permanent? Not relegation—United’s commercial machinery probably inoculates them against that particular virus. But what if sixth to tenth becomes their level? What if Europe’s secondary competitions become their ceiling? What if we’re watching the birth of football’s most expensive mid-table team?
Twenty years from now, will teenagers need Wikipedia to understand why Old Trafford calls itself the Theatre of Dreams? Will “Manchester United, European champions” sound like “Nottingham Forest, European champions”, technically true but practically ancient history?
The beautiful cruelty of football is that it owes nothing to nobody. Not to Saint-Étienne’s ten titles, not to Forest’s European Cups, not to United’s Ferguson years. The sport’s memory is shorter than we pretend. Its loyalty is to the present tense.
Maybe United find their way back. Maybe they don’t. But what their story teaches us—what Grimsby Town reminded us on Wednesday night—is that in football, as in life, the bill always comes due. And history, no matter how glorious, doesn’t pay it.
The only currency that matters is hunger. And right now, Manchester United looks remarkably well-fed.