A most improved player suggests a player wasn’t giving their 110% previously. If such a trophy were to exist, I would use it as a motivational tool for the others. A warning that no less than the best is acceptable here.
I will pick Shaw as an example, his level has noticeably improved this year, suggesting he was somewhat half arsing it before.
The day would begin like any other, Shaw would train, it would rain, all would be well with the world. At the end of the training session Shaw would return to his locker to find a golden envelope. Wide-eyed and full of wonder he thinks “This is it! This is the Wonka Golden ticket. I can gorge on chocolate for free, instead of having to stock up at the BP every day after training!” He would greedily open the envelope to see he had in fact been invited to an official United gala evening, celebrating his performances and services to the club this calendar year.
Each of member of the squad, as well as each of Shaw’s family members, would receive the same envelope at exactly the same time, detailing the evening and its purpose. The date would be set for 3 days time, at OT. Shaw is getting excited now. A whole evening dedicated to him and his greatness. He’d be so excited he would even forget to gorge on chips.
The day would arrive, Old Trafford would be resplendent, completely decked out for the evening’s festivities. The stands would be covered in giant Shaw faces, each of them ever slightly distorted, but not obviously so. Just enough to make you feel uneasy, but not enough to be able to put your finger on why. The tannoy system would be blaring out a “Shaw! Shaw! Shaw!” on repeat. Glitter would endlessly stream from the sky, as the OT stewards, fully kitted out as if it was a match day, conduct an endless, yet perfectly choreographed Haka from the sidelines.
Shaw’s family and teammates would be gathered in the Director’s boxes, the world’s media in the dugouts, close to the action.
Shaw would be gestured to head towards the center circle. The whole experience has him engrossed. As if in a trace, Shaw ambles towards the pitch, just as he crosses the touch line, the Shaw chants stop, a strange mist rolls in and fills the stadium and the entire center circle descends into the depths below. Rain starts to fall.
Slowly the center circle begins its ascent upwards. Two shadowy figures with afros can start to be made out. As the fog clears they are revealed as Ole Gunnar Solskjaer and Gareth Southgate both dressed like Samuel L Jackson from Pulp Fiction. Southgate was supposed to be Travolta but for a typical cock up at FA HQ. Ole, the consummate pro, doesn’t acknowledge it and continues.
Shaw is seriously confused now, frozen and staring mouth agape. From nowhere he is taken out from behind and hits the turf. Dazed and confused, he can make out the blurry the Jackson pair looming over him. He begins to feel a warm sensation cascade over his face. The world begins to come back into focus and he realises Ole and Gareth are pissing on him. Each drop of nectar making Shaw more conscious than ever before. They finish, shake off and return their members before beginning to lay into Shaw. As the blows rain down a booming Scottish voice can be heard over the tannoy. “Ye think ye can play like shite for years do ye, Shaw?” “Ye think ye can treat the club I spent years building back up like a joke?” “Any of ye think this is good enough, son!” Sir Alex continues his tirade, but is slowly faded out and his voice is replaced by the Vanilla Ice lyric “Anything less that the best is a felony” from Ice Ice Baby on repeat, ever so slightly increasing in tempo each loop.
All the while bulb flashes from the world’s media bounce around the stands. United’s new Twitch channel, streaming the event, now has 69 million viewers. Shaw’s mum is crying, his Gran has passed out/died. The players in the stand, shocked at first, slowly realise they need to be pulling their weight. No more semi final capitulation. No more putting together the odd good run and then going off the boil. No more shit.
Ole and Gareth ease up as Shaw once has been suitably pulped. A harsh lesson for sure, but one he needed. He is in pain, but he is also grateful. He is enlightened. He understands. He rises from the turf, like a pissy phoenix and personally thanks Ole and Gareth for his golden salvation. He turns slowly towards the stands and acknowledges his family and teammates. Shaw’s Gran has risen, Shaw’s mum is cheering. They know now. They know.
From there, United go on the longest unbeaten run in history, culminating in winning the cricket world cup at the other Old Trafford 3 years later. In those three short years, Shaw has overtaken Pele’s goal tally. In response, Pele claims to have been pissed on by more Pulp Fiction impersonators than Shaw. Unlike his goal tally, no one contests this. The award has served its purpose.