The icy wind blowing across the Black Country in mid-December was a different kind of bitter. The Hawthorns, home of West Bromwich Albion, sat at the highest elevation of any football ground in the Premier League, and on a Saturday evening under the floodlights, it felt like an iron cauldron of hostility.
Harry sat on the heated team bus, his right shin tightly wrapped in compression sleeves. The bone bruise sustained against Tottenham six days prior still throbbed with a dull, background ache whenever he flexed his foot, but the three-day rest period enforced by Mourinho had done its job. He was cleared to play, though he knew Tony Pulis’s West Brom was the absolute worst fixture for a player recovering from an impact injury.
West Brom under Pulis was a side forged in physical intimidation. They played with four natural center-backs across the defensive line, choked the pitch with ruthless organization, and weaponized set-pieces like artillery fire.
In the tunnel before kickoff, Gareth McAuley and Craig Dawson stood like twin stone monoliths, their socks pulled high, their eyes dead set on the young United forward line. Dawson, who was starting at right-back, made a deliberate point of stepping close to Harry as they lined up, letting his shoulder clip Harry’s chest with unnecessary force.
"Welcome to The Hawthorns, son," Dawson muttered, his voice coarse and low. "Hope that leg’s fully healed."
Harry didn't flinch. In his 2024 tactical memory bank, he remembered this exact era of West Brom distinctly. Pulis’s teams were terrifyingly physical, but they were notoriously vulnerable to quick, low, early crosses behind their towering center-backs before their defensive block could fully set. Dawson was strong as a bull in a standing tackle, but his turning radius was as slow as a battle tank.
Let him try to bully me, Harry thought, fixing his lace. Brute force is useless if you can't touch what you're trying to hit.
The match kicked off to a deafening chorus of boos from the home supporters.
Within the first five minutes, West Brom established their intent. Every high ball was contested with an elbow flying into a ribcage; every aerial challenge involved a heavy landing on an ankle. Zlatan Ibrahimović was involved in a running battle with McAuley, the two giants throwing punches and shirts-pulls out of the referee’s vision.
In the 14th minute, Harry received his first real ball on the left touchline from Antonio Valencia’s diagonal switch.
Dawson rushed out immediately, getting tight to Harry's back, placing a heavy, calloused hand on his shoulder to prevent him from turning.
"Turn around, boy! Let's see what you've got!" Dawson grunted into Harry's ear.
Harry stayed calm. He didn't try to out-muscle the older defender. Instead, he used a soft, one-touch pass to drop the ball off to Ander Herrera, then instantly executed a explosive, razor-sharp blind-side run, looping around Dawson's left shoulder into the channel.
Herrera read the run and clipped a delicate, cushioned pass into the space.
Dawson turned like a cargo ship, hopelessly outpaced as Harry tore away down the flank. The away end erupted into cheers as Harry reached the ball near the edge of the eighteen-yard box.
McAuley rushed out to cover the cross, expecting the eighteen-year-old to try a high, lofted ball over his six-foot-four frame.
Harry remembered his pre-match analysis. Low. Early. Whipped into the corridor of uncertainty between the keeper and the backline.
Without slowing his sprint, Harry wrapped his right foot around the ball, striking it with intense power and late side-spin. The ball fizzed across the wet surface, skittering just past the outstretched leg of McAuley, completely bypassing Ben Foster in goal.
Zlatan made a surging front-post run, out-jumping Jonas Olsson, and met the ball with a thunderous, flying header that smashed into the back of the net.
GOAL! West Bromwich Albion 0 - 1 Manchester United (15')
Zlatan sprinted straight toward the corner flag, jumping into his signature martial-arts high kick, before turning to point at Harry.
"That is what I am talking about!" Zlatan roared, wrapping his massive arm around Harry’s neck and pulling him into a violent embrace. "The delivery! Perfect!"
On the touchline, Jose Mourinho raised a single, triumphant fist into the freezing air. The plan was working.
The goal sparked a fiery, aggressive response from West Brom. The match devolved into a fierce physical battle, with tackles flying in from all angles.
In the 32nd minute, Salomon Rondon got into a heated altercation with Marcos Rojo following a aerial clash. Shoving erupted in United's penalty box, with players from both sides pouring in. Harry sprinted over to pull Rojo away before the volatile Argentine defender could earn himself a red card.
"Leave it, Marcos! Leave it!" Harry yelled, grabbing Rojo by his collar and physically dragging him back. "We're leading! Don't give the ref an excuse!"
Rojo spat on the turf, his eyes wild with adrenaline, but Harry’s stern command pulled him back to reality.
As the half-time whistle blew, United held their 1-0 lead, but the team walked into the tunnel battered and exhausted. Harry sat on the bench, unwrapping his shin guard to inspect his leg. The impact site from the Wanyama tackle had swelled slightly, dark purple bruising peeking through his skin.
Mourinho walked past him, tapping his notebook against Harry’s head.
"You are breaking Dawson," Jose said, a cold smile playing on his lips. "He is scared to step out now. In the second half, don't just stay wide. Look for the diagonal run into the central box when Zlatan drops deep. The space will be wide open."
The second half began with West Brom throwing long throw-ins and high crosses into United's box, testing David de Gea’s bravery under pressure.
In the 56th minute, the moment Mourinho had predicted arrived.
Zlatan dropped thirty yards deep into midfield to draw Olsson out of position, receiving a crisp pass from Michael Carrick. The Swede controlled it with his chest, turning smoothly.
Harry, positioned on the left, saw Dawson hesitate. Dawson was caught in two minds: whether to step up to track Harry or drop back to cover the space left by Olsson.
That half-second of hesitation was all Harry needed.
Harry exploded diagonally from left to center, crossing behind Dawson’s vision like a shadow.
Zlatan, possessing the peripheral vision of an elite playmaker, hit a first-time, threaded reverse pass right into the stride of Harry’s run.
Harry broke through the central gap, isolated one-on-one against Ben Foster with the entire West Brom stadium roaring in his ears.
Foster rushed out, spreading his body wide to block a low shot.
In his mind, Harry’s 2024 tactical breakdown flickered: Foster drops his left knee early when facing a right-footed striker running at speed.
Harry didn't slow down to curl it. He used the momentum of his sprint to chip the ball gently with his toe—a delicate, disrespectful dink over the sprawling body of Ben Foster.
The ball arced gracefully through the cold night air, bouncing once inside the line and nestling into the top corner.
GOAL! West Bromwich Albion 0 - 2 Manchester United (56')
The away section behind the goal went absolutely ballistic. Three thousand United fans surged down the stands, singing his name at the top of their lungs:
♫ "MANCHESTER BORN AND BRED... RASHFORD IS A RED!" ♫
Harry ran toward the away end, sliding on his knees into the wet corner turf, pointing both hands toward the travelling fans. His teammates piled on top of him, Pogba lifting his legs, Herrera screaming into his face in ecstatic Spanish, and Zlatan ruffling his hair like a proud older brother.
The remainder of the match was a masterclass in game management. United comfortably held onto the 2-0 victory, securing three crucial away points and making it three Premier League wins in a row.
When the final whistle blew, Harry walked toward the away section, removing his shirt and tossing it directly into the front row to a young boy holding up a home-made sign bearing his name.
As he walked down the tunnel, Craig Dawson caught up with him, his face covered in sweat and dirt. The West Brom defender held out his hand.
"Good game, kid," Dawson grunted, a grudging respect in his eyes. "You're too bloody fast for your own good."
Harry shook his hand firmly. "Thanks, Craig. Hard game."
Inside the post-match press conference, a journalist from the Guardian leaned into the microphone.
"Jose, Marcus Rashford scored a goal, provided an assist, and managed Marcos Rojo’s temper during the altercation in the first half. He’s only eighteen. Are we seeing the birth of a team leader?"
Mourinho sat back, pulling his coat tight around his shoulders.
"Leader is a big word," Mourinho replied, his voice calm and deliberate. "Marcus is learning. He is learning that football is not just about tricks or individual glory. Today, he played with wisdom. He knew when to run, when to pass, and when to fight. When a young player learns to combine his physical gifts with tactical intelligence... he becomes unstoppable."
Later that night, on the team bus back to Manchester, Harry sat with his headphones on, listening to the rain beat against the windows. He unlocked his phone to check the league table. United were closing the gap on the top four, momentum was finally building, and the dressing room was united behind a common goal.
He looked at his reflection in the dark glass window. The bruised shin still throbbed, his lungs still burned, and the endless pressure of the media was still waiting for him tomorrow morning.
He smiled, closing his eyes as the bus rolled smoothly into the night.
Let them come, Harry thought. I'm just getting started.
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