Sir Jim Ratcliffe has reportedly told Darren Fletcher in a heated phone call during the first half
The rain hammering against the glass of the executive lounge felt painfully symbolic. Below, the giant screen inside Old Trafford glared back with an unforgiving 0–2 scoreline. But the damage ran deeper than the numbers. Diogo Dalot, once tipped as the long-term solution on the right side of United’s defence, was being relentlessly exposed, torn apart again and again by Brighton’s wide players.
Up in the directors’ area, Sir Jim Ratcliffe had seen enough. There was no patience for pleasantries, no interest in halftime refreshments or scripted discussions. He reached for his secure phone and called straight down to the touchline, Darren Fletcher answering from near the tunnel.
The noise of a restless crowd hummed in the background as Fletcher listened.
“Darren,” Ratcliffe said sharply, “I’m watching the data, the movement, the reactions. I’m seeing a player who believes his past protects him — someone who thinks longevity at this club makes him immune.”
Fletcher tried to soften the moment, suggesting Dalot was being overloaded down the flank, but the response was immediate and brutal.
“I don’t care about his history or where he’s played before,” Ratcliffe snapped, dismissing talk of Dalot’s European pedigree and earlier success abroad. “After what I’ve just watched against Brighton, tell him he’s done here. He can sort his future out tomorrow morning.”
The anger had been building for weeks. Within the INEOS leadership, Dalot had come to symbolise everything they were desperate to eliminate — players with status but no authority, experience without control. His first-half display was damning: switching off as Brajan Gruda drifted behind him for the opener, offering only a token challenge before the cross that allowed Danny Welbeck to score, then throwing a frustrated shrug toward the bench after being beaten yet again.
When the halftime whistle sounded, Dalot headed for the tunnel, shirt clinging to him, likely bracing for a stern tactical rebuke. Instead, he was met by Fletcher, standing firm at the dressing-room entrance, phone still in his grip.
“There’s no need to sit down,” Fletcher said, disbelief and anger edging his voice. “Sir Jim watched every minute. He’s seen enough.”
Dalot tried to explain himself, gesturing back toward the pitch, but Fletcher stepped closer, cutting him off.
“You’re not going back out there. He said you should leave in the morning. Hand the shirt over to someone prepared to fight for it.”
As teammates walked past in silence, unsure where to look, Dalot remained frozen in the corridor. The defender once expected to anchor United’s backline was left standing alone, his Old Trafford story seemingly ending not in glory, but with a phone call from above and the echo of a crowd already moving on.
