With a rich
history of urinating on their own party bonfires, they came in their masses to
witness one thing or another: the feast of Steven or another raging embarrassment
and damp squib.
The first
British winners of a European and domestic double had done so in the teeming
rain of the Prater Stadium with the whole nation watching Chelsea v Leeds in
the FA Cup final replay instead. Big Mal’s boy wonders had gone out of the FA
Cup in the quagmire of Halifax. Alan Ball’s football genius tactics had brought
Steve Lomas to the corner flag to time waste when City needed another goal v
Liverpool to stave off relegation. Third division play off glory had been
rescued from the biggest wreck of all against Gillingham. FA Cup delight at
Spurs had only come after going down to ten men and dropping three goals behind.
The first Premier League trophy in 2012 had been hauled in with the small
matter of two goals in injury time to thwart United. I could go on but the
walls are closing in on me.So here we were confronted by that self-same United, the behemoth of old, grown wrinkly and slow moving under the stop-and-swivel tactics of Jose Mourinho. Still second though, still grumbling and growling, still hauling its hunking weight across the pitches of England with the whiff of ancient authority. The ghost of Alex Ferguson still haunts the fields of the Premier League and the not-in-my-lifetime irreverence still sends a shiver down many spines. Drawn to the fight as ace party poopers may have been an oddly reduced role for United to play, but here they still were, standing tall and ready for the off.
The only
thing missing from the whole glossy show was Raheem’s pocket compass.
— Michael Regan (@MichaelRegan) April 8, 2018
Under the half time arc lights all had seemed so well. United, cowed and miserable, two goals down but a whisker from a five-goal drubbing, were making Ferguson wriggle grim-faced in the comfy seats. David Gill sat alongside looking for all the world like the man who had sat on a pin cushion.
Then a
strange but remarkably comforting thing happened.
Despite all
the money, the glistening new stadium with its towering stands and the
immaculately dressed über-coach, City, dear old City, reverted to type. The
ghosts of the Shay, of Romark, the bog-eyed soothsayer who put a spell on
Malcolm Allison, of Alan Ball’s corner flag routine, of Raddy Antic, of City’s
late 90s in-house Manager of the Month award and the grating sound of a
thousand giggling adversaries came back all at once.
United,
flat, horrible and defeated, suddenly perked up. Paul Pogba, the inevitable
target of Pep’s first attempt at Mourinhou-esque mind games in the build up to
the game, also sputtered into life. It all seemed so natural, so inevitable, as
one goal became two and two became three.
Towering
Vinny and the whirling dervish Otamendi stood like pillars of salt as United
carved their way through. Raheem stood and pondered his three clear misses,
then added another for good measure as the game stuttered towards its
cataclysmic end. Gabriel Jesus, mindful of his no-show at Anfield last week,
entered the fray with a bee in his bonnet and was booked for swinging his legs
at anyone that came near him. Kevin de Bruyne and Sergio Aguero, wrapped up in
cotton wool for Liverpool, were suddenly out there too, a moving breathing
admission from the coach that events had overtaken him.
Even the
referee, the learned Mr Martin Atkinson of Drighlington, added some light
shading of his own to this drastic tableau of ever-darkening colours, waving
away penalty appeals after Ashley Young had demolished Aguero in the box. By the end, all light had faded. We were
spiralling back down into old familiar territory. All those voices of approval that
have talked up City’s wonderful passing game all season were suddenly guffawing
again, just like in the olden days.
But, as the
lights went out on the party that never was, you couldn’t help wondering what
this contrary old beast had in store for us all next Tuesday and, whatever it was, would we be able to stand it?
This article originally featured in the print version of the Irish Examiner's Terrace Talk column