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The Incredible Journey

It is well known that the Highways Agency employs ABUs who ponder for weeks over road maps to plot maintenance schedules which will result in horrific journeys for travelling United fans. The campaign now seems to have escalated to suicide attacks, deluded people willing to put lives on the line by having accidents aimed to have maximum effect on matchgoers. Strategically timed multiple vehicle accidents blocked the M25, the M40 and lastly the M6 and I spent six hours in a tour of rural England which would have satisfied any coachload of Bavarian visitors, encompassing most of the places they failed to bomb in the forties; Windsor Castle, Maidenhead, Oxford and almost every Tudor village in Staffordshire and Cheshire. By arriving in Rusholme at a quarter past six I had time only for a starter and a beer. How on earth can I have imagined that a mere half portion of Tandoori would have been sufficient to give us a whole ninety minutes of luck?

Mine was the last car squeezed into the car park, the canyon streets were awash with the flood of the green and gold surging towards the stadium. The crowd singing inside could be heard from a White City warmed by the evening sunshine where two old men as pissed as coots tried to make a hasty exit from the fire escape of their bus and fell in a tangled heap of wrinkly limbs onto the tarmac. Teenagers were impressed.

Ferguson’s bold selections were justified despite what transpired. Rafael da Silva was in for Neville, Giggs and Scholes were replaced with Carrick and Gibson, we played two wingers and Rooney had discarded his crutches in celebration of the season of The Resurrection. There was a stirring atmosphere when the match started, even the North stand were singing; and how it started! Rafael found Rooney with an adventurous through ball and Gibson took a couple of strides before driving it from twenty yards between goalkeeper Hans-Jörg Butt and his near post; 3 minutes 1-0.

Hardly had we settled down when Valencia teased Holger Badstuber for so long we were screaming at him to get past the man. He duly did so without much trouble and Nani was there to flick in the cross with a backheel as deft as Lee Sharpe’s against Barcelona all those years ago; 6 minutes 2-0.

I wondered if I was on an acid trip. Fletcher was running the midfield, Carrick spraying passes. Rafael was having a blinder such that Franck Ribéry was helpless, Rooney was more than a handful for Daniel Van Buyten and Martín Demichelis, Evra was giving the boastful Arjen Robben a torrid time and Valencia’s domination of Worsestuber was embarrassing. The Germans, however, had a plan and methodically they began to carry it through, dealing ruthlessly with each of their issues, Rooney first. Van Buyten clobbered his weak ankle, twice. The second was cynical and deliberate and robbed him of much mobility. Then Mark Van Bommel tested Rafael with an aggressive foul. It worked a treat; our man indulged in a retaliatory trip and gave referee Nicola Rizzoli the opportunity to wave his yellow card. Rooney limping, the presumptuous youngster’s wings clipped; two of their boxes ticked.

Is a limping, immobile Rooney really better than a fit Berbatov? We kept him on, which said much about the trust which the United bench were ready to put on our most expensive signing. Meanwhile Rafael won another superb challenge on Ribéry and embarked upon a forty yard run, exchanging passes with Rooney, riding a foul from Van Buyten, but shooting wide instead of recognising Rooney’s availability.

Forty minutes had gone before Robben drew Evra into the middle of the field and then beat him for once, Thomas Müller putting Ivica Olic clean through for the visitor’s first real chance, robbed of a goal only by Van der Sar’s decisive tackle. Out charged Demichelis to help Worststuber but Valencia left them both stranded after Rafael’s throw. Rooney was well placed but stepped over the cross leaving it for Nani at the edge of the area to drive decisively into the roof of the net. Now I knew that my Tandoori had indeed been spiced with hallucinogens. This was turning into a night to remember; 41 minutes 3-0.

I was, though, sadly ignorant that the magic of my half portion had been exhausted and just as I was anticipating a triumphal interval the Germans ticked the third item on their plan and cancelled our away goal advantage. Vidic lost a tackle in the middle of the park, Rio stood off Müller as he headed it forward and it was left to Carrick to cover; Olic outmuscled him. The narrow angle shot might have been weak but it was accurate and wide of Van der Sar. The deathly hush of doubt fell upon us like a shroud as the ball rolled agonisingly into the net; 43 minutes 3-1.

Before the break Robben, freed temporarily by Evra’s slow trot back from an excursion up the wing, cut inside and let fly a smart shot which Van der Sar tipped brilliantly around the post. Five minutes after the break Ribéry went through the middle and Rafael tugged his arm. It was a foul but the referee was not going to show his card so the German plan was set in motion and Ribéry, who could easily have been booked himself for his retaliatory shove or for being ugly and French, led a posse of players who disgracefully harassed the referee to send off the youngster. The Italian, of course acceded to the German pressure and retreated; it left a sour taste.

Any plans to try Berbatov as a striker were now shelved; it was John O’Shea’s turn for resurrection as he came on for Rooney. We so nearly succeeded in the brave attempt to thwart the tide and secure a fourth goal. Awfulstuber took his frustration out on Valencia and from the free kick Nani teed up a volley which was only just tipped over. Then Evra’s ball found Nani onside. He took his time and picked his spot but the goalkeeper got something in the way. From the first corner Fletcher shot wide. The second corner was excellent and Carrick should have buried the sidefoot from eight yards that he sent high over the bar. If only, if only!

It had been evident from the sending off that we were unlikely to be able to hold out if we did not score again. We were being outmanoeuvred with a man short, finding it difficult to relieve our lines and getting pushed deeper and deeper. Nevertheless a fierce spirit recently wanting made it clear that the invaders would have to do something special to penetrate our defences. Van der Sar parried Ribéry’s volley but minutes later the Germans found the key to the last item on their plan.

Ribéry took the corner direct to Robben who was in a huge space on the edge of the area. Carrick tried to shut him down but his technique was perfect and his volley, hit on the fall, curled inside the far post where a man on the line could have been in the way. There was none; 74 minutes 3-2.

Sure, Berbatov came on with ten minutes left, followed by Giggs. Sure, Valencia once nearly put him through. Sure, Nani, who tried so very hard and was easily our best player once Rafael had gone off, had a run and a decent shot. But Bayern were ahead on away goals and everyone in the ground knew that the bad guys were going to win. A nation willing to countenance Harald Schumacher’s foul on Patrick Battiston was hardly going to cavil at a bad taste in the mouth.

In over 45 years of watching United there have been few occasions when I have been taken on such an emotional roller coaster of a ride and felt such grief at a defeat. Though the drive home was long and arduous in circumvention of further suicide attacks it had certainly been a night to remember for the rest of my days, if not quite in the way which I had anticipated when that third goal went in. The incredible journey had not been the one through the byways of middle England but that which we all endured in the Theatre of Pain.

Paul James