RED11.ORG

I had been working in Swansea and drove up through a spectacular Indian summer for the match against the Swiss champions. Group matches in the Champions League are conducted at the Theatre of Routine Wins as if to a script. The visitors become complicit in a ritual which bears no relationship to the fervour and tension of the knock-out phases. The Swiss, being a peaceful and ordered nation, were expected to conform.

We have entertained sides from their country only twice before. In 1958 we were invited to participate in the European Cup as a gesture of sympathy after the air crash. This was blocked by the Beadledom of the English football authorities so we played the opening tie against Young Boys of Berne as a two-legged friendly. We lost 0-2 away and in a match which turned out far from friendly won 3-0 at home through goals by Ernie Taylor, Dennis Viollet and Albert Quixall.

Basel followed the accepted etiquette more closely in 2003. Our qualification for the quarter final already assured, we drew 1-1. Rio Ferdinand permitted an unmarked Christian Jimenez a goal and in return the visitors conceded a deflected shot from Gary Neville.

This time around the Basel supporters made more noise than etiquette allows. Switzerland’s is a small population and it seemed that half of it was crammed into the upper tiers of the Scoreboard End, singing loudly, lighting red flares and generally behaving unlike chocolatiers, bankers or the makers of cuckoo clocks.

The referee Paulo Tagliamento, too, took the dress code a little too far, an Italian hairdresser in a fetching shade of lilac. Otherwise he conformed to tradition, awarding free kicks and throw-ins at random, disrupting play (he interposed himself on three separate occasions as the match reached a climax) and employing those useless fifth officials who satisfy UEFA’s fear of technology but are incapable of spotting the obvious from a few feet.

The traditional spate of injuries may have left us thin in defence but Sir Alex Ferguson was able to field a recognisable back four and on paper our team looked quite capable of dealing with the task in hand in the manner prescribed, despite the absence of Wayne Rooney. As is the norm we started carelessly, giving the ball away from the first few seconds. By the second minute Fabian Frei had provided a chance which Marco Streller should have turned into a test for David de Gea, by the sixth Basel had again carved through our defence, Streller this time providing for Fabian Frei to put wide of the post.

In line with tradition, though, we began to press forward with conviction. Ashley Young’s tremendous cross from the left was met at the far post by Antonio Valencia and should have been headed in, Young half volleyed Valencia’s cross straight at goalkeeper Yann Sommer. When Anderson dribbled through their midfield we did not get a free kick for the obvious handball but we had taken control and all seemed well.

Valencia comprehensively outwitted Park Joo Ho to get the ball forward to Fábio da Silva in the right hand corner of the area. Fábio’s cross was touched back by Ryan Giggs and turned inside Sommer’s right hand post by Danny Welbeck, not quite as he intended; 16 minutes 1-0. Almost immediately, from a throw, Michael Carrick found Giggs on the far, left side. Giggs’ cross was deadly and Welbeck appeared in the gap to convert it smartly along the ground; 17 minutes 2-0.

There was no-one in the stadium at that juncture who did not expect United to win as if on a bummel. The only question was, would we prove uncharitable hosts and thrash them or would we follow tradition and idle towards our three points? We followed tradition, apparently content that they would keep missing when at regular intervals they broke through; Alexander Frei, just wide; Jacques Zoua at our right hand post; Alexander Frei wrongly given offside.

We resurged before half time, another tradition. Streller’s blatant handball in the area to a Giggs free kick which was probably on target; a move left to right through Evra and Welbeck to Valencia, who should have scored. On the restart Young had the ball in the Swiss net but was rightly adjudged offside. But forward we became profligate with the ball. There seemed no midfield cover for our defence, the white shirts moving around us without challenge. The defence itself was too easily pulled out of shape.

Lethargy enveloped the team and the home supporters. While the visiting fans were relishing their big day out, the multitude was gazing silently, knowing that with this degree of carelessness we needed a third goal and that playing like this we were never going to get it. We were carved horribly open when Zoua found Streller; de Gea saved.

With Patrice Evra playing the Flâneur, Markus Steinhöffer was left acres of space to cross and Fábio da Silva did well not to put it in his own net. The corner kick was flicked past Rio Ferdinand; de Gea kept it out of the goal but it fell to Fabian Frei who drove it on the half volley, in off the post; 58 minutes 2-1.

Alexander Frei could only laugh when the Italian hairdresser refused him a free kick as he was brought down by Rio when he looked clean through. Evra, who had hugged de Gea for extracting him from the mire with the earlier save, had not learned his lesson. Fabian Frei was given all the time he needed to centre, Rio had lost his man and Alexander Frei was unmarked as he buried a fine header; 60 minutes 2-2.

Ji-Sung Park’s entry was ten minutes too late; nemesis had been foudroyant as he took an age to warm up. He trotted into a team whose pulse was indiscernible. Glowing limbs once breathing eloquence which might have soothed a tiger’s rage were motionless.

Park’s energy spread to the other youngsters but with Giggs off we needed more than brio if we were to score again. This came when Fábio was injured; Valencia dropped to right back and Nani came on that wing. We improved. The fifth official stood gormlessly as David Abraham rugby tackled Park off the ball.

Then yet again Basel played through our soft centre and when Phil Jones tried to be clever with a clearance Valencia brought down Streller. Though the penalty was seen by some as a touch harsh, seconds after it the scoreboard reflected a kind of justice. Alexander Frei walloped it into de Gea’s top right corner to complete an amazing comeback and our chances of a point, let alone three, were now filipendulous; 76 minutes 2-3.

Had manager Thorsten Fink tried to press home the advantage, Basel might well have embarrassed us further with their thoughtful counter-attacking. Thank goodness he chose to defend the lead for we were instead treated to a traditional and thrilling sight, a United side in desperate need attacking the Stretford End goal in ceaseless waves before a raucous support.

It is traditional to cut it as fine as possible. Dimitar Berbatov came on for Anderson, who looks fubsy and in need of a dietician. Young on the one wing and Nani on the other set about the task as young Welbeck found again his marauding heart. Young and then Nani put in brilliant crosses; Welbeck was so close to getting the vital touch on Nani’s. Berbatov headed wide from Jones. As the final seconds of normal time were ticking away it was Nani who unlocked the defence with a curling cross of perfection from a difficult, deep position; at the far post was Ashley Young, burying his header cleanly and decisively; 90 minutes 3-3.

At last United players had found again their heritage; there was almost no celebration of the goal, just a rush to retrieve the ball and to get started again and we so nearly got the winner. Another magical cross from Nani, this time Welbeck got a touch and it shaved the far post; from where we sat it had looked in. Then, near disaster as Aleksandar Dragoni?, to waste time, tried to hoof the ball into Deansgate. De Gea was outside his area and to our horror the punt described a huge parabola and looked for all the world as if it was ending up in the net with de Gea scrabbling around the turf in a humiliating fankle.

Astoundingly, we should have won with the last move of the match. Berbatov did brilliantly to get his head to the long ball and if he had only put the return across the face of the goal Nani was waiting to tap it in. His shot hit the side netting and the whistle went with thousands of us bewildered that our routine win had turned into one of the most exciting group matches of the last decade; too exciting.

All that remained was for your correspondent to discover he had dropped and lost all four of our season tickets. An hour’s wait in the ticket office with no joy is what you need when you have two hundred and fifty miles to drive and work the next morning and your team, faced with an apparently easy path, has chosen instead to show you the steep and thorny way to heaven. What a night!

Paul Andrew James