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What United supporter would not be in high spirits setting out for a match against seven times European Cup finalists Benfica, a name replete with history and romance? We had played them six times at Old Trafford, winning all three competitive games but sharing the spoils evenly in three friendlies. The first was in 1962, when such friendlies were headline occasions. They had won the previous two European Cups and goals from Eusebio pegged us back twice after Denis Law and then Albert Quixall had put us ahead.

It was until Tuesday the only two goal draw but they have never failed to score in Manchester. In the latest meeting in 2006 we recovered from a spectacular broadside from Nelson and won through goals from Nemanja Vidi?, Ryan Giggs and Louis Saha.

The brumous November murk cleared as I drove North past Crewe, and Manchester offered a fine, chilly evening for the returning traveller. We were in for an exciting game, mostly because of the suspension of Vidi?, in whose absence we demonstrated the fragility which has epitomised much of our defending this season.

We also revived an old and unwelcome European Night tradition by conceding a goal before latecomers had had the time to settle in their seats. Man of the match Pablo Aimar spread the play to the right where Nicolás Gaitán, on the overlap, nutmegged Patrice Evra as the United captain for the night stood off him. Phil Jones was waiting in the middle as Rio Ferdinand masked the flight of the ball and Rodrigo waited at the back post to tap it in and Jones stood unmoving there as the cross ricocheted of his shin; 3 minutes 0-1.

This gave Benfica all the encouragement they needed. An industrious and skilful display in their hideous coffee and cream outfit gave them control of the middle of the field as we conceded possession and looked impotent. One looked for leadership but midfield was overwhelmed and clueless and the back line was a shambles, players in all sorts of positions other than a coordinated line and no-one taking control. When we had the ball there was little support for the man with it and no movement. We offered dangerous balls across the field in our own half. Our own crowd fell silent fearing another disaster.

Nani was the man who showed the brio. He made mistakes but whenever he got the ball he posed them problems; two of his runs were exceptional. The first drew a booking for Ezequiel Garay who ended it cynically, the second free kick was our first shot on target. Nani’s example was taken up by Fábio da Silva and then by Evra, whose ball to Ashley Young was scuffed by the man playing striker. Why, with Javier Hernández on the bench, were we playing Young in this unfamiliar role?

It was his striking partner Dimitar Berbatov who rescued us. He had treated with disdain the mess behind him, unwilling to tackle back or to offer himself in good positions. His plan was that if he stood around for long enough with three wingers on the pitch sooner or later the ball was bound to land on his head without him having to break sweat.

Bruno César chopped down Young and when Young took the short, square one it looked a waste. Evra, however, found Nani and Nani’s cross from the left was so inviting that even a laconic Berbatov could not resist the little jump to steer the ball into the bottom corner; 30 minutes 1-1.

The transformation was astounding. Suddenly it was European Night at Old Trafford and within a minute we should have been two up as with the crowd at last backing their team fervently Berbatov cleverly played Young through. Artur was given time to save a chance Hernández would surely have converted. Aimar ran through to force a parry from David de Gea but now Benfica were being pegged back.

Carrick was no longer overawed in midfield and Benfica were obliged to resort to niggling fouls and bullyragging Cüneyt Çakir, an inexperienced referee. When Maxi Pereira manhandled Nani, who shrugged him off, Pereira collapsed in a bunko holding his face and Cüneyt fell for it, halting a really promising overlap and adding insult to feigned injury by booking Darren Fletcher for a Celtic oath. Apparently the rule book does not translate well into Turkish; the linesmen’s assessment of offsides was random and the referee’s decisions similarly unpredictable; our goal, for example, had been offside.

When Berbatov had the ball in the net shortly afterwards Cüneyt spotted at least one of the four United players offside but the first half drew to a close with United still rampant; Berbatov took too long to show his ball skills at the edge of the area and his attempt was smothered, Carrick’s superb pass to Berbatov was wrongly flagged for offside

After the interval it seemed clear that Berbatov had been appraised of the need for his greater involvement and he provided an effective fulcrum. This was the United we had come to see, Nani putting in a cross with three men around him and the Reds camping in the Benfica half as the pressure on the visitor’s goal notched up minute by minute. Nani found Berbatov who foxtrotted past two defenders and pulled it back for Young. Carrick forced the ball through but Fábio took a moment before executing his chip and Artur got a hand to it.

Fittingly it was another Nani cross which caused the serious damage. Berbatov got it out to Evra on the left, whose deep ball back in was met by a marauding Fletcher. Artur did well to get a hand to Fletcher’s drive but the Scotsman was following through and managed to keep his second effort under the bar; 59 minutes 2-1.

The comeback had been thrilling and deserved but it took a mere eighty seconds for our expectation of a further goal or two and a fine win to be dashed athwart like worlds to death and ruin driven. The manner of the disaster is as painful to describe as it was to watch. Jones’ back pass to de Gea was not the best but should have been hoofed down the ground by the goalkeeper. Instead he tried to find Fábio.

The grateful recipient, César, ran unopposed into the area as our youngsters stood unmoving there in horror, panic freezing their young blood when the situation looked redeemable. César’s cross passed de Gea and was met by Rio Ferdinand who chested it down instead of clearing it and Aimar had the simple task of tapping it in; 61 minutes 2-2.

Old Trafford was shocked into silence. A Benfica who had been rocked back on their heels had been handed the point they needed and could concentrate now on playing out the match. We created some good chances and could easily still have won; Berbatov had the ball in the net again (Young was offside), hesitated when he ran on to Fletcher’s ball and then volleyed over when played clean through by a wonderful pass from Fábio.

There was, though, an atmosphere of bashment now in the Theatre of Nervousness; Fábio had twice to produce saving tackles. Crucially it was leadership we lacked; oh for a Robson or a Keane or a Scholes to step up, take charge and orchestrate a second recovery. Oh for a substitution, but there was no move from the bench for far too long.

When at last we took off Antonio Valencia for Hernández and Fábio, who had had a good game, for Chris Smalling, we needed ten minutes of old fashioned batterfang on the Stretford End goal but it did not materialize. Benfica, who substituted attackers with defenders and who ensured the process took agonising minutes each time, broke up the play effectively and Smalling showed we were still capable of producing suicidal back passes.

There is nearly always one last chance. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer used to gobble them up, as for a few heady weeks did Diego Forlán. This night’s came in the ninety second minute when Nani’s cross was met by a well policed Hernández at the near post and he and the defender between them looped a header which looked as if it were dropping in at the far post before it faded and drifted along with our hopes.

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. Should we be thrilled with a vibrant, exciting match played in a cavalier spirit or depressed about the bathos brought about by our fallibility? We have forfeited the chance to win an easy group but is it to be or not to be the ignominy of Thursday nights on Channel Five, the Europa Cup? That is the question.

Paul Andrew James