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ManUtd 1-0 Barcelona: The Lucky Cockroach

May 31, 2008

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Paul James

United’s tenth European Cup semi-final, Ferguson’s fifth, my eighth. Determined to enjoy this evening amid the tension, the usual suspects met half an hour early at Al Nawaz for our last curry of the season. There Margaret discovered a chubby cockroach on the floor outside the ladies loo (an acquaintance of Martin Edwards presumably).

This elicited a discussion of our patronage but I got the feeling that she did not regard the debate as pertinent. She might be persuaded to accept that issues like waiting an hour and a half for our food (“Why, are you in a hurry?” they said), or chickens halved the wrong way, or gippy tummy are merely tangential.

She also accepts the evidence that United’s destiny on the field depends upon what we eat. On the subject of where we eat, however, I fear that cockroaches present an absolute and overriding argument in the female mind, like chocolate, only in reverse.
The match programme was designed in homage to that for the 1968 semi-final, a game played with our most charismatic striker injured where a goal feast was predicted but which ended 1-0 thanks to a brilliant twenty yard volley in the 15th minute at the Scoreboard End; spooky or what?

The idea of meeting early was to enjoy the street atmosphere but we should probably have been in the city centre for that. The Barcelona team bus with police outriders passed us on the Chester Road at Trafford Bar and the ale-supping crowds outside Lou Macari’s chip shop and the Bishop were bigger than usual and formed a good-natured barrier to both Sir Matt Busby Way and Partridge Street, but I would not have said that the atmosphere was special until we were inside the ground.

There, and despite the embarrassing attempts to gee it up American style, the fervour was of a level I have only witnessed two or three times before at Old Trafford, even in the old days. From the moment they played “Glory, glory” and we all sang the proper words it varied between good and awe inspiring.

The television broadcast did not do it justice. The singing that echoed around all sections of the ground and the twirling of scarves to “viva Ronaldo” were inspirational and deafening, especially because it was not related to any single incident but simply in support of the team in a tight situation.

The team news had not been good; neither Rooney nor Vidic made it. Vidic has become something of an icon, though on the evidence of these games Wes Brown must be one of the best replacements in Europe at centre back. We always miss the absent Wayne even when he is going through one of his alleged bad patches.

I was surprised by the selection of Park on one flank and pleased by that of Nani on the other and I was proved quite wrong in worrying about Park; both flankers had fine matches. Ronaldo played a wandering commission up front, supported by Tevez, and Carrick and Scholes were at the heart of the midfield.

The match was a thrilling balance of technical excellence and tension. Barcelona had nearly 60% of the ball and while they had it Messi in particular looked superb; graceful, full of speed and tricks, nearly unstoppable. I felt that Ronnie was spending too much time whingeing and not bothering to chase back and that he gave the ball away. I left the ground thinking that he was not the equal of Messi.

Yet analysis of the television coverage suggests this is just nonsense; he played a selfless running game and posed a threat all night. I was wrong to think as I did. Which of them won the match? Whose runs made the winning goal and three of the other best chances? Ronnie’s contribution is immense precisely because he has suborned himself to the team.

If Messi and Deco showed their skills, then so did our defence. Evra attacked despite Messi and the four of them neutralised the considerable talent arrayed against them without recourse to dodgy refereeing decisions or lucky goal line clearances or the woodwork; it was cool, well disciplined defending at the highest level. Carrick’s support to the defence was equally important, but my man of the match was Tevez, who gave a performance of determination and endless running and harassment.

They must have been sick of the sight of him bearing down on them by the end. There was one passage late on when three of them were in a triangle and he kept running in turn at each of them like a puppy after the ball, snapping and niggling. They treated him with disdain but he would not go away and it was they who needed to score. They ended up delivering a loose ball.

Then there was Paul Scholes. What can you say? We were reminded last Saturday that the margin between glory and disaster can be hairsbreadth thin. Last Wednesday’s game had opened with a penalty and Paul Scholes could not have been closer to giving one away than he was in then first minute here, deliberately bringing Messi down when the Argentinean was passing over the line into the area. Messi rolled over several times to confuse the referee’s geography but referee Fandel correctly awarded the free kick and not the penalty; it was a dodgy moment.

For the first ten minutes or so Barcelona took charge. What we did this night which we had not done in Barcelona was to get amongst them. We harried them all over the park and despite that the referee penalised many tackles their interpassing began to break down, they looked less assured for much of the time than they had out there and they began to make mistakes.

An appalling crossfield ball after ten minutes showed they were not as confident as they might be given their possession. Messi went on another mazy run through the middle, Wes Brown just nicked it off him, and seconds later Rio was pivotal in working the ball up to Ronaldo, who turned superbly as Zambrotta skidded on the turf. Ronnie dribbled into the area, was successfully tackled, but Zambrotta’s clearance fell to Scholes, following up forty yards out.

Scholes was left to advance and then, twenty five yards out and with the advice of half the stadium ringing in his ears he let fly. I was right behind the flight of the ball; it was a belter, curling away from the goalkeeper and into the top right hand corner of the net; 15 minutes 1-0. Our celebrations would have embarrassed wild Dervishes.

For a while we really had them for the taking. Ronaldo was chopped down on the right, Nani’s wicked low free kick was fumbled by Valdes and scrambled clear, we were running at them from all channels, their clearances were into the stands. Ronaldo’s lovely little reverse pass from the left was met cleverly by Ji Sung Park with a disguised sidefoot from eighteen yards or so which went inches wide and deserved better.

The goalkeeper was nowhere; if that had gone in it could have been a massacre but United lost the impetus a little when Puyol needed prolonged treatment. Van der Sar had to make a good save from Messi and it became end-to-end stuff. Park’s ball after another flowing move just did not run for Scholes, Valdes was so nearly beaten by a cross from Tevez.

Deco had a couple of shots which went pretty close, Van der Sar was kicked twice by Wes Brown, once when Zambrotta was running in at his left post, then when he spilled a cross from Abidal on the other side. The fact that their fullbacks were overlapping showed that Barcelona were getting a real grip of the game again, though Nani’s header could have killed them off five minutes from the break when he so nearly turned in a great cross from Park.

After the interval United regrouped. We did not increase the possession by more than a few percentage points but Barcelona’s chances were less clear cut and less threatening, and we continued to carve out chances of our own as Ronaldo and Tevez linked up; Tevez was thwarted at the near post, and then played a lovely one two with Ronaldo and Valdes parried his fierce shot.

As the half wore on the defending got deeper and deeper as Barcelona kept at it, the United attacks less and less frequent. Barcelona had one or two lovely moments, such as Messi’s utter mesmerisation of Scholes as he flicked the ball from one foot to the other and left the ginger prince like a spectator at a magician’s show, but Van der Sar was well protected.

Substitute Henry was the only one to get through to him; he had to catch a clever little lob and smother a dangerous header. The worry was at the edge of the crowded area, especially when Carrick interposed himself and went to ground a couple of feet inside, just managing not to handle the ball (the referee was on hand).

The tension got to us all. Relief was found collectively in the increasing volume and frenzy of the support. On television they misinterpreted this as premature celebration, but it was solidarity. Added time went on for ever because Patrice Evra got a kick in the head and was stretchered off.

When the end came at last you couldn’t hear the whistle, there was pandemonium all around; I can rarely remember a victory, even an FA Cup Final, so raucously celebrated and thousands stayed behind awhile to sing and applaud and hug and then to carry on in the street outside.

What a night. The snag is that if we go back to Al Nawaz next season we’ll presumably have to have a cockroach every time. Side dish, not main course.

Copyright © Paul James

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