We Were There Sort Of: United V City
Earlier today, Carlo Ancelotti’s hard work with Everton’s promising crop of youngsters - Mason ‘Don’t Rate Him on FIFA’ Holgate, the classically named Dominic Calvert-Lewin - was undone by four Chelsea goals. That’s several weeks of training ground cigar smoke, down the bin. Imagine the stakes then for football justice, in City’s trip to United.
I am rather exhausted by Peter Drury calling all the biggest games, and Jim Beglin complementing Drury’s play-by-plays with a large lozenge in his mouth. Perhaps because I listen to the two gentlemen at lunchtime everyday, while massacring people’s sons at PES 2020 on the office PlayStation. Nevertheless, the stage is set. United playing for civic pride and a Champions League place Tottenham Hotspur seem anxious to gift-wrap for anyone in the league. City at war with Europe, with football itself, and writing a new chapter in their recent history (seemingly) with every game they play.
As a person who is sympathetic to both facts and whataboutism as a legal defense, it’s important to state off the bat that I am impartial to City. I am even considering buying a City jersey in May, because I want to try and experience happiness. I’ve always despised United: their colours, their fans, their chants. The fact that Satan was literally their manager for two prosperous decades and no one noticed. Imagine my alarm, then, to read a team sheet that doesn’t have Kevin De Bruyne on it, and plays English wunderkind Phil Foden out of position and on the right flank. Somehow City can bench their regulars and make you blink at the television screen, searching for the bluff.
I lower the volume on Drury and Beglin and turn on True Geordie’s live-stream on YouTube. City start off with the bulk of the possession. They’re playing Tikki-Takka, I text a United fan, with cross-field balls. At one point the legendary Kun Aguero harasses Luke Shaw off a ball. At another, he slips away niftily from a defender to force a corner. The things the Argentine does to create space remind me of Will Parry in Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials saga, the lad who slices through time and space with a very special knife.
It’s not enough, what with Aaron Wan-Bissaka up to the task of containing Raheem Sterling on the left. One or two moments of sublime control by Anthony Martial prelude an opening goal for the home side. January signing Bruno Fernandes, who could’ve worn a Spurs shirt, lofts a ball into the box for Martial to volley low and hard past Ederson de Moraes. United lead.
Aguero is ruled out offside early in the second half, for no less predatory behavior. He just flies past his marker and plants it in David De Gea’s wine cellar. I must commend United all the same for what is the finest brand of counter-attacking football in England right now. You have to presume Ole Gunnar Solksjaer has drilled his men endlessly in the art of preserving energy, for short bursts of defensive and then gun-blasting attacking play. Every time they gallop forward, that crowd loses its collective shit. City are composed, though, such perfect professionals. Their close control is immense. Their crossing is pristine. Young Phil Foden produces shimmers of brilliance that help explain where the hell Jadon Sancho came from. The lad is proper class.
At 93 minutes I’m on the edge of my seat, pyjama knees and everything. The question of whom I support next season, between Spurs and City, is surely a question of who I resent more: Arsenal or United. The Red Devils nick possession just as City’s desperation reaches its peak. Ederson clears a loose ball right into Scott McTominay’s path. McTominay fancies his luck from the guest wing, and United win two-nil.
What does this mean for football, for City? Nothing. It just means Manchester is United’s tonight, and possibly this season.
