‘Roar power can get us through’, screamed the Evening Standard
back page. ‘Mission: probable’ boasted another of the seemingly
endless London free-sheets.
By approximately four minutes to eight, those dreams were dust,
tomorrow’s fish and chip papers early. As the small pocket of
United fans partied like it was 1968, 1999 and 2008 rolled into one
(“Going to Rome, and that’s a FACT”
, the Arsenal faithful – those that hadn’t left their
plush red seats half an hour early, that is – shuffled out of the
Emirates into the still north London night air, heads bowed, eyes
glazed, their season over. Outnumbered. Outgunned. Out on the
Holloway Road, the disappointment was tangible; voices hushed,
shocked. No-one was talking about the match. Highbury and Islington
tube, usually a visitor’s nightmare, was a breeze: it was as if
they were trying to pretend “the biggest match this stadium has
ever hosted” (copyright Arsene Wenger’s programme notes) had never
happened.
But enough of the vanquished. United’s triumph was sporting
justice sweetly and swiftly delivered, a triumph of sweat, spirit
and soul and desire. There was simply no answer to it. The
scoreline on the night, indeed over the two legs, was still some
way short of reflecting the gulf in class between the sides. After
Kieron Gibbs’ slip allowed Ji-Sung Park to fire the Reds ahead – no
comment on the Emirates turf from Monsieur Wenger, interestingly –
home chins dropped to chests. Arsenal’s ‘Mission: probable’ became
mission: impossible and then some when Ronaldo blasted home the
second goal three minutes later.
Fletcher, whose evening would end in such personal torment,
Anderson and Park snapped at ankles; Rooney burst every sinew,
Ronaldo played to the gallery as only he is able. At the back,
Ferdinand and Vidic snuffed out every offensive, Evra and O’Shea
were solid down the flanks, while van der Sar
largely looked on.
That just about the biggest home cheer of the opening half from
the Arsenal fans came for an offside decision against Wayne Rooney
said it all. Sir Alex had outwitted the professor good and proper –
Tevez or Berbatov? Umm, tell you what, I’ll leave them both on the
bench. Deal with that.
Flags had been left on seats beforehand, a rallying cry to the
Gunners. They were waved ever more limply as the evening wore on,
by the end it looked like a gesture of surrender. Contrast that
with the clenched fist of Federico Macheda, visible in the middle
tier behind the United end, in response to his serenade from the
faithful.
One ticketless United fan, who’d paced the concourse fruitlessly
before the game, told of his purchase from a home fan. The vendor
had arrived late. Once informed of the early exchanges by our man,
he decided to cut his losses. Last night, any price was right –
apart from those on the betting slips that carpeted the streets,
along with those discarded back pages, trampled, like Arsenal,
under foot.