The Bumpy Road To The Quarters...

In a moment of fleeting dementia, I imagined Sam Alladici Allardyce as the competent manager of Manchester United yesterday. We had some of the necessary pieces (Zlatan, Fellaini, Jones, Smalling, Rojo and Pogba - the giants) required for his famous (if exaggerated) brand of 'skyball'. The ensuing implementation of this agricultural tactic would have ensured that the eye-sore that was FC Rostov's Olimp-2 pitch, would be happily ignored. I day-dreamed of Marouane happily walking away with the match ball under arm, congratulated by team mates and coaching staff for plundering 4 goals in the match. All headers. A record. Heck, we would probably also witness the new uber-cool tripartite handshake between him, Jesse Lingard and Paul Pogba. A record of some sorts too...Final score: FC Rostov 1 Manchester United 5. Tie over...

Alas, it was not to be. In a valiant effort of composure and concentration (for most times), Mr. Mourinho's team came away with a creditable 1-1 draw against FC Rostov in the 1st leg of the Europa League Cup Round of 16 tie. The potato farmland on which the game was played meant that there was no way we were going to witness a high quality game and I reckon UEFA should be somewhat embarrassed in retrospect for allowing a knock-out game in a competition they desperately want to promote as worth competing for to be played on a glaringly atrocious surface. This should serve as a timely reminder to the club as a very basic reason to avoid the treacherous tourney called the Europa League. We saw the fireworks, glamour and grandiose of the events on Tuesday and Wednesday. That's where we belong. In the mansion. Not the servants' quarters.   

In a match Fellaini was arguably Manchester United's best player, there was very little cohesive football played for 90 minutes. The game had a whooping 38 fouls (including one which earned our energetic shih tzu, Ander Herrara, a customary yellow card) and had an uneven feel about it. Pogba, spoiled by the luxuries of Carrington/Juventus Stadium/Old Trafford, kicked the wind when well placed early in the match. The first 30 minutes or so were actually quite decent as United managed to navigate the surface and conditions to put together its best spell of football for the entire game. Mkhitaryan, as becoming usual, scored the vital goal in the 35th minute after some sublime build up play by Fellaini and Zlatan. After United failed to convert a couple of half chances early in the 2nd half (Zlatan and Young), Rostov woke up from their reverie, which ironically lulled Phil Jones into his, and equalised in the 53rd minute through their own giant striker, Aleksandr Bukharov. 

The home team had the better chances therefrom and showed some brilliant aerial ball control even as they pressed for a winner. Danny Blind had probably his worst performance in a United shirt and was at par with the consistently mediocre Ashley Young. Martial was introduced for Mikki in the 67th minute and I initially expected him to turn the game on its head but...wait...Martial's stand-out skills are his speed and direct close-control dribbling. The former could be utilised but there was no way in Dante's inferno that he would be able to activate the latter on the mounds and craters of the playing surface. I was, sadly, proved very correct. Martial played like a foal on roller-skates and never had a look-in till the final whistle blew. 

All in all, it was a good result considering the circumstances and I would expect United to finish the job in the 2nd leg. Even in the conditions, you could see glimpses of the team's superior quality over their hosts and we were thankfully able to escape without any injuries or suspensions. 

The players will need to get all the rest they can before taking on the gargantuan task of Chelsea in the Quarter-finals of the F.A. Cup on Monday. Doable? Certainly. But I imagine we would require all the tactical savoir faire of the manager, the ingenuity of the special players available (We all know by now that Zlatan is serving a 3-match ban for his errant elbow in the game against Bournemouth) and the steadfastness of everybody else to get a result. A settled, well-rested, table-topping in-form Chelsea is probably our biggest challenge so far this season. Fingers crossed. Believe...

The Miracle Of Camp Nou 

...speaking of which, what a time to be alive! We witnessed the greatest comeback in the history of the Champions league on a night that can be scarcely believed. Barcelona, a great team seemingly in decline, suffered a nasty 4-0 1st leg bashing against Paris St. Germain in the Round of 16. It was one of the poorest and weirdest performances of ANY team I had ever seen. I had since written the team off this season due to continuing abject performances which were only palliated by individual moments of brilliance by mostly Lionel Messi and very rarely by 'S' and 'N'. Neymar, in fact, until recently was going through what was his worse season in Barcelona both in performances and output. Perhaps the looming trial had started to affect him. Suarez was still scoring goals but without playing at all well. Messi, in spite of his consistent excellence, seemed to stroll about the pitch even more than usual. Luis Enrique had lost the plot (if he ever had it) and that damning defeat was the cherry on top. Enrique announced his resignation effective end of season shortly after and so it was time to salvage what was left. Brilliant league performances followed but the 2nd leg was supposed to be a mere formality. A projected Barca victory which would only hint on what may have been but would be insufficient to carry them into the next round. With that defence, there was no way they were not going to concede at least a goal. So they would need at least 6 goals to qualify?... 

Well, that was what exactly happened!

Suarez scored early, the Parisians immediately lost their composure and it was chance after close chance. An own goal was again conceded late in the 1st half but there was still too much to be done and PSG had also not yet structured a proper attack.  

Messi scored a penalty early in the 2nd half and all bets were off. Certainly, Barca could still score more but wouldn't they also concede? They did. Edison Cavani, enjoying a prolific season, scored the intended back-breaking goal mid-half. Now too high a mountain to climb, surely. It meant Barcelona needed 3 goals in about 20 minutes and without conceding too. Di Maria came on and should have actually earned himself a goal or Javier Macherano a sending off but this sequence of events escaped the match officials.

88 minutes on the clock. Barcelona still need 3 goals. Free kick to Barcelona. Messi usually keeps these to himself. Not this time. He concedes it to Neymar, who has re-assumed his world class cloak in the last couple of games and has been buzzing all through this game. Swoosh. Brilliant goal. 2 more needed. And without conceding. Luis Suarez, a minute later, to put it bluntly, cons the referee into awarding a penalty which is perfectly dispatched by the influential Neymar. One more. Barca's goalkeeper, Ter Stegen made a sliding tackle in PSG's half. Free kick to Barcelona. 94 minutes. Neymar floats the ball into the box and its immediately pin-balled out. Instead of sending another Hail Mary pass and wishing for the best, he drops his shoulder to beat the defender closest to him and measures an over-the-top pass to an onside Sergi Roberto. Goal. Bedlam. Chaos. Tears. Joy and Sorrow. Bulging eyeballs of disbelief. That sinking feeling. Adrenalin. Screams. Players and officials piling on top each other. Unreal. Football, bloody hell.

Fun fact: PSG completed only 4 passes from the 88 minute. 3 of those passes were in kicking off from conceding. Shook Ones.

Deja vu In London

Remember my earlier reference of belonging in the mansion and not the servants' quarters? Good. There's a caveat to that - there's no point staying the the mansion...as a servant. If we are (and as have always done and will hopefully continue to do next season) going to be in the mansion, we shall be there as owners or at least as relatives with legal interests in the property. Not the door-man. Or the cleaner. This is what Arsenal FC has unfortunately become in this elite competition. They have since stopped being competitive and just serve as an easy qualification route for more ambitious teams. The gap between this club and the elite continues to widen even as consistently as they qualify for the competition.

Losing home and away is not ordinarily a big deal but the manner in which this London club always seems to capitulate is part-comedy, part tragic, total farce. 5-1, it was in the 1st leg against Bayern Munich but unlike the PSG-Barcelona tie, we all knew that this one was over and done with. Next, please. We assumed Arsenal would win by 1 or 2 and would butter it up to project an adequately competitive fortitude for the next season. But even that scam is over. Even when they took the lead, a neither here nor there penalty in favour of Bayern meant that they conceded a goal and went a man down. Fair enough. This was beyond the club either-ways. Try and keep a respectable scoreline and see if you can sneak in a goal.

Nooooopes.

Capitulation. Disintegration. Shambolic defending. And that word again, Farce.

I had previously given a quasi-glossary of definitions here . The first three apply.

I leave the club's manager, who in spite of his many achievements with the club, has fast become a farce caricature and object of ridicule and opprobrium, with the lyrics of a Kenny Rogers (as he then was. Before the facial 'make-over') classic:

"You gotta know when to hold up/know when to fold up

know when to walk away/know when to run..."

Signing Out.

B.L