Ever hear about a fantastical yarn featuringManchester Unitedbeing down in 14th place in the Premier League yet somehow standing proud at 3-0 up a mere quarter-way through a major European semi-final, against a 10-man Athletic Bilbao who already appeared cooked?
Before kick-off here the answer would be no – of course. But, by half-time, Ruben Amorim’s men were flying, and if Noussair Mazraoui’s left-foot rocket had beaten Julen Agirrezabala, rather than ricocheted back off his crossbar, United’s lead would have been 4-0, and this tie clinically dead.
The sheer, unadulterated comic-book nature of what unfolded in 15 crazy opening half minutes (from 30-45) was underscored by Harry Maguire turning from barnstorming No 9 who headed United into this semi-final to a Sir Stanley Matthews-esque wizard who befuddled Mikel Jauregizar before popping over the cross that ended with Casemiro’s opener.
Bruno Fernandes’s second was a penalty that demanded Espen Eskås view the monitor before the referee awarded it – Daniel Vivian’s evening plunging into a personal abyss as his infringement on Rasmus Højlund that provoked the decision was followed by a straight red card. Cue serious boos from a barely disbelieving and furious home faithful.
At some point during all this breathless fare Eskås’s popularity plunged even further when inadvertently blocking Jauregizar as he fashioned to unload a volley from a (by now) rare Athletic foray.
When Fernandes later ghosted in and hit United’s third their travelling congregation, mostly positioned high in a corner of the magnificent San Mamés Stadium, were seriously euphoric. They, like all witnesses, could not fathom how an Ernesto Valverde team fourth in La Liga that had shipped only 10 goals at home in the competition had suffered the rout, particularly as it was all very far from how the contest began.
Bouncing, feverish, fanatical, intimidating, raucous – oh, and bedlam: this cathedral of football offered a high-octane cocktail of all of these as United fanned out, shook hands, crossed figurative fingers, and set out trying to silence the ear-shredding crowd.
Some hope, even when their team fell behind. Noise was the constant accompaniment, a soundtrack fuelled by passion and partisanship from Athletic’s support. When Maguire dawdled over a free-kick, then waved André Onana forward to take the dead ball, jeers met the slow trot forward of the visiting No 1. When an Iñaki Williams bullet header missed from close range a split-second of silent astonishment was superseded by the thunderclap of 50,000-plusLos Leonesinstantly getting back to roaring their men on. All United could do was soak up the red-and-white waves that crashed at and through them and their collective pulse raced when Victor Lindelöf twice saved Onana’s goal from being breached.
You saw all of this and wagered when, not if Valverde’s feisty outfit would score and begin to really pose United a question. To ask their own, Amorim instructed the jet-heeled Alejandro Garnacho to be hit whenever a teammate could, the wideman flitting from the right wing (where he netted an early, offside strike) to the left, often drawing markers and fouls.
But, then, this opening leg went a sublimely topsy-turvy way for United and after a sun-drenched day on the nearby river Nervión, Amorim’s sending out of this XI on a mission to administer the opening blows in taming Athletic and reach the final where the trophy can be claimed and Champions League qualification secured was more than accomplished.
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What else: the curiosity of this emphatic display shines an even brighter light on Amorim’s insistence that “nothing can save Manchester United’s season”: not even, apparently, the claiming of a seventh major continental honour. If the latter reads as quaint, Amorim might have been truer to what he really meant by excising the last word – as in Manchester United –the club– cannot be saved. Because what he followed up with when speaking at the pre-game media conference was a forensic dismantling of United’s ills as a deep structural failure of the operation he walked into last November.
“[We need] consistency, good decisions, good recruitment, good academy,” said Amorim, in an echo of the “can’t bat, can’t bowl, can’t field” dismembering of the 1986-87 England Ashes tourists by the cricketing scribe, Martin Johnson, who ventured this, then watched as Mike Gatting’s team returned from Australia cock a-hoop with the urn, courtesy of a 2-1 win, the two Test victories the sole ones of his captaincy.
Amorim’s version regarding United is as searing – United are, indeed, a dysfunctional institution that requires wholesale surgery to be mended. But if the continent’s second-tier pot can be plundered – and there is next week’s return to be negotiated before any final (perhaps against Tottenham, back here) – then this year, for so long a certifiable annus horribilis – will definitely be rescued.
And so, too, the Amorim doubters quietened, as the likeable Portuguese will have pulled off a feat even more incredible than Erik ten Hag’s 2-1 FA Cup final triumph last May over Pep Guardiola’s Manchester City. For now, though, let us simply wonder at the enigma that is this mercurial Amorim vintage.