21st November vs Everton. 3-0

‘Old Trafford this is the Theatre of Dreams. Please welcome Everton and the Barclay’s Premier League Champions: Manchester United.’ As these ever potent words echoed across the ground and the boys emerged onto the pitch for the first time in what seemed like ages, my adoration towards ‘proper’ football re-emerged and overtook the actual significance of the game; turning it into a magical, overwhelming occurrence rather than a league game that we were definitely expected to win.

I suppose the point I’m making, and the reason behind my excitement towards this occasion (that’s right, I said ‘occasion’, not ‘football match’), is that absence makes the red-tinted heart grow fonder. Fu*k International friendlies, fu*k irrelevant games in Qatar and fu*k French hands that break Irish hearts. Today we finally saw some proper football. THIS is the Theatre of Dreams and this is what we’ve been waiting 2 long, painfully neglectful weeks for. While the media could only care themselves with stupid international events that had no impact on England or English football whatsoever, all I could think of was ‘WSC’, and as I approached block E238 in entrance East 37, I could feel the anticipation in the air. With the rain beating down, I slapped in some F.E.A.R (courtesy of Mr. Brown) and I knew the wait was finally over; Saturday had actually come.

I got inside the ground a good half an hour before KO, which I never normally do, as I wanted to feel it before it all began; I missed it THAT much. I literally just observed it for a while; watching it fill-up, seeing the faces once again, reading the Stretford End banners for the hundredth time and then finally watching the lads take to the field. It was all rather poetic and profound...I really did missed it, okay!?

The teams finally lined up with T-HO parked in front of us, performing his OCD, tourette’s shit (which involved creating a mud-pile with his feet, then rubbing his gloves over it, followed by the classic tapping of the studs on the post’s). As the game got underway, we appeared to begin with a lot more urgency than usual; maybe the Chelsea result has taken affect? Maybe Everton were far weaker than expected? Or maybe I was blowing everything up into an epic, defining event? But as the game ran on and approached the half-hour mark, it was clear that neither the first two were true (and obviously the third definitely was).

We were never outstanding throughout and it’s fair to say that 3-0 flattered us slightly, but when it matters and when results (and clean-sheets) are crucial in order to build confidence after the sort of defeat we were on the back on; then a strong victory against a usually threatening, resilient Everton side is nothing to be sniffed at. We were better than them in all areas of the field and even though they were bravely resilient and had periods of attacking play that made their strikers – namely Fellaini and Yakubu (in the 2^nd half) – seem threatening, we scored 3, conceded zero, and barely broke a sweat; and so with regards to the bridge in gap between the two sides this season – not so much United being better, however Everton’s regressive state – that is perhaps what is most prevalently taken out of this game

Don’t get me wrong, the goals were all special and largely satisfying in their own right. Fletcher’s was the most awesome – a perfectly met half-volley from inside the D that flew into the top left corner; Carrick’s was a result of a good, persistent build-up from a corner; and Valencias deflected effort (again!) even saw the Ecuadorian crack a smile. THAT'S how relieved we were to get this ‘the game after...’ match out of our systems! What I found most impressive about the goals – except Darren’s; that was all about the technique – was the teamwork and, more specifically, the assists that showed great awareness and a general promise and encouraging increase in effort by the lads. Valencia’s nod for Fletcher was brilliant, as was Giggs’ perfect ball for Carrick and Scholes’ dribble and feed for Antonio to shoot goalwards. It really was the sort of response that we had all hoped for after the Chelsea game, however it was mainly the perfect result that the fan’s were most grateful for.

The flaws in our game were still very much present – namely poor poor performances by Owen and Giggs, regardless of his assist for the 2^nd – however to win so comfortably; without conceding, without displaying defensive frailties that would cause an opposition threat – all with a team consisting of more than a few non-regulars – aint half bad. Although the performance was far from amazing therefore, our experienced and largely tidy style prevailed to slip us cheekily back into the running (with Brucey’s Sunderland doing a job on Arsenal – that’s 7 out of 9 points they’ve taken in the three ‘top 4’ games they’ve played this season).

Professionalism rather than ‘the stuff of dreams’ was the name of yesterday’s game however the fact the result by the end felt almost routine, with a slight air of disappointment that we didn’t net 5 (which would have REALLY taken the piss out of poor Everton) shows the intent and presumptuousness towards winning the title is still there. The results will come, as I’m sure the more fluid and more impressive displays will, however with the glorious mood inside OT as emphatic as ever, something that will always be inert at this club is the desire to win and provide results for the constantly adoring faithful.

Goodbye boring, inconvenient exhibition-friendlies (for now...) and let 'proper football' rightly recommence in it's true home: The Theatre of Dreams. Ahh it's good to be back!

Heard.

Renditions of 'Feed the Scousers' and 'Twelve Days of Cantona'. I love this time of year!

Plus, at 3-0 up and cruising, the almost forgotten 'Championes'. It's good to remind people sometimes.




Saw.

Obertan's trickery that brought all those excitable memories of when 18 year old Portugese magician-in-waiting did similar things at the same early stage of his United career.

The Everton fan's kicking off against the stewards. You Scouse bastards. Nuff said.

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