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He thinks of Those who have spoken Evil of his Beloved

The commentators were doing no justice to history saying United have never beaten a German side over two legs. We beat Borussia Dortmund in 1956 in the European Cup when they wore shiny gold shirts which added a romantic lustre to the European adventure of a bygone age. We beat them again, gloriously, in the Inter Cities Fairs Cup of 1964. We also beat ASK Vorwärts in the European Cup in 1965. Even since the advent of the Champions League our painful failures against Borussia, Bayern (twice) and Bayer should be set against our record in the groups, five wins two draws and one defeat against Bayern, Leverkusen, Stuttgart and Wolfsburg. Then, of course, there was the second greatest night in all our history against Bayern in Barcelona. Who put the ball in the German net?

This is our fifteenth European semi-final and we have so far been successful in only five of them. We were favourites at the start despite Schalke’s unblemished home record because of our reputation and experience and because we have conceded neither defeat nor even an away goal in this year’s campaign. Yet the eyes of the rest of Europe were upon the gigantomochy in Madrid, from which it is widely presumed the eventual winners will emerge, that we are simply playing Schalke for the honour of being beaten in the final.

Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair and dream about the great United sides of the past and their pride. Watching our visit to Gelsenkirchen was like watching the ghosts of the past in a match which reflected Gabriel Hanot’s vision, a celebration of what is good in football. It was also an illustration of why life has become otherwise. It was because Schalke allowed us to play that they were so overwhelmed.

In every respect except the score this was as good an away European performance as I can remember from United. The reputations of our opponents put it marginally below the heroic recoveries in 1999 Turin or 1968 Madrid and I do not believe anything will equal the demolition of Benfica in 1966, but it must be ranked with the greatest of the rest.

Killjoys were already belittling it as the final whistle went but this is merely the pattern of modern English sports journalism; predict United’s downfall at the hands of clever foreigners (in this case coach Ralf Rangnick and striker Raúl González) and, when this does not materialise, dismiss the opposition as having been poor.

The truth is that we demolished in front of their famously fervent and loyal crowd the team which had just trounced the reigning European Champions by seven goals to three. There was not a United man who did not play his full part in a superb team performance. We achieved a level of ball possession (66%) surely unprecedented at this stage of the tournament since the great days of Real Madrid and we carved out no less than eighteen goal attempts. A just outcome would have been that we had scored one third of them.

Our team selection was interesting in two respects; Fábio da Silva was favoured at right back and Nani was left on the bench as Antonio Valencia and Ji-Sung Park took the places on the flanks. Schalke had the Phantom of the Opera in defence (a galeate Cristoph Metzelder) but with Superman in goal they did not need anyone else.

Before half a minute had passed Alexander Baumjohann forced a save from Edwin van der Sar after a Giggs mistake but this was as near as Schalke got all night. For a while there was an exchange of attacks but our defence was the superior, our attacks the more threatening and once we attained complete control of the midfield we put on an exhibition the like of which most thought this team of ours incapable.

Michael Carrick sprayed passes around like the man of that name who used to play for us before the trauma of Rome. He also played with a discipline which enabled Ryan Giggs, Park, and Rooney who fell back to play a deep inside forward role, to cause havoc. For an hour, with Valencia a persistent threat on the right and Hernández pulling them this way and that the Schalke players seemed mesmerised as red shirts gallivanted past them. Only those who can envisage a pack of voracious rats can have any idea of the extent to which Schalke were overrun.

The shonky Phantom’s friends in Munich had obviously told him about winding up Rooney, whom he baulked at every opportunity, but it had little effect. With Valencia crossing from the right, Park powering through the middle and Rooney, Giggs and Hernández taking turns to slide penetrating passes to each other past shailing defenders only Superman stood before us like Horatio on the bridge. After two minutes he had used his X-ray vision and flown to the topmost corner of his goal to keep out a Rooney free kick. He foiled Park, he foiled Giggs with a super save low down and another on the stroke of half time, and he foiled Hernández time and again; his best was a parry from Park’s drive and a breathtaking recovery to spread himself and get a low hand to the point-blank follow-up by Hernández.

Before half time he seemed to have won the psychological battle with Hernández; he had our talented Mexican shooting wide in desperation to beat him, or cutting back when he should shoot. Other United players were affected, Giggs and Fábio both missing precious chances. He inspired his own, too; Atsuso Uchida threw himself in the way to block Park’s goalbound shot in one particularly hectic passage of play. Unnoticed by everyone, however, Sir Alex at last found a use for Mike Phelan and sent him to sneak into the German dressing room and put Kryptonite in the water.

Schalke had only occasional sorties, snuffed out by Evra tackles or Fábio interceptions, and a feeble shout for a penalty. Immediately after the interval Jefferson Forfán put in a tricky cross and one wondered whether The Professor, as the Schalke coach is known, had come up with a new theory, but normal service resumed.

Nobody had yet noticed that Superman had changed back into Manuel Neuer as the green mineral infusion began to take effect. Our players were still hypnotised with the illusion of his invincibility; Giggs trapped Valencia’s cross and sent two defenders slaloming on their backsides with an outrageous dummy only to shoot embarrassingly wide. When Evra gobbled up yet another turnover tackle there came the first indication that the goalkeeper’s powers were waning. Giggs put Hernández through, the volley was crisp and decisive and rippled the net but unfortunately the little pea was offside.

José Jurado had Schalke’s first real chance after 52 minutes, which he put over. Ten minutes later they won not one but two corners in succession and five minutes after that Edu’s shot was coolly gathered by van der Sar with Raúl marauding.

The worry was that United were losing steam and would have nothing to show for the best football of the season but out of the lull the centre of gravity of the tie was tipped in our favour. Rooney beat his man some thirty yards from goal, moved centrally and threaded a nicely weighted reverse pass. Giggs had no thinking time and with his left foot slid it under Superman and looked sheepish about those earlier misses; 67 minutes 1-0.

With the away goal achieved, we went about retaining possession. From the throw-in the ball was worked around, back to van der Sar, whose long ball up the right touchline was the ninth uninterrupted pass. Valencia moved it in to Hernández who darted along the edge of the area and rolled it through the gap for Rooney who drove home past Neuer, now looking all too human behind a rickety defence; 69 minutes 2-0.

The job was done and Ferguson’s thoughts were towards the Emirates on Sunday. Many miles had been run across the Veltins Arena and there were twenty tired legs to be rested. Those of Hernández and Park, who had run half a marathon each, were selected and then those of Rooney. Van der Sar collected a decent shot from substitute Sergio Escudero and Nani, who had just come on and wanted to party but was surrounded by tired team mates, shot wide of a post.

We have never been beaten after gaining a first leg away win in any round (fourteen occasions), though presumption is a sin. Whatever the outcome, the memory will remain of the night Ferguson’s latest side came of age.

Critics have spoken against it everywhere, saying that this team lacks the fantasy and knows only how to grind out a win. Now weigh this performance with those of the great in their pride. It was conjured from the warm German air and our children’s children shall read of it and say the critics lied.

Paul Andrew James