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Sunday’s result set sombre mood and despite a beautiful windy spring sunny day and an uninhibited drive up the country the worry beads could not be locked away in this sesquipedalian’s glove compartment. It was probably unwise to begin playing Leonard Cohen. By the time I skirted Altrincham to see in the distance the blue remembered hills of my childhood even Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto was but a rainbow to poison damnation.

It was bad enough to hear that Tom was too unwell to come but all hope was lost when we heard the team. It seemed that in his senescence Sir Alex had finally lost the plot. Edwin van der Sar and Antonio Valencia were the only players retained from the side which had started that triumphal night in Germany eight days before. We were fielding our League Cup side in a European Cup semi-final.

Nothing seemed as it should be for such an historic match. There was so little traffic that one began to fear one had come on the wrong day. With only five minutes to go there were blocks of empty seats as if complacent fans were saving up for Wembley. We stood and cheered loyally the names; Darron Gibson, Jonny Evans, John O’Shea without a hint of irony but the subaudition of failure was all around; be you still, trembling heart.

The seats filled but as our defence retreated uncertainly to allow Jefferson Farfán a free shot the slow minutes were already being counted and it seemed as if we were in for a long, long night. Yet already Nani and Dimitar Berbatov had danced through the serried defence and this was as nothing compared to the miracle unfolding before our disbelieving eyes. Tall, dark, twenty something on the shirt, could that be John O’Shea keeping pace with the mercurial Farfán, sticking with him, nicking the perfect tackle, clean as a whistle? My goodness no; it was Darron Gibson.

At first we just did not comprehend. When he got a lusty kick in the ribs in another winning tackle on Farfán the reaction around me was thank goodness it’s only Gibson. Yet the young Irishman refused the stretcher, limped to the side, got himself dusted down and re-entered the fray to produce a midfield display the like of which we had considered him incapable. Nor was he unsupported. O’Shea played like a temporary captain ought, Berbatov was a reliable custodian of the forward ball, Evans looked again like a player who might make the grade and a somewhat steatopygous Anderson began his weight loss regime by running miles with and for the ball, this night to huge effect.

Schalke were studious; patience, neat interplay and avoidance of panic. Their two fatal problems, though, were carelessness with possession and that this time Mike Phelan had not waited until half time to put Kryptonite in Superman’s drink; goalkeeper Manuel Neuer struggled with an early Nani corner and played like his hero Jens Lehmann, whingeing at the physical challenges as he lost the psychological battle with an aggressive Valencia.

A quarter of the match had gone when Schalke gave away the ball once too often. Anderson picked it up and passed to Gibson, who from central midfield released Valencia on the right with a glorious pass inside the full back. Valencia took it in his stride, outpaced his man and drove it under the advancing Neuer; 26 minutes 1-0.

With the semi-final slipping away from them, Schalke pressed; Raúl González got in a header. Then Paul Scholes produced a forty yard crossfield ball, picking out Valencia who traps them without fuss or an inch of laxity. Anderson shielded the throw-in and the ball came to Gibson at the edge of the area. His shot was no thunderbolt but Neuer, bending down to pick it up, fumbled it against his own post and into the net; 31 minutes 2-0.

For a few heady minutes it was “We’re Man United and we’ll do what we want”, O’Shea zigzagged down the left, nutmegging opponents as if he was Diego Maradona but the side which had plundered five goals at the San Siro was capable of making our young central defence look a touch brittle. Chris Smalling who had an otherwise impeccable night gave the ball to Julian Draxler on the edge of the area, Rafael miskicked the clearance, Evans deflected the ball and José Jorado walloped it from the edge of the area; 35 minutes 2-1.

Valencia shimmied past Neuer but his shot was cleared off the line and the force seemed with the Germans. Nerves were frayed at a free kick when spoffish referee Pedro Proença booked Scholes for bad manners; Gibson and Anderson went in the book for showing studs in otherwise successful tackles.

It took the half time break for it to dawn upon the worriers among us that we were three goals to the good and only forty five minutes away from a European Cup Final. Edu, who came on then for the salebrous Alexander Baumjohann, posed an immediate threat and Raúl moved wide right, increasing the pressure on O’Shea.

Were we defending too deeply? Be you still, trembling heart; Valencia and Nani were now operating in slick tandem down the weak German left flank. Together they carved out a chance down the right, then caused havoc enabling Smalling to stroke the ball into the net, but he was offside. Nani and Berbatov created one for Anderson, whose shot was curling into the top corner until Neuer touched it around. The Stretford End was in fine voice with a medley of anthems to the heroes of yore. Patrice Evra came on for the limping Rafael.

Most credit for the killer goal was Nani’s. It was he who intercepted on the edge of his own area, he who a couple of passes later moved it through the middle and he who rounded the last man and cut back for Anderson. Anderson was tackled by Atsuto Uchida and Kyriakos Papadopoulos but first to get off the floor and react; he swivelled and shot home the loose ball, one wondered how one had been so in awe of Neuer; 72 minutes 3-1.

Now the singing started in earnest. Darren Fletcher, skinny after his illness, came on for Scholes, Gibson passed right for Valencia who released Berbatov with a fine ball and the Bulgarian, in need of morale-boosting goal himself after recent weeks, squared selflessly for Anderson to stroke the ball into the Stretford End net at the far post; 76 minutes 4-1.

Michael Owen came on for Berbatov; he was unlucky to be ruled offside and at the death produced a stunning shot which drew an equally stunning Neuer save. The Wembley songs rang out across the Salford and Stretford skies as the final minutes saw Schalke trying to restore some pride. Van der Sar saved at Klaas-Jan Huntelaar’s feet and then did well to parry Edu’s stinging shot; Huntelaar had the rebound in the net but was marginally offside. For all their annoying airs the refereeing team got most decisions right.

Never before have we managed to bring a first leg advantage back to old Trafford at the semi-final stage. I was too young for Real Madrid in 1958 and imprisoned in school during the miserable night against Partizan Belgrade in 1966.

Until my brain turns to mush I shall never forget the glorious failure against AC Milan in 1969 nor the disappointment against Borussia Dortmund in 1997, nor the draining tension of the single goal victory over Barcelona three years ago. Nor will I forget this, a different experience. Until the end when there was unconfined pleasure at reaching our third Champions League final in four years, it felt more like a League Cup semi-final than a match near the very pinnacle of world club football. Those who have known only Ferguson’s success must not underestimate this achievement nor fail to savour the rare privilege of watching our club at this level; it may never come again.

Jealous listeners to Radio Five, on the drive home, were gleefully prophesying doom for United at Wembley. The seagulls seem enamoured of the prospect of our failure against Chelsea on Sunday. Nothing has yet been won but if we go down in either or both of these great tests may we this time go down fighting with a pride in our attacking heritage.

Be you still, be you still, trembling heart, remember the wisdom out of the old days: him who trembles before the flame and the flood, and the winds that blow through the starry ways, let the starry winds and the flame and the flood cover over and hide, for he has no part with the majestical multitude.

Paul Andrew James