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Manchester United’s experiences in Portugal have touched the heights and the depths. Our first was a Cup Winners’ Cup quarter final at Sporting Clube de Portugal in 1964. We arrived holding a four-one first leg lead and lost five-nil. Our second was a European Cup quarter final two years later, arguably the greatest football we have ever played as we destroyed Benfica and Georgie Best became El Beatle. The third was a Dave Sexton side with influenza as an excuse; 0-4 in the Cup winners’ Cup of 1977.

Our competitive record is five wins, two draws and four defeats. The Lisbon friendlies have not been without interest. Eusebio’s testimonial at Benfica in 1992 was Eric Cantona’s debut. In 2003 we were beaten at Sporting by a precocious young talent whom senior players insisted Sir Alex Ferguson needed to sign. Thus came Cristiano Ronaldo to Old Trafford and it was he who returned to score the winning goal for us in our 2009 Champions League quarter final at Porto.

This first visit to Braga was on a cold, damp November evening. The Estadio Municipal is known as The Quarry and is hewn out of the hillside so that there are stands on either side of the pitch but at each end there are no spectators, one is a vertical rock face, the other overlooks the valley. On a stormy night it a setting for Wagnerian drama but the company, directed by Felix Brych, the German referee, served up Gilbert and Sullivan.

Ferguson, recalling perhaps Braga’s collapse at Old Trafford rather than the way they went two goals up that night or their challenging position in the Portuguese League, took risks with his selection, especially in defence where Chris Smalling, his metatarsal healed, was given his first outing of the season and Antonio Valencia was asked to play right back. More wisely than at Stamford Bridge, however, rested first teamers were on the bench.

The first half was typical of our recent away performances in this competition; we enjoyed the greater share of territory and possession but lacked ideas; our opponents looked more dangerous. Wayne Rooney delivered some excellent passes but faded. Javier Hernández and Danny Welbeck were two stars keeping not their motion in one sphere; playing quite well but never in harmony. Nani, playing in front of José Peseiro, the coach who gave him his first senior chance, was involved in much of what we did but fulfilled his usual quota of errors. To put in context our disappointment, we are, according the The Times, second only to Barcelona in our passing accuracy in this season’s competition.

Hernández collected a boot and an elbow in the face going for a cross from Nani and no sooner had he returned to the pitch than Smalling had to go off for running repairs. Braga’s counter attacks were worrying; Evans let a pass go by without realising Éder was behind him, Ryan Giggs lost the ball to Rúben Micael. While our defence was a man short Alan’s cross found Rúben Micael who fluffed his chance. The home crowd became more vocal, their team grew in confidence. When Hugo Viana crossed from the left Éder hit the post with a diving header. We weathered the storm but ended the first half looking comfortable, intricate, imperfect, toothless.

Braga were more inspired by the half time talk than we. With a little assistance from the referee their efforts bore fruit. All Evans did was stand and block Custódio’s path. Well, perhaps he accidentally left a leg for the Portuguese to fall over. Brych had no hesitation pointing to the spot. Alan cracked the penalty beautifully under the bar; 49 minutes 0-1.

Now there was atmosphere all right; United fans who wondered how intense the Bracarenses’ support can be might have noted that unaccompanied under thirteens are banned from the local derby against Vitória de Guimarães. Braga tried to consolidate. Elderson Echiéjilé and Éder tested the weakness of our stand-in right back. But the goal had disturbed our collective somnabulism; Nani’s deflected shot was our first on target, Valencia did what he does best and had a run down the right, the goalie flapped and Welbeck might have scored had the officials not spotted that the ball touch his hand. The rain came harder and harder. The lights failed.

Abandonment seemed quite a good idea but it took only twelve minutes for the generator to be fixed and the resumption shone little light on us. Rio Ferdinand was in Evans’ place but Rúben Micael, a truant to chivalry, went down clutching his face after the slightest of contact with Anderson. Nuno Coelho bent the thirty yard free kick round the wall. David de Gea, who had handled excellently up to then on his twenty second birthday, repelled it and Smalling had to clear as Rúben Micaelfollowed up.

It was time to call for the cavalry but Robin van Persie’s arrival initially made no difference because the formation was simply not working. We were being stretched; Valencia robbed Rúben Micael in the nick of time when Alan crossed, Éder kicked Anderson in the head, Patrice Evra halted Alan’s speedy breakaway. The important change was when Ferguson brought on Rafael da Silva for Nani. It gave us a recognised back four and enabled Valencia to become a full time winger. We looked better balanced; Valencia and Rafael pressing on the right, Rooney on the left.

The tactical switch cannot entirely account for an extraordinary last ten minutes in which we witnessed a small miracle as a lethargic and predictable United rose from the ground like a feathered mercury. Our recovery was built on Brych. Deep in defence, a few feet from our right corner flag, the referee managed to interpret a possible foul by Anderson as a free kick to United. As Braga players protested we got on with the kick and before our hosts, or the TV director, had had time to work out what was going on Giggs had received the ball and delivered a thirty yard pass down the inside left channel.

The rain was tippling torrents but as if an angel had dropped down from the clouds van Persie read Giggs’ ball; goalkeeper Beto came, dithered, retreated and the Dutch maestro, hair and shirt plastered to him by the downpour, unerringly drove the ball over his despairing hand and into the net from twenty five yards; 80 minutes 1-1.

Still we did not look to be playing that well; Smalling was called upon to head out a dangerous cross. The ball moved swiftly up the field, Giggs beat Custódio and threaded the ball through for Hernández who was twice as dangerous with van Persie on the pitch. Douglão and Beto together brought him down but the ball ran to Rooney, who invited the tackle from Coelho. It took Brych an age to blow and the Braga players were furious when he did but it was no softer a penalty than the one they had got. Had Rooney learnt from Alan’s example how to take a spot kick? No; his left foot skidded in the mud as he struck the ball with his right but it ricocheted into the net off his own ankle; 84 minutes 2-1.

We tested the propitiousness of the gods; de Gea got away with a Barthez dummy on Éder, Evra with a back pass to the same player. Cold and drenched and utterly miserable were the Braga crowd. For them this opera was cruel farce. How could so much good work have been undone? Douglão gave away the ball. Van Persie to Valencia, who cut back to Rooney, a wonderful flick to Hernández at the far post. We may never know why on earth Hernández took it upon himself to dribble around the goalkeeper and everyone else instead of just sticking it away, but neither will we care because somehow, involving a rebound and a stranger’s leg, he poked it in past the defenders on the line; 92 minutes 3-1.

It seems utterly churlish to complain. Top of the league, winners of our Champions League group with two games to spare, we would all have settled for less than this before the season started. There is something missing, though, something that disdains the trivial labelling of punctual brains, something that cannot be photographed, measured, something un-United.

Paul Andrew James