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Galatasaray were founded in 1905 but had no regular venue until the Taksim Stadium was built in 1921. When it was demolished they had to play at the ?nönü for decades because the war and its aftermath delayed construction of their own, the Ali Sami Yen. It is this place, named after their founder and opened in December 1964, which was unaffectionately known as Hell. Since 2002 Galatasaray have been reproducing Hell in the Atatürk Stadium for European matches but now they have a council house, the Türk Telekom Arena built by the government, where Hell has taken permanent residence with them. By those who measure such things their crowd is reckoned the most vociferous in the world.

Cocking a snook at our record, Sir Alex Ferguson picked a reserve side. In six previous visits to Turkey the only time we had lost a goal was when he did this at Fenerbahçe in December 2004; the reserves conceded a hat trick to Tuncay ?anli, forfeited the chance to top the group and were consequently despatched by a powerful AC Milan side in the knock-out round. Manchester United reserves, of course, have international caps and we had already won this group. Nevertheless, Nick Powell was making his first start at the age of eighteen, Phil Jones, twenty, his first appearance in six months after injury, Alex Büttner his fifth start and Josh King, also twenty, his second appearance off the bench.

Life is time’s fool; and time, that takes survey of all the world, must have a stop; Kenny Morgans died on Sunday. He made just twenty three senior appearances for United which puts him on the list near Walter Winterbottom and Federico Macheda and below Fábio da Silva and Kieran Richardson. Fifty four years ago, still eighteen, his tenth match was also his first away European Cup tie, in a fanatical stadium in Belgrade, and his death made it apposite to think of Powell and Jones and the others in comparison with their forbears.

Ferguson acknowledged that the trip to such a hostile place would test them but why should they remain dreamless knaves on shadows fed when they might dare to call themselves men? Michael Carrick would be on the field to guide them and defend for them; what more could they ask? If the record suggests that they failed, it deceives as much as those statistics of Kenny’s. This match was about as far as it is possible to get from last Saturday evening in Norwich. It was fast and violent, played out in front of a raving city street mob orchestrated by cheer leaders who stood upon a dais and resembled those beefy masseurs who walk upon you in a Turkish bath house. It was a truly foreign adventure, just like European Cup matches used to be and it did not take much whimsy to see the ghosts of ‘58 running to and fro, to and fro, oh my Taylor and my Byrne of long ago.

The Turks deployed violence at a level which would not have been tolerated by a Premier League referee but if Carlos Carballo was too lenient it was perhaps that ever since Lepanto a lone Spaniard needs to tread with caution the Orient’s fervour. At least he never let them run the match, which they tried to do like a gang of John Terrys.

Felipe Melo was fired up as any ultra in the crowd. His first foul, on Tom Cleverley, should have drawn a yellow card. Semih Kaya’s two footed lunge on the same player should have been a straight red; reckless is too kind a word because it implies careless accident. If the belated yellow shown Melo when he got Büttner was directed at the team as a whole, it worked, partly because the youngsters in white reacted with an admirable maturity. Jones and Cleverley are of the English, not the Turkish court; who dares to call himself a man?

The match seesawed. There was a period when the nerves seemed at breaking point; Jones’ sloppy clearance, Carrick giving it away on the edge of the area then retrieving it only for Welbeck to give it away again, Anders Lindegaard’s weak punch. Nordin Amrabat’s shot was deflected by Carrick, Aydin Yilmaz was unmarked at a free kick but put his header over. Darren Fletcher, who was in his Scotland, not his United form, gave it away, Amrabat was fast on the break and Jones, just about keeping up with him, took faith in European referees’ reluctance to give penalties with a disguised shove. Lindegaard twice got away with parrying long distance stingers from Hamit Altintop without holding on to them and Seçuk ?nanshot against Büttner’s arm, his claim for a penalty not entirely frivolous.

We had half of the play but ours was less cavalier, more intricate. Danny Welbeck showed he was unafraid of the maelstrom; powerful runs, neat exchanges, a pity he ran out of ideas when he approached the danger zone. Goalkeeper Fernando Muslera’s fingertips just teased an Anderson corner away from the incoming Jones. Twice Anderson took it upon himself to relieve the pressure intelligently, one a surging run, the other using Welbeck as a target. It would not have been undeserved had we gone ahead; Powell met Cleverley’s corner and thumped a header against the crossbar. Anderson put a good ball in but our forwards were not in the right time and place, Powell could not quite get to a Hernández cross.

Galatasaray came out after the break in determined mood. Albert Riera produced a ferocious shot which Lindegaard took on the dive and held firmly; Emmanuel Eboué put in a ball from which Melo seemed to have scored with a powerful header just under the bar. Lindegaard’s save may have been as spectacular as anything David de Gea can do but it was ultimately fruitless, for Fletcher was clumsily trying the physical stuff and never left the ground when the corner came in. It was a piece of superb theatre, and for that a moment difficult to begrudge the Turks. There are few more exciting experiences in sport than a bullet header ripping into the rigging in the cauldron of the most fanatical crowd on earth. Rafael da Silva on the line did his best to reach it but Burak Yilmaz was standing clench fisted like a boxer who has delivered the knock-out that gives him the world title. He has scored every goal of theirs in the Champions League this
season; 54 minutes 0-1.

Our response was impressive. Welbeck broke on the right and angled in; Hernández should have shot when the pass found him momentarily free; at this level one touch was a touch too many. Anderson had a ground shot smothered by Muslera then bulldozed through but his effort was deflected. We won a series of corners; Hernández headed down and Muslera did well to smother at Welbeck’s feet even if he was a bit girlie about the challenge.

Ashley Young and Macheda come on. Eboué had just beaten Cleverley and made a good run and Galatasaray came again. Having tried the referee’s patience with wild tackles they now tested him on diving; he stood firm as Yilmaz attempted first to get Rafael sent off and then to win a penalty. Much more thrillingly, Amrabat passed inside to Altintop whose fearsome drive from twenty yards was touched by Lindegaard’s fingernails onto the underside of the crossbar.

We survived this second coming and gained more of the ball but Galatasaray held us at arm’s length until the lads summoned up a last effort. Macheda nearly fought through the bodies, Hernández’ effort was weak after Rafael had supplied him from the bye line. Where, one thought, had Hernández been hiding for most of the match? He made a great run and King, on for Welbeck, delivered a super cross but we lacked that lethal touch. Unlucky? Maybe, but Galatasaray were pretty unlucky to lose to our first eleven earlier in the Autumn.

It had been heartwarming watching such spirit and one can only hope. Ferguson’s dream is to produce at the last another team of world-beating youngsters but we have experienced that thrill twice in my lifetime and a third time is surely asking too much. At Nick Powell’s age Kenny Morgans all those years ago had taken the first team slot of one of England’s finest wingers, Johnny Berry, and held on to it in a remarkably stylish unbeaten run. The reviews suggested a star had been born; a World Cup place awaited in Sweden in the summer but that ill-fated refuelling stop at Munich meant that for him there was to be only one brief winter of glory. If the future could be read, which of Tuesday’s happiest youths, viewing his progress through, the perils to ensue, would shut the book and sit him down and cry?

Paul Andrew James