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Manchester airport was cold and dark when an eclectic band of brothers turned up to check in. Perhaps the pilot knew something, for he did not turn up and the cheery Thomas Cook staff had to borrow another, but just after lunchtime we found ourselves in a cool and sunny Athens wandering temples, churches and rubble hastily cobbled together in unarchaeological reconstructions by well-meaning Victorians. The climb up to the Acropolis was easy, the Parthenon (now under more scientific repair) impressive and the view from it, enjoyed by Pericles when he was not busy fighting Spartans or inventing democracy, beautiful. We gazed over crags and ruins and modern sports stadia dotted around the sprawling, economically challenged world centre of graffiti to the Saronic Gulf beyond and the great ships coming in and out of Piraeus, a place a mite older than Manchester. It was founded in the twenty sixth century BC, developed in the fifth century BC as the port city of Athens and became the chief harbour in ancient Greece. After nine hundred prosperous years it declined until the nineteenth century when Athens became capital of modern Greece. It boasts the largest passenger port in Europe, the third largest in the world.

The stadium at which Olympiacos Syndesmos Filathlon Pireos played from its foundation in 1925 had been built as a Velodrome in 1895 for the following year’s Olympics. Renovated in 1964 it was renamed after Georgios Karaiskakis, a hero of the Greek War of Independence. On 8 February 1981 twenty one young Olympiacos fans rushing outside to celebrate the six-nil victory over AEK Athens were crushed to death at the exit, many more injured. The club left the deteriorating Karaiskakis to play in the Athens Olympic Stadium and during construction for the 2004 Olympics to play at Apollon Smyrnis’ Georgios Kamaras Stadium in Rizoupoli while they had Karaiskakis completely rebuilt for the games in return for its exclusive use until 2052. We had not played in it before, our previous meetings being at the Olympic Stadium. It is a point of semantics whether we have yet played there.

Olympiacos are a power in their own land, current leaders by a country mile and claiming more than half the titles in the history of the Greek league; in the litotes common in the region they are known as Thrylos, or Legend. Their zenith in the wider theatre was modest; the quarter finals of the 1999 Champions League and the 1993 Cup Winners’ Cup. We found ourselves in a pleasant, modern stadium unremarkable architecturally but alive with fervour behind either goal despite the small slice of empty terrace, a mild UEFA sanction for racist behaviour. The pitch was being generously watered. Lee Dixon and Roy Keane were in front of us giving those at home their opinions. Denis Irwin sat behind us.

It was to be expected that Olympiacos would attack; what was shocking was the extent of our caution. After all, Paris Saint-Germain, not among the favourites for the trophy, had won here in the group stage by four goals to one and we were unbeaten in Greece and in this season’s competition. Michael Olaitan was onto Nemanja Vidić at the outset, Antonio Valencia was outdone by José Holebas, we had trouble clearing the pressure following Rio Ferdinand’s careless pass and when Chris Smalling fell over Hernán Pérez was far too vigorous in the tackle to be denied and Alejandro Domínguez ran straight through us from halfway inside his own half. Valencia’s challenge was a lazy wave of the leg, Rio’s never materialised and it was left to Vidić to fly across with a superb saving tackle in the last ditch.

They were no better than, say, Stoke City and frequently gave away the ball but they played with a spirit we did not match and thrilled their noisy followers. Robin van Persie showed touches, Ashley Young ran up and down a lot and with nearly twenty minutes gone a corner kick came to Tom Cleverley whose off-target volley turned out to be our only serious attempt on goal for eighty minutes. We were lucky when Pérez selfishly went for glory at the near post but despite our sluggishness seemed to have weathered the initial storm and achieved an equilibrium, restricting them to hopeful long shots. Creativity we found more difficult; our best move of the first half ended with a terrible overhit cross from Valencia and when Cleverley did well to get a pass to Wayne Rooney, he put it thirty yards into touch. Maybe a team which plays without spirit deserves little luck; ours ran out before half time. Joel Campbell ran at us, Evra blocked his cross but the ball ran to Kostas Manolas outside the area. We were slow to close him down but his weak shot would have been easily collected by David de Gea had it not been flicked by Domínguez ten yards out leaving our goalkeeper stretching in vain as it rolled into the corner of the goal. The place erupted; 38 minutes 0-1.

Our response was immediate but brief. Patrice Evra won a free kick and when Rooney floated it in Manolas nearly headed it into his own net. After the corner kick Rooney’s acute angle shot was blocked and we reverted to the night’s dismal norm. Rio headed weakly and dangerously to Holebas, Evra’s cross was a gift for the goalie, Smalling and Valencia in turn lost the ball and referee Gianluca Rocchi, who might have allowed a few minutes of added time for van Persie’s treatment after finding himself on the end of the goalkeeper’s elbow, put us all out of further misery by blowing instead on the dot. Denis Irwin left his seat and we hoped he had gone to find some boots and help out the lads in the second half, for they were sore in need.

We have experienced helplessness before in the face of foreign onslaught but that was at the Bernabéu, Camp Nou, San Siro. This was at the hands of a side who had little to offer but hard work, a simple game plan, a bit of passion and a willingness to let fly when they saw the target. We saw none of those qualities in United as the second half began. Not a player discharged a meaningful shot o’er the grave where our history was buried. Cleverley knocked an awful ball across the edge of his own box, then Carrick provided him with an unplayable pass. Young back heeled a ball off the field of play. Rio nearly lost it in front of goal but got a lucky rebound. Both our forward balls, from Cleverley and Smalling, were telegraphed. For those who saw hope in the isolated flurries, reality hit like a sickening blow. Cleverley lost the ball on the right touchline and ambled back as Olympiacos built with contrasting energy and got it to Campbell ten yards outside our area. Carrick’s challenge on him was little more than spectral vapour. As Campbell lined up his shot nobody else bothered to move towards him and he curled a beauty into the bottom corner. The chants and anthems were echoed from one end of a fanatical stadium to the other; 55 minutes 0-2.

While just one away goal would completely have shifted the balance of the tie we looked beaten, gutless, lost without a compass. Deep in our own half Vidić and Carrick passed the ball to each other six times without gaining a yard. Substitutions were going to have to be something very special. Denis Irwin was back in his seat but Roy Keane was in the ground. We got Shinji Kagawa and Danny Welbeck which released Cleverley and Valencia from their personal torment but sent Rooney to deep midfield where he proved unsuitable. Evra tried hard to create something, Welbeck got a low head to Young’s cross but Smalling’s ball back to Rooney was suicidal and Rooney nearly crippled Carrick with a hospital ball. Olaitan’s violent volley could well have gone in, Domínguez again ran through the middle unopposed until he met Vidić, Carrick’s back pass to Rio found Olaitan, Smalling fell over again.

At last with ten minutes to go we tested goalkeeper Roberto, whose timely punch kept Young’s cross from finding van Persie. Smalling’s first decent cross reached van Persie who shaped to rescue the night with a cool sidestep past Manolas but inexplicably blasted over the gaping goal. In the closing minutes we crossed badly, and fell over, and did not get the break, but at least we were at last trying.

Though but half our heavy task was done when the clock struck the hour for retiring, we departed this foreign field in disgrace; we had carved but one chance and all of us at the airport felt there was little hope for the return. Few and short were the things we said and we spoke not a word of sorrow. We steadfastly prayed for the spirit that’s dead as we bitterly thought of the morrow,

Paul Andrew James