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Posted by PaulJ on 2009-06-05 @ 1:52:57 -0600

Final Theme

The Eternal City! Founded by a couple of illegal Trojan immigrants and home to a swarthy race who claim to have once conquered the world but now, along with Co-op Travel, could not organise a piss-up at Peroni. We stood, Dennis and John and me, in the Coliseum, wrecked by generations. Scousers in the dark ages who chiselled out the steel braces holding the place together and melted them down with the hub caps of the chariots whilst drawing their unemployment benefit; a fourteenth century earthquake and finally Pope Sixtus the fifth (was there a Fiftus the sixth you may well ask) who nicked the nice bits for his little chapel down the road.

The Eternal City! We met the Pope on Wednesday morning, courtesy of a New Yorker called Jill who was irritatingly elegantly clothed in the City of melons and cleavage. Met the Pope? Well, manoeuvred by Jill into the key spot in St Peter’s Square we were close enough to poke him with a bratwurst. He saw my United shirt, stopped. Told a flunky to park up the Popemobile, walked over. Nuns were swooning, schoolgirls squealing. What do you say? Il Papa seemed incongruously grovelling, Führer seemed just a touch unfair. I said Hi Ben, can you give us guidance for tonight? To my amazement in perfect Lancastrian (he speaks many languages fluently) he said “How did t’Burrrnleh do on Mundeh”. They won, I said, got promoted, the motorway was full of them meandering around between the lanes, half the town was at the match but most of them had never seen a car before, let alone left Burnley. But, your Holiness, what about tonight?
“My son”, he said, “it’s best not to ask for direct intervention because, as you see, this place is packed with hundreds of good Catholic Catalan lads and lasses in their shirts, and I’d have to do something for them.
“But for United”, he said “greatness beckons. All they have to do is be true to their attacking heritage” and with that my heart soared in optimism as he turned, smiling and waving right and left as he climbed back into his snazzy little motor quietly singing “Bertie Mee said to Matt Busby……” and then, as he approached the microphone “In nomine Patris et Filius et Spiritu Sanctus….”

It was the climax of my visit to the Infernal City. That, and the Cistine Chapel, and the cleavages and the draft Peroni and the superb meal in the Piazza di Montecitorio. The match was meant to be the climax but after the Romans and Co-op Travel did their best to ruin our day the team spectacularly outdid them.

We spent four hours travelling a couple of miles from our hotel to the stadium via the lunch which had been arranged by some genius two miles in the wrong direction. It was 38°C and the bus had no air conditioning. Traffic Police were smoking on duty, chatting together by their vehicles as the bus picked its way through the busiest traffic trouble spots, drawn there by the driver’s Tomtom and the courier’s ignorance of her own city.

Much of Rome is in need of a good bricklayer but the urban sprawl of the sixties that surrounds the Stadio Olimpico does the place no credit. We had a long walk from where our bus parked, the wrong side of the river, over Ponte Duca d’Aosta (which the Foreign Office advised us to avoid; stabbing territory) past a series of rude and self-important jobsworths who, adding no value whatsoever to the process, wanted to see our tickets and our passports. Joe was on our coach, a lovely man who has followed United for ever; he must be in his eighties. He had drawn a €180 ticket in the ballot but they had sectioned off access for the UEFA VIPs. They made him walk entirely around the stadium and he got in at half time. On Tuesday he was in sparkling form; he left Rome in a wheelchair. Ignorant of the misfortune of others it was a moment of amazing relief when the Italian computer worked and my ticket flashed up green. I was in!

The stadium is fifties design and technology, though it has been revamped. It is Olympic in concept; white marble, wide and shallow. We were in row four but there is space for a running track around the stadium, so we were at ground level one hundred yards behind the corner flag. I got a marginally better view than I had at Wembley in 1968. The first thing to see was a curious ceremony. They had been scouring the streets rounding up anorexic women who were now shuffling in front of me in long dresses taking tiny steps doing tricky things with their little Roman shields choreographed as militarily as you would expect in the City where fascism was born.
Out came the teams for the great showdown; ours was something of a letdown. Ignorant that Vidić had taken a knock in training I had complete faith in our defence, which picked itself. Giggs, Carrick and Anderson were in the midfield with Park and Rooney on the wings and Ronaldo as the main striker. It seemed cautious. Two weeks beforehand Barcelona had been invincible, unstoppable. They were bound to sweep us away with their glorious football; could we resist them? Now, at the whim of journalists, we were favourites to enter the Pantheon; a hat trick of league titles and back to back European Cups, World Championships.

For ten minutes we played like it. Anderson won a free kick and Ronaldo’s effort had Victor Valdés in trouble; all Park had to do was poke the rebound in the net but Gerard Piqué got a toe to it. Then from a break up the left Ronnie shot narrowly across the goal; with eight minutes gone United had recorded five shots to nil. It was all an illusion, as fragile as crystal.

Carrick, whom we now know was playing with a broken toe, obligingly headed the ball back to them. It was instantly transferred to Andrés Iniesta who drove forward, dancing through half-hearted challenges from Anderson and Carrick and fed Samuel Eto’o up the inside right channel. Where was Evra? Vidić was lumbering as Eto’o turned him and toe poked it towards the near post where Van der Sar somehow contrived to dive over it. They refused to show replays on the screen but the ball was in the net and Thierry Henry and his new friends were revelling in a sickening love fest. 9 minutes 0-1. It was their first attack.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, my team fell apart. Vidić put an amazing pass back across the goal which gave away a needless corner. Carrick produced a dreadful crossfield ball to the opposition. Piqué’s next intervention was crucial to the result. Six minutes after the goal and Ronnie went on a forward surge and was cynically checked. The bearded centre half was lucky to get only a yellow card. Giggs wasted the free kick. Four minutes later Ronnie scuffed a shot. It sounds as though United were close to equality. If statistics say we were, they lie. It seemed, as Evra likes to say, like men against boys.

With the single exception of Ronaldo, we were a shambles. They made mistakes and still looked good. Incident after cruel incident illustrated our lack. Yaya Touré robbed Giggs on the edge of the area and Giggs just had not got the legs to persist in his challenge. Evra was not keeping Carles Puyol pegged back and the Catalan Gary Neville was having a field day. Rooney was isolated on the left wing receiving a series of hospital balls from Evra. Corners and crosses seemed to be regularly arriving and not cleared beyond a midfield occupied by Iniesta and Xavier Hernández. There was no leadership on the field, we fans were standing in stunned silence hoping that we could get to half time without losing another goal. A biblical plague of fat, ugly moths descended upon the stadium, flying in our faces. Giggs and Park may as well not have been on the pitch. Barcelona were doing to United what United are famed for doing to others; every United pass was pressured, every hopeful ball forward swallowed up, the bully was being bullied.

Half time was no fun. In one last mass act of hopeless faith the entire North end of the ground began its repertoire of loyalty. It is typical of the night that that the team was in the changing room out of earshot. The universal opinion on the terrace was that we had to take off either Giggs or Park.

The United team comes out and Barcelona make us wait. I glance up at the screen and the lively, gesticulating athletes in the tunnel make a marked contrast with the forlorn white shirts standing on the pitch like men awaiting sentencing. Ferguson brings on Tévez and takes off Anderson, the only midfielder who has put in a tackle or two. This gives Tévez possibly his last opportunity to show us he is worth another twenty million. Sure, United have a bit more energy but Tévez’ contribution is not significant. Henry is through on the left but Rio and Van der Sar do enough to keep Thierry’s record intact (he has never scored in a major final). Sylvinho’s low cross to Eto’o is gathered by Van der Sar, Messi slides in and just misses his connection, Tévez trips Iniesta and Xavi’s free kick sails over Vidić and smashes against the post.

Nevertheless things are looking up a bit. Rooney, now on the right, is having significant success on the wing, good crosses are coming in. One of them Touré just beats Ronaldo to, it bounces over Park. Ronnie, now on the left wing, is called offside twice, the second distinctly dubious, Carrick’s pass is just ahead of Rooney, minutes later Rooney is through but flicks it inside instead of shooting, Ronaldo’s brilliant dribble is of Welbeck quality, complete with innocuous ending. Warming up is the man I wanted to start, Berbatov; the man who does not give the ball away. Barcelona keep it so long that it takes three minutes of waiting for him to come on for Park and show us why he was worth thirty million.

Messi breaks from a United corner, thank goodness it is Rooney tracking him but relief is short lived. Van der Sar’s punt is watched by Ronaldo and Evra as Puyol nips between them and runs forward; Evra hoofs the ball upfield without even looking and then as Xavi picks it up, allows him a free cross. He has been practising. At the far post the shortest man on the field, Messi, rises gloriously. Rio and Van der Sar are spectators both as the ball arcs into the net and the heroes of the sons of anti-fascism do their dance of delight. Now, if the referee had booked all eight of them after the first goal, he would surely have to send them all off now and we might still have a chance. In my dreams. Reality is 69 minutes 0-2.

For a while we show some fight, a goal now could still turn this night upside down again. Remember Barcelona and Turin; have faith. Giggs makes the run, Berbatov crosses, Giggs flicks it towards goal from ten yards out. It hits Tévez, the only time he has been in the area since he came on. At the far post Ronnie goes for it, it is deflected wide. Berbatov stylishly volleys the corner into the crowd.

We are now in need of a small miracle. 86 minutes, Berbatov to Evra to Berbatov; it is crying out for a shot. The alleged master of the volley chickens out, carelessly lobs it left. From the corner the same player is in space for a good, clean header, he doesn’t even have to jump. Hopelessly over. 88 minutes, Van der Sar’s low trajectory clearance gets through to Tévez who holds off his man and is in. This cries out for a cracking toe poke, for a Mark Hughes. He pushes it right to nobody in particular.

They take off Iniesta. He has made 52 passes at 86% and destroyed us. Giggs, who went off earlier, had made 50 at 80% and hardly registered his presence. I am watching a great player leave the field in his pomp, a man who has given us what Zidane once did at Old Trafford; a master class. The whistle goes, the World Champions are broken. The plague of moths multiplies exponentially.

Rarely have I felt such a chasm between victory and defeat. Two hours ago we were about to take our place in history, now we are a side which has stumbled to a third successive league title on the back of one-nil wins and has secured but one European Cup scraped on lucky penalties. Our man of the match? Piqué. Ronaldo, the runner-up, is now standing bemused and reconsidering his decision to stay. This is our second humiliation of the season, this one for all the world to see. Several United players who thought they were world class tonight were palpably not but as we turn and leave the noisy jubilation behind the crucial issue appears to have been the lack of inspirational leadership on the field. Sides on the verge or greatness do not fall apart because of a goal, however careless its concession. In Turin in 1999 we did not have to wait until the interval for things to be changed, a great captain took personal responsibility out on the pitch. Perhaps at the highest level captaincy is as important in football as it is recognised to be in cricket or rugby.

It is a long and humid and depressing walk back across the infamous narrow bridge. The helicopters are chugging overhead. My phone, temporarily out of commission, suddenly springs to life and tells me Eto’o has scored. Across the bridge the Italian Health and Safety people have tethered an ankle high chain to trip us all up. Ours is the farthest bus; the travel people have moved it so we may not find it. Back towards the city the trams are broken down and fans are walking the tram lines. The Piazza del Popolo is filling with dancing, chanting Catalans. The centre of the city is devoid of alcohol by order of the police, but David on our trip has found a bar which will serve us behind locked doors. At first it seems like a haven but soon they let in the winners and we decide we’d rather go back to the hotel.

There remains only the dreadful journey home, not enough seats on the bus, three hours delay on the flight, and a long summer of transfer speculation. At least we still have Ferguson. If there is anyone who can build from this it will be him.

Paul James

Posted by PaulW on 2009-05-31 @ 17:47:10 -0600

“Trains and boats and planes” the old song by Bert Bacharach and Hal David begins: “Trains and boats and planes are passing by. They mean a trip to Paris or Rome.” I never really liked the song to tell the truth but I just thought I’d chuck it in as a smart arse reference because these were my main forms of transport and it was sung by Dionne Warwick and I used to live near Warwick! So, after that rather ridiculous intro let’s get down to the real reason for this piece of utter rubbish!

Champions League Final Wednesday 27th May 2009
Barcelona 2 Manchester United 0

There were to be no extraordinary miracles for United this time. Even so close to what would have been Sir Matt’s 100th birthday. And it’s not that any number of us weren’t looking up to the heavens and imploring divine intervention. But this time there was none of it. We’d probably used it all up ten years ago on his 90th!

There were two major reasons why I didn’t think I’d make this Final. The first was sorted by the type of friend anyone would wish to have. The one who offers you his spare. I’m not going to tell you who it was just in case there’s anyone at the club is reading this, but I also owe a debt of gratitude to the mad Dane who phoned said person and told him I hadn’t got a ticket even though he was so ratted at the time he can’t remember doing it! Ticket sorted and all I had to do in the event of an identity check would be to assume someone else’s name, lose several years, instantly grow hair where it’s not grown for 30 years and sprout a goatee. It could be interesting!

The other major reason was that on Monday afternoon I was out on my bike, failed to spot a hole in the road and went smack into a tree. The full force of the impact went through my shoulder and my first thought after the stars had stopped swirling about my head was that I was bound to have either dislocated the shoulder or broken my collar bone I’d hit the bloody thing so hard. I even envisaged myself at the final with my left arm in a sling celebrating a goal. I wish! Anyway, despite it aching like crazy I could still move everything. And I can cope with ache!

So, on Tuesday afternoon I caught the 2 o’clock ferry and headed for the mainland. Then on to Gatwick by train through New Forest countryside with the obligatory wild ponies munching contentedly. Aaah this green and pleasant land we live in. Not so green and pleasant past Southampton docks and on to Clapham Junction though. By then it became rather dull grey and grimy.

I stayed the night with friends in the leafy suburbs outside Crawley and ordered a cab for 4.30am. You’d have thought proper friends would have offered to drive me to the airport wouldn’t you? After all it was only ten minutes away! And to top it all they only fed me and plied me with alcohol! Friends - who needs ’em?!!

4.30 on the dot the cab arrived. He asked me where I was going to which his response was, “Should have been us.” Yes, he was a Chelsea supporter. However, he said he would be supporting us cos we’re an English team, but still charged me a tenner! Checked in, bought some supplies and went to the gate. Flight left dead on time at 6am. 35,000 feet over Paris and Lyon. Low level cloud nestling snugly between the peaks as we flew over the snow capped Alps and on down to Rome arriving in sunshine just after 9am their time.

Outside the coaches waited and within 20 minutes big Rich had called to say he was on his way out of the airport having flown with the same company from Birmingham. The coaches took us near to the ground and dumped us there. We’d seen the stadium walls as we’d crossed the bridge but no-one knew where it was! So a snaking Red Army headed in what we thought was the general direction asking anyone and everyone along the way. After several sinisters and a couple of dexters it loomed into view and notes were made for the return trip because it would be much more difficult in the dark!

We caught the number 2 tram to the city and then took it out again because we forgot to get off at the right stop! So we ended up back where we started at the Piazza Mancini. We got off and on to another number 2 tram and it took us into the city and we got off! There were people to meet, food to eat and beer to drink. Perhaps a little sight seeing too. We made for the Spanish Steps because hotel Fish was nearby and we had already texted him and the svelte (not) I’ve now got two new Italian suits Pete but there’d been no response. However when we were in the general vicinity of the Trevi McDonald we encountered them sitting outside a cafe. What are the chances of meeting two mates from Vancouver Island sitting outside a cafe in Rome devouring Porchetta? Apparently they were odds on!

Beer type beverage was suffering a total ban so was unbelievably hard to find but we followed the sound of United singing and it lead us to where it was being served. When we finally made it to the bar it was only to discover that the last two glasses had just been filled and the place had been drunk dry! Was the mad Dane there after all? Inside United and Barca waged a ‘war’ of songs which developed into, I’ll sing your songs if you’ll sing ours but let’s change the words to suit our own club! They didn’t have that many songs before, but do now! And to be fair, after the consumption of several jugs of beer, they managed to develop several United songs into new Barca ones. Yip Yap Stam seemed to be a big favourite, but they couldn’t understand the irony of the Owen Hargreaves song. “You’d let him do what to your wife?” “No not really, it just fits with the rhyme of the original. Apart from that it’s true that we really would like curly hair too!” And they struggled with “my old man says be a City fan” and the response, “I said bollox you’re a ....” We agreed that it was probably just as well! After each song was given new Spanish words there were cheers, loud guffaws, lots of hand and back slapping and much matey banter.

The atmosphere in the city was excellent. There was no trouble whatsoever - probably something to do with an alcohol ban! The Carabinieri had an easy day filled with bonhomie and humour. But we decided to travel out a few stops on the metro and find a local bar, sit down and have a few cool beers. We discovered the ideally named Re di Roma that we re-christened Reds in Roma metro stop just past the Coliseum and got off. We only had to walk a couple of hundred yards before we found our peaceful haven with food to eat and beers to drink. So the four of us did just that and in the end it cost the ridiculously paultry sum of 23 euros between us! And we stayed there till it was time to go to the ground. It was so pleasant we had a job tearing ourselves away till Fish pointed out there was a European Final we were meant to be going to. So we wandered out into the late afternoon sunshine and took the metro a couple of stops. We then walked because all the trams were so full people were hanging off them. Both sets of supporters travelled the same road with no divisions, no problems and, strangely, no police.

Through the park packed with people desperate for tickets, merchandisers and vans selling food and drink. Over the infamous bridge and past the TV cameras. We bade farewell to Fish and two suit Pete who were bound for the corner of the Barca end. On the way around to the Curva North (the Lazio end so our Roma (don’t mention the 7-1) supporting cafe owner had told us) the major talking point was whether the threat of checking identities would materialise. We looked around us, saw a mass of red and white heading in the same direction and we thought naaaaah, it would be impossible to check all this lot. But it didn’t stop me from feeling apprehensive when approaching the first ticket checkpoint. Safely through - now for the full on body and bag search. The fact that Italian police are not necessarily known for their subtlety I considered myself most fortunate that it was a fairly half hearted attempt at a search. In fact it wasn’t really even half-hearted it was third-hearted at most. Not that I was complaining. Forward to the turnstiles. This would be the moment for any identity checks. We checked out what was happening for a minute or two and there were people being rejected for whatever reason. Still, it had to be done. Through the first barrier. The ticket was presented, the light went green and the turnstile obliged. Jackpot! As soon as I stepped inside the stadium complex I felt pretty pleased for myself.

Richard was in the next section with a huge impenetrable perspex screen dividing the two. My seat was row 15 right behind the goal. With the running track which surrounded the pitch it was a fair way back and we were slightly divorced from the action. It was difficult to envisage making any real difference noise-wise as we were just a bit too far back to intimidate. The atmosphere was excellent though and when the preliminary ceremony started I turned around and watched for a short while on the giant screen above and behind me. And I thought this is what they’re watching on the tele back home and so am I, but I’m actually bloody here as well! I cannot do the feeling justice. You are at a major event. Hundreds of thousands of supporters are desperate to be there with you, but you are actually there. It’s such a buzz. It’s no wonder some players play to their fullest potential, but others freeze. There are such massive expectations. Well, there would be (note to City fans) as it’s been 33 years after all - boom boom!

I was stood next to a guy I’ve been stood next to before at a Final - Cardiff I think. We greeted each other like long lost buddies but at the back of my mind I had the impression we’d lost when we’d last stood together but neither of us could remember and he was convinced we’d won. Or was it that he’d convinced himself we’d won? Anyway there wasn’t much we could do about it, there was no Dr Mark to exercise a half time, save the game, seat swap with anyway and Richard was the other side of an impenetrable perspex screen. I tried not to let it bug me but it still did. At least I hadn’t seen the bearded twins.

The United team was exactly what we expected and we hoped it would be OK, although there was an alternative school of thought that to go for their suspect defence with two forwards may have been the better way to go. And what about Scholesy? Wouldn’t his experience have been good in the middle of the park rather than Park on the wing? The other thing I wondered about was the wisdom of playing in all white. Wouldn’t that serve as an extra incentive for Barca to give us a Real going over?

As the teams stood for the anthem there was a familiar ritual. Each of us looked to the side, and behind. A nod of the head, a shake of the hand, a recognition that this was the big one and we were all in it together. There was considerable apprehension and nervousness. It would be the same everywhere, but we were there and would be the ones who just may be able to make a difference.

Kick off. Immense noise and at first we were well on top. We’d hardly seen Barca at our end till it happened about 10 minutes into the game. And by that time we could easily have been two goals to the good. All I remember is blinking at Eto’o’s turn of pace as he shimmied past Vidic. Next second the ball was in the back of the net and the buggers were celebrating. I couldn’t believe what I’d not seen. We were stunned but responded in song. After that I remember us chasing shadows as we played to their tune. Their midfield was so adept at keeping the ball they passed us by as they created as much time and space as they needed. And when they hadn’t got the ball we gave it back to them anyway. Did we really need to be quite so generous?

We were happy when half time came and I predicted Tevez would come on for Anderson. He did but to be honest I’m not sure it made that much difference. We just couldn’t get it together for long enough to make any sort of impact. More changes. Things did improve when Scholesy came on but it was all a bit late. The damage had been done and there seemed to be an uncharacteristic lack of belief. Not one of our players seemed capable of picking up the rest and encouraging the level of positivity required to overcome a good, but not better, Barcelona team.

We lacked a ruthless leader. Someone who could, almost literally, pick a team up by the scruff of the neck and make them play again. Someone to snap and snarl, win the ball and pass it to a fellow shirt. Not someone who would hoof a long speculative ball straight back to the opposition. If we’d had that player on Wednesday we’d have gradually worried Barcelona into making mistakes, gained the ascendency and the self belief and won our fourth European Cup. But we didn’t and we went out like lambs.

Barcelona must have been smoking cigars at half time. I thought about the supporters we’d encountered in the bar and on the walk to the ground. I knew how they’d be feeling - we’d experienced it before. I wanted to be the one who felt extreme elation at the final whistle. The one who was screaming in celebration surrounded by falling red and white paper. And the one who was hugging everyone in sight. But I wasn’t. Barcelona deserved their prize and we applauded them for it. We applauded Xavi’s man of the match award, because he was, although they could just as easily given it to Iniesta. We applauded the team and then we left.

It was relatively early but it was time to go home. We had already been told that when we got back at the airport we could get on any flight as long as it was headed in the right direction! We sailed through security checks faster than I have ever experienced and we were down at the gates ready to go. And we waited.

The Manchester flights were already boarding and no matter who they’d flown in with supporters boarded the first available and they went. Flight after flight was cleared for take off. And we waited. Richard’s Birmingham flight was called and he went. It was due to leave at 1.30. He was on board before 1am. Unfortunately not everyone had been as diligent and they waited till 2.30 before they left! We waited too. My flight to Gatwick didn’t leave till after 3.30, again an hour after it was supposed to leave. We were exhausted by then but there were no complaints - no-one caused any problems.

The flight wasn’t the huge celebratory experience everyone had been anticipating. Water, tea and Coke were the beverages being dispensed rather than beer and wine. Most of the flight was spent with head propped up on hand hoping for the occasional micro nap which would inevitably be interrupted by a sharp jerk reaction when head dropped off hand. A very weary bunch of supporters finally trooped through Gatwick airport in the exceedingly early morning.

I caught the 5am to Clapham Junction. The only other person in my carriage was a man sitting on the opposite side in his pinstripe suit on his way into the City. Making notes, drinking a cup of coffee. That’s probably what he did every week day of his life. It was an everyday Thursday, but not for me. The night before I’d been at the Champions League Final in Rome. We’d lost but I had been there. We were the only two in the carriage. A man in a pinstripe suit and a tired, dishevelled, unshaven and slightly grubby person - me. There was no way he’d have given me a thought. And there was no way he would wonder anything about me or have any sort of clue that I’d just come back from the most prestigious game in club football. And I started to feel better because I realised how very fortunate I had been.

It was the same as I waited for my South West connection to Brockenhurst. By the time it arrived the platform was full of people going about their daily routine. I sat there munching my large breakfast sandwich. It was nearing 6.30am and I thought it was more than likely that none of the people on the same platform would ever do anything like what I’d just done. They didn’t know, but that wasn’t the point. The point was I felt incredibly grateful that I had been able to do it. That I am lucky enough to support a football team that reaches those heights which presents me with opportunities to go to special places and experience special things.

Naturally it wasn’t anything like coming back from Barcelona in 99. Although for the supporters we’d been singing songs with the afternoon before it would have been momentous returning to that city. And good luck to them. They will remember it all their lives as I will remember walking into arrivals at Manchester airport early morning 27th May 1999. The people standing and waiting actually applauded us. It was absolutely stunning. And that’s what Manchester United can do for you. It can make you feel ten feet tall. It can be painful too of course, but you always know with United that they will lift you again. Most football clubs cannot do this.

Paul

Posted by Bill on 2009-05-27 @ 15:56:32 -0600

Manchester United discovered what it is like to lose a European Cup final as brilliant Barcelona ruled Rome.

If there is any consolation in failure to become the first side to retain the trophy in the Champions League era, it is that they lost to a side as fluent and brilliant to watch as they are.

Samuel Eto'o and Lionel Messi scored the goals either side of half-time but to single those two out for special praise would be unfair on their team-mates, and particularly Xavi, who was simply awesome.

For once Cristiano Ronaldo could provide no magic of his own, instead getting increasingly frustrated as defeat loomed.

It was a shame really. Although having done so much damage to others down the years, he does now know how it feels.

Twenty four hours earlier, Sir Alex Ferguson had spoken of reaching into the far corners of his brain for an inspiring word or two prior to kick-off.

As half-time approached, that same grey matter might have preferred a word or two about Barcelona's performance.

Sublime would have been one. Bewitching, mesmerising would do equally as well. For a football man like Ferguson it would have been a joy to watch if his side were not the ones trying to stop it.

The kind of football that allowed the Catalans to hit six goals past Real Madrid at the Bernabeu Stadium last month was not in evidence for the first eight minutes or so as United held sway.

However, once it began to emerge, Ferguson's side had precious few answers.

The shape of the contest might have been so different had Park Ji-sung been able to snaffle the rebound after Victor Valdes had failed to hold a stinging Ronaldo free-kick.

Instead, former United man Gerard Pique shot across to block what proved to be his old club's best opportunity of that opening period.

Like his team, Ronaldo was clearly in the ascendancy in his personal duel with Messi.

How rapidly things changed. In the twinkling of an eye Andres Iniesta, one of the brightest starts in the Barcelona firmament, slipped a pass to Eto'o.

The Cameroon striker cut inside Nemanja Vidic, then held off Michael Carrick as he prodded the ball goalward with enough strength to take it past Edwin van der Sar.

Suddenly the strategy of containment and hitting at pace on the counter-attack suggested by the inclusion of Park and the exclusion of Carlos Tevez and Dimitar Berbatov did not look such a good idea.

Ferguson's team shot across the pitch, able to do little more than firefight as Messi, Iniesta and Xavi lit bonfires all around.

Had a Messi flick found Eto'o in the area, it would have probably brought Barcelona's second. Rio Ferdinand's agility saved his team.

Xavi curled a free-kick just wide, Vidic pumped the ball away after Van der Sar had failed to hold a cross shot, the slick passing wearing United down all the while.

The arrival of Tevez at half-time had to come, and with it a more overtly offensive approach.

Yet in taking such bold action, Ferguson knew he was playing right into Barcelona's hands.

Xavi picked out Thierry Henry with a brilliant pass. The former Arsenal star cut inside Ferdinand with ease but could not find the finish, a similar mistake to the one that proved so costly for Arsenal in Paris three years ago.

When Xavi saw his free-kick come thumping back off a post, memories of 1999 and the mauling United nearly took at the hands of Bayern Munich sprang to mind.

Yet this was different. Ferguson's team were poor until the unforgettable ending. This time they were simply ripped apart by the only team on the planet who can match them.

The introduction of Berbatov midway through the second half was effectively Ferguson throwing his book of tactics out of the window and not worry about the consequences if it all went wrong.

Sadly it did. Quite quickly as Xavi's curling cross dropped perfectly for Messi, who guided his header over Van der Sar.

Ronaldo's world player of the year crown was slipping and Valdes managed to get in the way of a close-range effort that would have given United some hope, as would the volley from Berbatov that followed.

Berbatov had another chance too, although by then Carles Puyol had seen two efforts saved by Van der Sar.

In truth, the Dutchman was his side's best player, which just about says it all.

Teams

Barcelona: Valdes, Puyol, Toure Yaya, Pique, Sylvinho, Xavi,

Busquets, Iniesta (Pedrito 90), Messi, Eto'o, Henry (Keita 72).

Subs Not Used: Pinto, Caceres, Muniesa, Gudjohnsen, Bojan.

Booked: Pique.

Goals: Eto'o 10, Messi 70.

Man Utd: Van der Sar, O'Shea, Ferdinand, Vidic, Evra,

Anderson (Tevez 46), Carrick, Giggs (Scholes 75),

Park (Berbatov 66), Ronaldo, Rooney.

Subs Not Used: Kuszczak, Rafael Da Silva, Evans, Nani.

Booked: Ronaldo, Scholes, Vidic.

Att: 72,700

Ref: Massimo Busacca (Switzerland).
sportinglife.com

Posted by Barry on 2009-05-26 @ 12:04:39 -0600

Rio Ferdinand has declared himself fit to face Barcelona in Wednesday's Champions League final.

The Manchester United defender has been struggling with a calf injury picked up in the semi-final, second leg at Arsenal earlier this month and did not make Sunday's Premier League trip to Hull as demanded by Sir Alex Ferguson.

However, it now seems almost certain Ferdinand will face Barcelona as United look to become the first side to defend the European Cup since it was rebranded as the Champions League in 1992.

"The injury is fine," he said. "I have been training and feel good. I am glad to be back."

Ferdinand insisted he would not risk the team by putting himself forward for selection if he was not 100 per cent.

"I wouldn't do that," he said. "There is no way I will play if my fitness was detrimental to the team."

It seems Ferguson is now faced with two selection dilemmas, with midfield duo Anderson and Park Ji-sung fighting for one place, and Carlos Tevez and Dimitar Berbatov scrapping for the other.

http://itn.co.uk/4d468b90b9463d0b9e49b479a87b6f4d.html

Posted by Barry on 2009-05-24 @ 23:32:26 -0600

BARCELONA, May 25 (Reuters) - Penpix of Barcelona players ahead of Wednesday’s Champions League final against Manchester United in Rome:

Goalkeepers

1-VICTOR VALDES, Age 27. One of seven players in the probable starting lineup who came through the Barca youth system. Had some shaky moments earlier in the season but ended up conceding less than one goal a game in the league.

13-JOSE MANUEL PINTO, 33. Did a fine job deputising for Valdes in the victorious King’s Cup campaign. Started out at Real Betis, then spent most of his career at Celta Vigo before moving to the Catalan capital in January last year.

Defenders
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5-CARLES PUYOL, 30. The shaggy-haired captain is loved by the fans for his passion and commitment. A versatile defender who can play centrally or on either flank, he will likely take the place of the suspended Daniel Alves at right back.

24-YAYA TOURE, 26. After a superb season as a holding midfielder, the Ivory Coast international has impressed since being drafted into central defence following the injury to Rafael Marquez and will likely play there again in the final.

3-GERARD PIQUE, 22. Another youth system product. Spent three years at Manchester United and one at Real Zaragoza before returning to Barca this season. Assured performances in central defence led to his first call up for Spain.

16-SILVINHO, 35. The dependable Brazilian left back made his debut for Arsenal in 1999 before moving to Celta Vigo two seasons later and then joining Barca in the summer of 2004. Could start the final due to Eric Abidal’s suspension.

2-MARTIN CACERES, 22. Since signing from Recreativo Huelva in the summer, the Uruguayan international has at times shown his inexperience and looked out of his depth. Another option for coach Pep Guardiola at full back.

Midfielders

6-XAVI, 29. Voted the best player at Euro 2008, Xavi has possibly even improved this season. He is the creative fulcrum of most of Barca’s attacking play and United’s ability to keep him quiet will be key to their success.

8-ANDRES INIESTA, 25. Barca are not quite such a fearsome attacking force when the diminutive Iniesta is missing and a thigh injury has raised doubts about his fitness. Scored the stunning goal against Chelsea that put his side in the final.

15-SEYDOU KEITA, 29. A solid performer in central midfield, the athletic Mali international also gets forward to score important goals. May be drafted in at left back as a possible counter to Cristiano Ronaldo.

28-SERGIO BUSQUETS, 20. Also won a first call-up to the Spain squad this season after making his Primera Liga debut in September. Likely to play as a defensive central midfielder on Wednesday. Son of former Barca goalkeeper Carles Busquets.

21-ALEKSANDR HLEB, 28. The Belarus international has suffered from not being in Guardiola’s regular starting lineup. Joined from Arsenal in the summer of 2008 and was in the side that lost 2-1 to Barca in the 2006 Champions League final.

Forwards

10-LIONEL MESSI, 21. The Argentine, blessed with a largely injury-free season, has been irresistible on the right flank. Barca’s top scorer in Europe with eight goals, he uses his pace well to open up spaces for his colleagues as well.

9-SAMUEL ETO’O, 28. The Cameroon striker, the Primera Liga’s second-top scorer with 29 goals after Atletico Madrid’s Diego Forlan (31), stands out as much for his harrying of defenders and will to win as his electric pace.

14-THIERRY HENRY, 31. After a difficult first season, the France captain clicked with his team mates and has been outstanding on the left of Barca’s attacking trident. Is likely to recover from a knee injury in time for the final.

11-BOJAN KRKIC, 18. Bojan has struggled to reach the standards he set for himself last season when he scored 10 league goals. His pace and trickery are a useful asset when he comes off the bench late on.

7-EIDUR GUDJOHNSEN, 30. The Iceland international has found his chances severely limited this season with Guardiola using him mainly as a second-half substitute in midfield for his strength and experience.

sports.yahoo.com

Posted by Barry on 2009-05-22 @ 2:23:39 -0600

Manchester United's fans will add a poignant note before Wednesday's match in Rome when they will stage a spectacular tribute to the late Sir Matt Busby, the architect of the club's first European Cup win in 1968. Manchester United fans planning Sir Matt Busby tribute prior to Champions League final.

The club have been given dispensation by Uefa for their supporters to create a huge Busby portrait mosaic, created by 16,000 red and white cards, at the moment United and Barcelona's players walk out onto the pitch.

Busby, who died in 1994, managed United from 1945 to 1969 and has been described by Sir Alex Ferguson as "the heartbeat" of the club.

His reign included the Busby Babes era which was dominated by the Munich air crash, as well as the 4-1 European Cup triumph over Benfica at Wembley. He would have turned 100 on the eve of the final.

"We wanted to do something special to mark his birthday," said United chief executive David Gill.

www.telegraph.co.uk

Posted by Barry on 2009-05-06 @ 15:07:55 -0600

Manchester United - Fletcher
Barcelona - Abidal + Alves

Posted by Barry on 2009-05-06 @ 14:58:46 -0600

A dramatic late strike from Andres Iniesta saw Barcelona snatch a 1-1 draw with Chelsea and a place in the UEFA Champions League final.

Michael Essien's spectacular opener appeared to have the Blues on course for a second consecutive final, but it is Pep Guardiola's side that will do battle with Manchester United in Rome on 27th May.

Chelsea knew they could ill-afford to adopt the defensive approach that served them so well during a goalless first leg in Camp Nou and set out to attack their illustrious opponents from the off.

They were forced to soak up some early pressure, which saw Jose Bosingwa hack a deflected Xavi effort off the line, but the hosts soon found their feet.

It took them just nine minutes to force the crucial breakthrough, with Essien slamming an unstoppable volley past the flailing Victor Valdes.

The Ghanaian international launched a hopeful left-footed drive goalwards as he latched onto a looping ball 25-yards from goal and looked as surprised as anyone to see his shot cannon in off the underside of the crossbar.

Stamford Bridge was now rocking and the Blues went on to dominate the majority of the first half, refusing to let Barca into their stride.

The second period began in much the same manner, with Didier Drogba spurning a glorious opportunity to double Chelsea's lead on 52 minutes as he could only fire against Valdes' legs when presented with a clear sight of goal.

It was Barcelona, though, who then started to take control of proceedings, but they were unable to penetrate the Blue wall which separated them from a priceless away goal.

The Catalans then saw their cause dealt a hammer blow shortly after the hour-mark when Eric Abidal was dismissed for tripping Nicolas Anelka as his fellow Frenchman threatened to break free on goal.

They were not to be denied, though, and deep into stoppage-time Iniesta broke Chelsea hearts as he lashed home an equaliser with Barcelona's first shot on target.