With 53 minutes gone at Old Trafford, Manchester United’s home support was treated for one brief, flickering moment to a glimpse of the Amorim-shaped universe, a vision of what might yet come to pass.
Out of nowhere, on an afternoon that had felt to that point like a competently staged practice event, United’s wing‑backs Diogo Dalot and Noussair Mazraoui appeared in a wide pincer, surging towards the Arsenal goal, a living breathing incarnation of the Amorim blueprint. Left wing-back Dalot dug out a cross. Right wing-back Mazraoui counted his strides and placed a measured volley just too close to David Raya.
The moment passed just as quickly, a doomed snapshot of whatever it is Manchester United’s manager sees as he lies in bed staring at the ceiling thinking about shapes and lines and patterns. Wing-back shall speak unto wing-back. Manchester United 1-0 up and living the system. The ultimate destiny of the Premier League title – squint a little and just go with it – in their hands in early March.
Except of course that moment of destiny involves effectively handing the title to Liverpool by taking two more points off their nominal pursuers Arsenal in this distracted 1-1 draw.
By the time the clock had ambled on to 76 minutes, with Casemiro basically playing in goal by now, Jurriën Timber was able to zigzag into space and feed the ball back in to Declan Rice, who spanked a fine, angry shot in off the far post.
Both teams had late chances, but neither United nor Arsenal, who had Mikel Merino wandering around like a YouTuber up front, deserved to win, or lose or probably even draw this game. The title race must now rumble on amiably to its end point like a man keeping himself awake on the motorway by singing along to the radio. And perhaps some day Amorim will take that moment out of his wallet and look at it sadly in a roadside bar.
On the other hand, there must at some point be green shoots of some kind. And this was a good day for Manchester United, or at least a good day within the ongoing struggle of existing as a legacy club burdened with debt and a vampiric ownership. There were some good things here, and some life.
Ruben Amorim shows his frustration from the touchline. Photograph: Carl Recine/Getty Images
The good things include Amorim, who has a plan and a sense of destiny about him. Another good thing was the spirit and energy of some of the young players. Asking Joshua Zirkzee to lead an energetic high press is a strange idea, like trying to win the Olympic short course BMX speed trial on a Victorian penny farthing. But he stuck at it, worked really hard, and even tried a Lee Sharpe flick in front of goal.
Bruno Fernandes continues to do an excellent impression of a good player in a normal good team, like a man who keeps putting on his suit and marching off to the train station every morning six months after the office has closed down. Fernandes scored the opening goal on half-time with a free‑kick that seemed strange, David Raya leaving a huge space to the right side of his goal, apparently tempting Fernandes to go for it. OK then. It’s a deal.
Mainly, though, the Manchester United fans were good. And this is the point, in the end. The home support sang through the game, expressed bellicose dissent, and best of all protested beforehand in numbers. It would be easy to dismiss this kind of event as essentially a protest against the modern world. But why not protest against that?
It is vital to keep calling for an end to the Glazer ownership, at the very least just to make the point nobody around here is being fooled by the wheeling in of a front man, lightning rod, and general slash-and-burn expert in the shape of Sir Jim Ratcliffe, that people are still watching, that it is still possible to take a stand, the spirit is still there.
This club has pushed its emotional credit so hard, taken so much from its supporters in love, money, loyalty, brand power, faith. The sheer financial drain, the drawing down of resources, a billion in interest, a billion in debt, £300m in unpaid transfer fees, is beyond anything the sport has ever really seen.
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Amorim had spoken about using the energy of the fan protest to win this game, which is an interesting idea when those emotions are ennui, discontent and despair.
Lads, let’s do it for the existential dread. Take your sorrow and make it happen. But Amorim had a good afternoon here, out there on his touchline in white tennis shoes, ankle‑hanger trousers, puffy gilet and chevron-slash blouson.
There is a sense the Liz Truss approach, crash the team to make it better, might just be starting to show the smallest tremors of something or other, even if it was hard to see any logical reason for playing Casemiro and Christian Eriksen together in central midfield again, beyond a longing for self‑flagellation. Sometimes you just need to feel something.
The first half felt like an end-of-term game. For long periods United’s centre-backs were so deep they were basically playing in the crowd, like an immersive theatre experience.
It didn’t matter. Arsenal had no presence in that space and no incision. These two teams have spent a billion pounds net in the past five years on transfer fees alone. It’s a good job sometimes that football is addictive.
By the end a point was no use to Arsenal, a great deal of use to Liverpool and a small note of comfort for United, on a day when the best of the action, the real signs of life, were in the streets and stands.