Good reportage demands a balance of stance. As a writer, it is my job to be objective. Perspective moulds opinions, and I cannot afford to look through the proverbial tinted shades of love. Today, though, I’ll take my chances, and cross fingers in the hope that the editor looks away.
Seriously, where do you even start after a night like that? Everything about last evening was tailor-made for Manchester United to capitulate. Paris Saint Germain reduce very good opponents to dust at home every other week. United arrived, trailing 0-2, with a sizeable chunk of their usual starting lineup either recuperating at home or watching from the stands.
The Parc des Princes was its best–boisterous, smokey and intimidating. A quarterfinal spot that had eluded them in all their recent opulence was a mere hour and a half away. The noise seeped through satellite television all the way to midnight India. The pubs here were quieter; in hushed voices, fans draped in red Adidas jerseys spoke of the need to protect the remaining fit players for Sunday’s Premier League clash against Arsenal.
Then, almost as if on cue, Romelu Lukaku and Marcus Rashford hustled United into the lead. Game on.