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MANCHESTER, ENGLAND – MAY 13: Vincent Kompany the captain of Manchester City lifts the trophy following the Barclays Premier League match between Manchester City and Queens Park Rangers at the Etihad Stadium
May 13, 2012 dawned a very tense day for Manchester United fans. We were 2nd in the table, equal on points, but far behind the leaders on goal difference (ours was a modest 55 to their impressive 63). So, with May 13th being the last round of games in the English Premier League, it broke down like this: United had to win and the league leaders had to drop points (either lose or draw).
But the story is more complex than that, and requires some explanation. For you see, the leaders were our bitter cross-city rivals, squatters from Stockport, whom we had looked down upon for years as a foolish younger brother- Manchester City. Newly infused with truckloads of cash from a rich Sheikh and helmed by the energetic Roberto Mancini (who, I’ll admit, made me want to buy a scarf), City had used their vast wealth to collect top talent- all of which came at top dollar. Why, they had Diego Maradona’s son-in-law leading the attack! And that man, Sergio Aguero, will feature in this story again later.
The enthusiastic Sheikh had spent lavishly to collect star players from around the world, and the hodgepodge of talent was beginning to gel brilliantly. United fans begrudged them for their money and looked warily as their players began to work as a well-oiled unit. Sure, we still made fun of them. We always had. I remember fondly the “35 Years” banner hung outside the Etihad Stadium (City’s home-ground) counting the number of years they had gone without a title. We loved to remind them that in spite of all their money, they remained trophyless.
Only a year before, City beat us in the FA Cup semifinals held at Wembley to advance to the finals. They eventually won the FA Cup, thereby ending their trophy drought and putting up a banner of their own with the ticker returning to “00.” What hurt most was that they had gone through us to do it. The “noisy neighbours,” as United manager Sir Alex referred to them as, were indeed getting louder. For many days after that, whenever someone mentioned City around me, I would scowl, shuffle my feet, mutter something about “oil money” and walk away.
Returning to the season at hand, City had already done the (seemingly) impossible in October, and absolutely destroyed United 1-6 at Old Trafford. I had to agree with Sir Alex who said “It was the worst result in my history, ever.” The woe that gripped me was indescribable. Beer did little to assuage the swelling in my throat and the throbbing of my heart. This was not FC Barcelona. This was Manchester City! Surely this wasn’t happening. Surely I’d wake up and it would all have been a dream.
But it was reality.
So, May 13 saw United and City level on points. This in itself was ridiculous, because we let slip an 8 point lead that we had over City just weeks before. (And I blame most of all that game with Everton which we should have won.)
Mistakes were made and could not be wept over now. The title was not in our hands. In order to win a historic 20th league title, we had to win that day’s match and City had to drop points, or we had to win by at least 10 goals. Quite an improbability, even against Sunderland (no disrespect meant). Our chances seemed even more dismal as City were playing QPR (again, no disrespect meant).
What were we to do but hope? United had always taught me to believe. The word itself was proudly emblazoned on the underside of the Manchester United badge of my home jersey. Even then, it was with utmost tension that I turned on the television that evening, flicking back and forth between the two matches.
I sat for about five minutes, and after that for the next 90 minutes (and a historic 90 minutes they would prove to be) I was unable to stay still. Could I really hope for the impossible? Wayne Rooney put us up 0-1 at the Stadium Of Light in the 20th minute. I didn’t celebrate. There was no point in that just yet. There was still plenty of football to be played. My pacing intensified. I started biting my nails. I thought I’d punch a wall if something didn’t happen soon.
SUNDERLAND, ENGLAND – MAY 13: Wayne Rooney of Manchester United celebrates his goal during the Barclays Premier League match between Sunderland and Manchester United
Something did. Back at the Etihad, Paulo Zabaleta scored for City in the 39th minute. I finally stopped and stood still. Strangely, a wave of relief washed over me. This was an inevitability, a fact of life. City were going to beat QPR. That’s it. As this wave passed, it was replaced by a fury a manic clings to in desperation. I resumed my pacing.
The second half began. I could hardly stand it. And then, a miracle happened. Joleon Lescott’s mishit header allowed QPR’s Djibril Cisse to pounce and put the ball past City’s Joe Hart. I couldn’t believe it. The score was tied at the Etihad, and if things remained the way they were, the title was United’s.
Then, the unbelievable happened. In the 66th minute, Jamie Mackie’s emphatic header put QPR in the lead 1-2. QPR were winning at City’s home, in the last game of the season! It was more than I could have ever hoped for. I was swinging from the ceiling fan in joy. I could not believe it. United had a two goal cushion (even though they were in a different game). City fans were distraught. Heartbroken. They stood on the cusp of victory only to fall back down.
What followed was a frenzy. I screamed maniacally at anyone who would listen every time the ball came close to the QPR goal. That ball had to stay out! Back at the Stadium Of Light, United weren’t getting those 10 goals I wanted. A tense 24 minutes eventually wound up. 3 minutes of injury time for United were announced, and 5 minutes at the Etihad. 5 minutes that would change the face of the season. 5 minutes that would redefine history.
United played out their three minutes without much fanfare. They had won and were sitting pretty on 89 points. All eyes were on the Etihad. I watched intently, hardly blinking, unprepared for the drama that was to unfold.
Edin Dzeko thumped in a header at 92 minutes to equalize for City. I went cold. But all was not lost yet. The score was 2-2, and United still had the title. City would have to score again, and that was surely impossible. How much can happen in two minutes?
Destinies can change in two minutes.
All that I could see now was a blur of colour. The ball was played to Mario Balotelli at the top of the QPR 18-yard box. He slid and put the ball into the box. Time slowed down. Where were the QPR defenders? Sergio Aguero pounced on the ball. Why does he have so much space and time in the penalty area? Someone do something! Someone did. Sergio pulled the trigger. The frantic shout of the commentator rang.
“AGUEROOOOOOOO!!!!”
It faded off into silence. I collapsed, staring incredulously at what I had just seen. There was a dull ringing in my ears. I sat on the floor. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t believe it. I had to remind myself to breathe. City had done it. They had wrenched the title from United in the last kick of the season. Questions of a power shift in Manchester would surely hog the headlines tomorrow. But I could not think of all of that.
I was lost in the roller coaster ride that had been this match, which reflected the season in many ways. I was at the highest peak moments before, and in a matter of minutes I came crashing to lowest of lows. Tables were turned and now I was devastated, just as those City fans in the stadium were only half an hour before. The same fans who, in their jubilation, threw decorum to the wind and stormed the pitch in sheer joy. Quite a sight. But it was not for me to appreciate that day.
Football, bloody hell.
