Devils & Dust

So, Manchester United then. It's been a funny old season so far for the reigning champions, flitting as they have between dazzling attacking prowess and unfocused, unsightly fumbling. Some things remain sacred, of course – their unrelinquishing position in the Premier League top two, renewed spats with Liverpool and Manchester City, the continued poise and finesse of Paul Sch... Ah yes, Scholes, the apparent answer – in the short-term at least – to Sir Alex Ferguson’s burgeoning midfield crisis (I made a bet with myself that I could make it to the third paragraph without using the 'c' word. I owe me a tenner).

Last weekend’s FA Cup derby saw Scholes become subject of the most unlikely Sunday reanimation since that very first Easter, the rambunctious midfielder brushing seven months worth of dust from his Puma King’s (probably) to reintroduce himself to the professional game. Scholes’ class won’t have vanished since May; the worry is more about what sort of United team he is stepping back into. For the first time since Roy Keane was jettisoned from the Theatre of Dreams amidst rumours of x-rated TV outbursts (and against a context of rival upward mobility) the manager is facing some hefty questions regarding the ultimate direction of his team.

For approaching twenty years now United have been to the English game what an Adele single is to daytime radio – omnipresent, overpowering and, to those supporters donning rival colours, decidedly disliked. Since the mid-90s, Scholes has been at the heart of United’s domination, his place in the pantheon of United greats so assured that he has his very own selection box of stock phrases and clichés from which fitting description can be picked. Just as George Best before him ('supremely talented', 'an eye for the ladies’, ‘drank it all away') could be immortalised in a handful of oft-repeated epithets, so Scholes' talent, nee his career, will forever be communicated to the uninitiated via similar sound bites. For you see, Scholes, despite 'being wasted on the left for England' and 'never learning to tackle’, was arguably 'the most talented British player of his generation', even if away from the field he was 'a bit shy and, er, retiring'. What else? Well he had a knack for getting himself in the box and will be forever remembered for a couple of complete screamers against Middlesbrough and Bradford, but he also kept possession with great intelligence, and it is largely for this reason that Sir Alex will be glad to welcome him back into the fold.

Much like his side this term, Scholes was/is a player of contradictions. He barely troubled an interviewer throughout his entire career, appearing modest to the point of introversion, yet he could snap into a tackle with unbelievable venom. For a player of such guile and ingenuity, he didn't half make some stupid challenges. All fair enough, of course – as with most of the greats, the rough must be taken with the smooth, like Diego Maradonna's penchant for Columbian exports or Zinedine Zidane's dislike of sister jokes.

There are other reasons why Ferguson will be thrilled to have him back in the squad. He may feel that Scholes can re-establish a bond between the current squad and a time when everyone knew what United were about. This season we’re not so sure, and so the question must be asked: who are the real United? Are they the one that knocked three goals past their arch (title) rivals on Sunday, or the one that staggered about St James' Park ten days ago like a drunk waiting for the last tube? Are they the insatiable animal that knocked 14 goals past Tottenham, Chelsea and Arsenal in the space of 270 pulsating, late summer minutes, or are they the meek, wounded mutt that limped out of the Champions League with barely a whimper? Well, perhaps they are neither. Or possibly both. Reader, I'm confused.

As I'm sure you are too, for this season United have been a perplexing amalgam of beauty and befuddlement. Against a vibrant Newcastle they looked a side shorn of invention, lacking in drive, poise and, perhaps crucially, leadership, and yet, and yet. Four days later, they headed to the Etihad away dressing room after 45 minutes clutching a three goal lead and scenting blood. And then came… what? The hiccups? Nerves? The classic 'the-game’s-already-won syndrome'? Whichever it was, the truth is that no such heebie-jeebies would have been tolerated by Ferguson in days of yore. He simply wouldn't have permitted such carelessness; those terms just wouldn’t have existed within the club’s collective vocabulary. In truth, the game was essentially United’s season so far in a nutshell. For all the hand-wringing over Vincent Kompany's possible-deserved, possibly-not dismissal, United had taken the lead with the kind of blink-and-you'll-miss-it counter which they patented years ago. And despite City being unable to keep bad Kompany, you must wonder exactly how many teams would have pressed home their man advantage quite so ruthlessly. The only team to exploit numerical inequalities this season with such deadly focus has been City. Against United.

In their defence, you could read United's second half wobble as merely 'one of those things', or to conclude that City's impressive almost-comeback was a product of that very particular murmuring at the heart of so many glorious FA Cup ties; an intangible cocktail of history, guts and tossed-out rulebooks. For United, it could have all been so much more comfortable had the continually-impressive Danny Welbeck steered in Antonio Valencia’s low cross minutes before the interval. The difference, psychologically, could have been telling for both teams – to come back from three down is rare but do-able; from four is a collectors item indeed. The claim made against AC Milan, when 3-0 to the good against Liverpool at the break in Istanbul in 2005, was that they thought the game was already won. Liverpool had nothing to lose; Milan, conversely, had it all to throw away and eventually did just that. Such is the inherent, precarious peril of the three-nil lead; such is the illogical psychosis ingrained in the very nerve and sinew of football.

It’s rare for United fall foul to such quirks, but fall foul they very nearly did. At various points this season, not least in Europe, United’s ball-retention has been sloppy, the engine room lacking fire and the necessary man power to stoke the coals. Scholes’ cameo, despite erring for City’s second goal, came with a 97% pass completion rate. Much of this problem may be down to alterations not just in personnel, but also in style. Last season United were often sensible and unadventurous where in the past they went for broke, often in defiance of sense itself. The United of 2010/11 was often compact and functional, regaining the title in a less than vintage year for the top sides and reaching the Champions League final without conceding a goal on the road. The additions this season of Welbeck, Tom Cleverley and Ashley Young signalled a move towards a more virile and expansive approach, which paid dividends early on but has stalled worryingly of late.

There remain, inescapably, doubts about Ferguson himself. It has been noted recently by those in the know that the infamous hairdryer has been more or less switched off, stowed away in some memory box in the bowels of Old Trafford along with the boot he aimed at Beckham and the battering ram he took to Lee Sharpe's front door. Folk claim he’s gone soft, but his desire for a challenge seems to me to remain undiluted. Just last season he met Wayne Rooney's public letter of resignation with his most full and frank press conference ever, responding to questions of loyalty, ambition and power-shifts head-on, engaging the want-away Shrek-a-like in a remarkably ballsy game of chicken. It ultimately proved successful – Rooney signed on again and United took a record 19th league crown. If Ferguson's signature move is the mind game, then this proved his faculties to be as sharp as ever. In short, he still appears to be up for a scrap.

Perhaps the thing most questioned amongst the United faithful is their manager’s judgement when it comes to team selection. We've seen on numerous occasions the zippy Valencia stationed at right-back with Michael Carrick alongside due to defensive injuries. Time was Ferguson would have wasted little time in throwing a young buck into the domestic fray, something Scholes knows better than most. One is therefore left wondering what this policy means for talents such as the much-touted but little-used Paul Pogba. Cleverley has been heralded as potentially the first great home-grown future hero since the Class of '92, but this alone speaks of another issue. Whilst Chelsea have John Terry and Liverpool likewise Steven Gerrard, and although the severely under-rated Darren Fletcher has gone on to become a pivotal figure in both Ferguson's and a succession of Scotland manager's plans, the club hasn't produced a true local icon of it's own since the mid-nineties. 

I could of course get into the multitudinous issues surrounding the infrastructure at United, but I was hoping to set aside five minutes of this lifetime to get married and have kids. The key thing to remember is that perspective is often everything, not least when it comes to football. United have had dire luck with injuries, and the side Ferguson is in the midst of constructing sits three points off the top of the league having just defeated the title favourites on their own patch. The real shadow which lurks over United’s season is that Champion's League exit. Again, a little panoramic viewing might be in order. In 2005 United finished bottom of a group comprised of Villareal, Benfica and Lille. Two seasons later they were European champions.

Scholes' decision to come out of retirement echoes his boss’ own determination to continually push against the ever-ticking arms of time, a battle which cannot last forever. Ferguson's best sides undoubtedly come and go in cycles and he is now building what will surely be the final team of his reign. Whether old man time will allow him the chance to see it through to a successful end is, in a game defined equally by questions and egos, the biggest poser of them all.

~ Matt