Something definitely occurred during that match, but what exactly? There's a playful joke about Australian sports writing that involves starting with 'Here’s The Thing,' and then meticulously detailing what 'The Thing' is in 800 brutally honest words. This approach involves thoroughly dissecting 'The Thing,' shaking hands with it, and perhaps even grabbing a drink afterward. So, what was 'The Thing' here? Trapped energy, drift, ennui, a well-executed goal by Moisés Caicedo, the death-football of late-stage capitalism, and Casemiro frequently lying down, often to surprisingly effective defensive results.
Manchester United and Chelsea managed to produce something recognizable in their 1-1 draw, specifically a game of two halves—one muddled and almost surreal in its tedium, the other muddled but blessed with a 10-minute spell of actual activity. The first half was particularly noteworthy for its listlessness. It began quite well, with Old Trafford always having that festive kick-off atmosphere. Regardless of the weather, there's always energy in the stadium for the team, and initially, there was a familiar sense of determination from the stands. Around here, Manchester United is still a ten-story love song.
At which point: nothing happened. It's hard to recall a more aimless half of elite football, with the same sense of time being wasted pointlessly. Football is a sport made up of dull and forgettable games. Boredom is a key part of the sport and an element of its beauty. Even Jorge Valdano’s description of English football as 'shit on a stick' was kind of a compliment. These people will cheer anything as long as it has energy. For a long time, English football criticized itself for having energy without craft, too much drive, too much desire.
What was this in that context? Light and heat without content. Football as something empty and frictionless, humans in colored shirts waiting for life to happen, JG Ballard-ball. At one point, there was a three-minute buildup to a Bruno Fernandes free-kick that was punted into the nearest part of the wall, and you felt grateful for the howls and frustration because, well, it's just good to feel something.
Cole Palmer flickered at the edges. Caicedo and Roméo Lavia controlled the center of the pitch. Lavia is a really good midfielder, taking the ball in any space, angling his body always to go forward, fearless in his energy. Although by the end, the main function of Chelsea’s competent central pivot was to demonstrate how evident it is that Casemiro really has no place at this level. This was like watching a middle-aged man trying to play tennis with someone twenty years younger. At one point, Casemiro won the ball with a dramatic full-body challenge, to huge cheers, but even this was one of those oh-blimey moments, like the aging fast bowler’s doomed dive at mid-on, the sole purpose of which is not to have to turn and chase the ball to the boundary.
United began to stir in the second half. Wesley Fofana got lost for the opening goal. Robert Sánchez slapped a hand down on Rasmus Højlund’s boot as he eased past. Fernandes buried the penalty. It was nice to see Ruud van Nistelrooy leaping and punching the air in his roll neck and overcoat. Van Nistelrooy has no obvious part in United’s future. The summer move, on a promise of extended Ten Hag time, has been a disaster for his own career path. This was a good moment for him.
Caicedo equalized on 74 minutes, a lovely volleyed finish that was only improved by the sight of Enzo Maresca, still furious about his team going behind, weirdly half-celebrating on the touchline with a face that still suggested someone had just pranged his Skoda Superb at a mini roundabout. And that was pretty much that, barring some static towards the end, noise and fury without edge. The final score seemed fitting. A point takes Chelsea back into fourth spot. On the other hand, they might also expect to beat the 13th best team in the country.
The keynote will remain the basic oddity of the occasion. This was in outline a meeting of two forms of US ownership, successful vampirism versus a mania of unsustainable overspend. Chelsea’s 11 featured nine players signed in the current age of wow-ball for a combined half a billion or so. United’s was the usual collection of random footballers, half-thought ideas, fill-ins, hook-ups, Mr. Wrongs. What will happen now to these carry-overs, all those big contract players that seem to have been at the club for decades, handed down from regime to regime like a cracked china tea service? Little wonder this team has no pattern. Here United had a player on the bench just called “Amass.” Next week: an idea. A thought. A seat.
For now, the wheels keep turning, the content machine continues to churn. What is being sold here exactly? A middling team in red shirts. Brand recognition, aura, free-floating energy. A point from a draw is at least a gift to the new manager as United wait in standby mode for the next leap forward; a club that has never been quite so obviously in need of A Thing.
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