Hope Springs Eternal

end-nigh

So, our recent record at Old Trafford continues to be a grisly chapter in the club’s history. Try as we might to wriggle free of those damning statistics, it’s one hoodoo that’s determined to make itself at home. Twenty-one long years and not a sausage. Not even one of those crinkly little wieners that get squashed into the carpet at the office Christmas party; not even a scrap of the cold, greasy brown casing. Not even… well, you get the idea. Leaving empty handed, it seems, has become second nature. There’s every temptation now to block the fixture from the mental roster entirely. Tear the page out of the diary, book a holiday, get as far away as possible from a day which will do its best to disappoint.

Hardly our worst offering by a long shot. Plenty of gun-ho endeavour at times; helped in no small part by the returning Lennon, who, while never venturing into any of his high gears, looked a terrific threat. Sadly, what could’ve been a chance to juggle the midfield into a virtual plethora of pace and industry– with Bale and Lennon occupying each flank- it wasn’t ever quite realised. As Bale, for large parts of the game, was restricted to his boooring defensive duties. (Boo!) It wasn’t our usual capitulation, then, the actual content of the ninety minutes was fairly even. The tie was lost courtesy of a double-act of numbskullery in the penalty box after the break. BAE and Wilson- who between them looked ready to do something daft at the merest suggestion- both chose to ignore the voice of reason twittering in their lugholes. Don’t clatter anyone in the area, for god sakes. They did and Giggs was only too happy to put his left foot to good use; converting from the spot either side of a rather splendid individual effort from that nubbin, Nani. Same tired old story.

 But fear not. Despite our latest away day bumblings in Manchester, the mood about camp appears to be one of bubbling optimism as we get in sight of the final few hurdles. It’s a feeling likely bred from the assumption that this fixture wasn’t ever going to be the one that decided it. With City stepping into an ear-splitting boo circus later in the day- nearly all of which propelled toward Adebayor’s ‘you’re asking for trouble’ haircut- there was every chance our vapour slim advantage would remain at the weekend’s conclusion. And that it did. Thanks to our earlier good work against the teams wedging United into second place, we’ve kept in front with three games remaining. And, while a triple slap of the Sky3 would’ve been remarkable, it’s hardly a task you’d want your season hinging on. Six points from nine are stats, had you been offered at the end of March, you’d happily have bitten a hand off for. Perhaps not even stopping at the hand- maybe even gnawing your way up to the shoulder, too. We’ve done awfully well. Sure enough, you might not be able to squeeze a Rizla paper between the gap we’ve fashioned, but there’s daylight there nonetheless.

 It’s all terribly exciting.

What I’m saying, I guess, is that this month we’ve stumbled into a hedgerow as thorny as you’re likely to find around this little ol’ League and emerged in one piece. Our shirt may be ruffled slightly and a modicum of blood may be visible about the collar (some, not all of it ours) but we’re still looking pretty dapper. Fourth is very much in our hands. And, after a pile up of games of that ilk, I’m not sure we could’ve asked for much more.

We should be mighty proud.

 Bring on the Bolton.


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