Last Saturday at the Nou Camp, Real Madrid were the sharks.

Before last season’s Champions League final, Brian Phillips predicted a coming cule decline. Why? Well, practically, several key players have approached the expiration date for maximum performances: Puyol and Xavi grow younger not. Both are world class, but tires lose tread. Lately, misfortune unrelated to sport has struck Eric Abidal (may he enjoy a speedy recovery). David Villa seriously injured himself, even though he wasn’t exactly lighting up the nets beforehand. In part, the injury trade winds stopped blowing in their favor.

And Cristian Tello and Thiago are Cristian Tello and Thiago. Good players, just not world beaters. The myth of the La Masia academy – that it consistently produces Hogwarts’ magicians – should finally be put to bed. For the last few years, Barcelona has rode almost the exact same starting eleven. Their bench rarely needed to provide a spark or insurance. Rather, Iniesta and Xavi would dart around the midfield while Messi provided the cutting edge. The back line of Alves, Pique, Puyol, and Abidal shielded Victor Valdes from actual work. The formula reached a monotonous consistency, depending on your affiliation. Yet reality has now undone the equation.

In terms of narrative, every team that succeeds over a spell of time goes through four phases: ascent as underdog; champion; champion with aura; champion without aura. Rijkaard and Ronaldinho lifted Barcelona from the ashes, while Messi and Pep solidified their view at the top. Still, the gap narrowed. For the last several months, Real Madrid has battled to kill Barcelona’s aura. The Supercopa, the Copa del Rey, last year’s Champions League – at a certain stage, Mou stopped game-planning for Barcelona and fielded his offensive 4-4-2 (with Ozil dropping back) in key games. The merengues huffed and puffed, but Barcelona managed to escape each time.

Until last Saturday. The aura is dead. Long live the aura. For their part, Real Madrid looked fit and organized over 90 minutes. Unlike the Chelsea game, Barcelona did not turn their possession into scoring chances. Madrid did not simply ride their luck – they snuffed out danger in the center of the park. Yes, Xavi could have scored an early equaliser, but Barcelona saw few clear cut chances after that. And this also was not a studs-up foul fest, apart from Dani Alves’ love affair with Cristiano Ronaldo’s calves. No Copa del Rey final redux. The most important aspect was the unseen. Leo Messi‘s false 9 role rendered him invisible – he might as well have been playing for the albiceleste.

Yet I still feel dirty and uneasy. I’m not incredulous, just uncomfortable. Real Madrid’s win, a Nou Campazo, was merited. We have killed the aura, even though the body remains. A Jason-esque short-term resurrection remains possible. Barca are favorites to beat Chelsea. I wouldn’t doubt a King’s Cup and Champions League double. We could even trip up in La Liga to make matters close. However, the next wave of clasicos will lose their luster. Neither team sits atop a throne.

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First, I speculated a few years ago that Steven Gerrard may be a better midfielder in his thirties than his twenties. At the time, the universe oohed and awed at his barnstorming runs and eye for a quick slide-rule pass. I preferred the traditional enganche that puts a foot on the ball, looks up, pauses, and controls the flow of a game. Today, Stevie’s lost a step and now pauses to put foot to ball, and he’s completing more passes and dropping back deeper on the field. Yet has he lost his essence as a player?

It’s like neutering and muzzling a Pitbull, then getting angry when he lets a nocturnal burglar rub his belly. Unpredictability formed the essence of early Gerrard – yes, he may have backpassed a clever opposing forward onside against his own team, but he also flicked on Torres like a light switch connected to a thunderbolt. As a young American fan of United, I’ve been insulated from some of the vitriolic historical hate between Red Devils and Scousers. For many Yanks, Liverpool is the team that doesn’t beat us to the league title but manages to beat Chelsea. And can you really hate anybody for that?

Still, Stevie G has adapted to a new role, but Dirk Kuyt‘s loss of pace is perplexing. In high school, I learned that if you multiply a negative number by a negative number, you get a positive. In practical terms, imagine if you are walking backwards in a line, and are then instructed to walk backwards. You would walk forwards, right? I always assumed that Kuyt would get faster as he aged due to this principle. But nope – he has somehow gotten slower, and that’s suicide for a player that has always relied on “work rate.”

United also lacked fleet-footed options, at least on the left. Giggs returned to his wide role, and looked comfortable and clever in possession. However, United fans always fear that the next hip sway may be his last, and are glad he can afford an elder care app for his mobile in case he falls and needs help. A tear rolled down my cheek every time Giggsy got the ball on a fast break. Twenty years ago, a ten acre head start would spell death to defenders. Today, Giggs slogged on a treadmill set to swamp mode. Johnson did not backtrack, he sleepwalked – and still managed to catch up. Still, United led comfortably 2-0 for the first 70 minutes.

At 75 minutes, though, the clouds parted, the sun shined, and down from Heaven descended Charlie Adam. Earlier, King Kenny had subbed on Andy Carroll and Craig Bellamy. Carroll won his share of aerial duels, but continues to feed conspiracy theories that he suffers from a degenerative disease that is slowly eating away his eye-foot coordination. My sincerest condolences. Gerrard did his best to feed Andy a steady diet of trademark vertical crosses, but perhaps he should try some oats, grains, and premium Blue Seal feed.

Still, though, Luis Suarez did overcome his racism to play soccer and score a late goal. Granted, Rio Ferdinand deserves the assist with a patented thigh-tweener deflection that maybe could have been cleared. Inzaghi’s guardian angel grinned from above. United has won so many games in so many ways, that the Red Devils have trademarked the terms “Smash & grab”, “Fightback”, and “Hang on.” This game belonged to the last category. At the game’s conclusion, after Tony and Rooney took turns playing Greco-Roman wrestling near the corner flag, Evra celebrated.

And this is the part in the trite match recap where I say that Evra played like a man possessed even though he played his typical smart first touches, got forward on occasion, and defended well one vs. one. This is the part in the trite match recap where I harshly criticize Suarez for not shaking Evra’s hand and speculate that that fact motivated Evra to find that extra bit of energy that marks the difference between victory and defeat.

Lastly, this is the part in the trite match recap where I sum up the match in a single sentence: United held on to win 2-1 blah blah something Manchester City.

(Associated & Fabricated Press) – Today, we regret to report the death of over 200 adorable puppies. And a less than adorable nun and bus driver. At eight o’clock at night, the Save-a-Pup bus, full of 200 recently rescued puppies, rambled down the road on its way to a warm & welcoming puppy shelter. Little did the driver realize that rather than heading towards Brownsville, Texas, he and the puppies were on track for their own grisly deaths. Taylor Sampson, a volunteer bus driver with Save-a-Pup for over five years, was going the speed limit on a country road when he noticed, despite poor lighting, that several stray cattle had escaped from a fence and wandered onto the road. He flashed his lights, honked his horn, and then, not seeing any traffic, switched to the other lane to avoid hitting any cattle.

Sadly, due to the lack of streetlights, he did not see Sister Johanna Merkers on her motorcycle. The Sister had just returned from 10 years of missionary work in India bathing lepers and lepers’ close associates (including friends, immediate relatives, and not so immediate relatives). Exhausted from the ten years of service and half-day flight back to South Texas, she must have forgotten to turn on her front lights and did not hear the bus honk or see its flashing lights.

The bus smacked into her head on, sending the nun to her immediate death and the bus flipped onto its side. It spun several times. The puppies, confused and startled, yet still adorable (perhaps even more so due to the fact that their yelps of distress sound cute to human ears, oddly), were tossed about the inside of the bus cabin. Logically, one could presume that several cute puppy bones were broken. However, a veterinary-coronary report is impossible. The bodies are charred beyond recognition, along with the bus driver’s.

After the bus stopped twirling, the engine began to leak a lot of gas. By a lot of gas, I mean an oil tanker worth of gas. Not literally. Figuratively. Hyperbole-ly. Gas. Everywhere. Lots of it. The car’s engine, terribly damaged from hitting head-on a nun in a motorcycle, intermittently turned on and off. The bus driver, half-conscious from the blow of the collision, could smell the gas and immediately realized the danger. If any sparks from the stuttering engine touched one drop of gas, he and the puppies would be toast.

The immediate impact had separated the bus driver’s right shoulder. He lay on his side, still buckled to the driver’s seat. The air bag had inflated, but only blocked his path to salvation. Pain shot up and down his right arm. The fumes made his head spin like a carousel. Taylor could taste his own blood in his mouth. The puppies shrieked in terror. Some moaned in pain. Others lay still, shocked or dead by the impact. He knew that he had to reach the ignition and turn off the engine. He had to turn that key.

He winced and attempted to move his right arm. A thousand needles stabbed him in his back. A hundred knives stabbed him in the right shoulder. He lacked feeling in his right arm. The engine sputtered. It clicked. He felt gasoline by the left side of his face. A pool was forming. It felt cool as water yet smelled terrible. He took several deep breaths. There was still no smoke. Some hope remained. He spat out blood, bit his tongue, and tried to move his right arm one more time. This time ten thousand needle stabbed him in the back. His right arm was useless.

The shrieks of the puppies made his head twirl. He felt his own heart beat. Among the adorable but injured canine groans, he could make out one dog’s voice, a miniature schnauzer. Taylor had several years experience as a driver for Save-a-Pup. He knew to keep an emotional distance from the puppies. He knew that he could not save them all. He knew that he could not, and should not, play favorites with the rescue puppies. But that miniature schnauzer had gotten to him. From the first time he saw her, he was smitten. Her trimmed hair, her bushy schnauzer beard, the way she wagged her cute little tail – he tried to ignore her, but he couldn’t. Hearing her low schnauzer moan inspired him for one last effort.

He had to turn that key. He took a deep breath. He gritted his teeth. He said a prayer. He closed his eyes and braced for an unimaginable quantity of pain. He would count to three and then try to move his arm and turn that key, pain be damned. One…..two…….

And then the engine sputtered, sending a spark down to the pool of gasoline beside his ear.

In other news, on the same planet but a different continent, professional soccer clubs in Europe played a series of games. Some teams won. Some teams lost. Some teams tied.

SUPER MARIO OVERCOMES ADVERSITY OF BEING HIMSELF. Don’t let the final score fool you. This was a close game that was cut open by the sheer will and talent of Mario Balotelli. He scored the first goal off a brilliant far post finish, he earned the free kick and red card of Johnny Evans, and he scored a nice second goal with a well timed far post run. If you thought he set off fireworks the night before the match, he saved the real Roman candles-bottle rockets-black cats-insert firework brandname-for the game! And he had the tact to not play a single game of Angry Birds on his iPad after getting subbed off. The sky is the limit.

UNITED MOURN RETIREMENT OF VETERAN DEFENDER GARY NEVILLE. If ever United had to win a game by sheer willpower as opposed to natural God-given talent, then it was today. Several of United’s players received yellow cards for late tackles and Johnny Evans saw red early in the second half. In sum, United needed Gary Neville on the field. The all-terrain terrier’s spark and ability to avoid cards by sheer ugliness (refs hate to have to face him so close) was sorely lacked. Against a lineup featuring the silky David Silva and explosive Sergio Aguero, United needed more grit than grace. The Medusa of Manchester United was sorely missed and has no natural replacement, assuming the current crop of United players avoid pouring acid on their face.

NOT HARSH RED CARD DOESN’T DETERMINE DERBY’S OUTCOME. It is a red card offense for the last defender to take down an opposing forward and negate a goalscoring chance. The TV replays clearly showed that Johnny Evans was the last defender and grabbed Balotelli’s arms with both hands, tossing him to the ground. But sometimes referees must be judges and exercise discretion. If any player deserves pity and a second chance, it’s Johnny Evans. He will forever be known to United fans as “that center back who is not Pique.” Surely the ref could have looked the other way or something.

FERGIE TIME LEADS TO BREATHTAKING CITY COMEBACK FROM IN FRONT. Up by only 3 goals to 1 with a few minutes left on the clock, everybody in Old Trafford held their breath and prayed for a miracle. And a miracle occurred. Manchester City, playing up a man for half an hour and noticeably fatigued or bored, found one last heroic burst of energy to heroically come from ahead to score three more goals. Eden Dzeko’s first goal, a brilliant Pippo Inzaghi-inspired knee deflection from two yards, brought the crowd to their feet as they quickly filtered out of Old Trafford, their heads held low.

Just how guilty do you feel for sustaining an erection while being held by your mother as a three year old child? Let’s find out together.

First, let’s take a look at this image. I want you to really focus on this image and then create a mental note of the thoughts that popped into your head.

Did you see a hastily sketched MS Paint starting lineup chart? Did you dare to glare at two 4-5-1′s lined up against one another? Did you see Park on one side of the midfield and Kuyt on the other and think – sigh, another midfield slug fest with, yawn, few clear-cut chances? Did you find it odd that Sir Alex would play Park for fear of the overlapping threat of Luis Enrique, or equally odd that King Kenny would deploy Kuyt to stifle the aging Evra? Did Liverpool have a bit of a logjam on the right side with no clear winger?

Maybe. But you just failed to articulate what you really saw, didn’t you. You truly saw a lot of blue and red dots on a green block. These dots are really the manifestation of your inner id, of long-suppressed childhood feelings of shame and guilt. That’s right – these circles are not a a players’ location on the field, they are your mother’s breasts. As a young child, you suckled upon them but soon began to teeth. Despite this pain you inflicted upon your mother, you continued to yearn for milk.

And you have never recovered. And now it clouds even the most simple of life’s pleasures, like watching a soccer game or reading a blog post about said game. I suggest either Paxil or Zoloft. Only once a day.

Now, let’s take a peek and reflect upon this image. Take a deep breath and focus on the image. Do not force your subconscious to speak, but open your eyes, heart, and mind to what your id is truly trying to say.

Do you see a poorly done MS Paint arrow movement map for the first half of the United and Liverpool game? Are you sure? Are you sure that you’re sure? Did you think you saw Downing and Luis Enrique get a bit of joy down the left flank early on and late in the game? Did Evra occasionally burst forward, and plant a decent early cross on Jones’ head? Did Ashley Young start out brightly but fade near the end?

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I believe you saw the faint outlines of a hexagon. You did, didn’t you? Well, I hate to break it to you, but a hexagon is kind of a red flag for serious clinical depression brought on by both suppressed id desires and negated childhood shame from suckling upon your mothers’ breasts as a child and on occassion sustaining an erection. Have you apologized to your mother for these actions? Have you even considered it? Or were you just gonna go through your entire life watching EPL games early on Saturday morning, and then sleeping away the afternoon and not even bothering to call home?

I suggest you take Prozac at least twice a day. But remember, I am not a Doctor, just an armchair Psychoanalyst.

Now, stare and ponder at this image. For this image, you must really focus on yourself and open up your mind a bit. It is essential that you attempt to break down any internal filters to suppressed childhood memories.

Did you see a very basic passing map for the first half of United vs. Liverpool? Did you see lots of horizontal action from United? Did you see perhaps a bit too direct of play from Liverpool? Yet, eerily, did you think you saw that both teams experienced the same basic failure to provide service to either Wellbeck or Suarez? Did they predictably lack support?

Wrong again. However, I just hope you didn’t see an inverted red pentagon and/or a blue parallelogram. These geometric shapes you allegedly see are really kinda creepy and hint at much much deeper and disturbing childhood issues which cannot be fully addressed in a single blogpost. Instead, I suggest you hire me as your full-time shrink for only $250 per hour. Your desire to project order upon the chaotic shadows over the internal chaos that dictates your own life and feelings. Please consider my offer as you look at the remaining images.

Stare at this image for a few minutes, and do not make any superficial judgments or skip ahead. I repeat, do not skip ahead.

Did you see an MS Paint goalmouth action chart for the first half of United vs. Liverpool? But where are the lines? Where are the other dots? Where are the shots? Where’s the passing? Did the first half of this game leave your eyes hurting? Did you regret setting your alarm last night? I think, based so far on this analysis, regret plays a larger role in your life than you’d like to admit.

Obviously, what you see in this goalmouth action chart is not a boring first half, but rather your own childhood insecurities and reactions to guilt. You felt guilty for suckling upon your mothers’ breasts while teething and occasionally sustaining an erection, therefore you began to separate from her to avoid these feelings. Did you start to make friends at the age of four? Did you start to play with these friends rather than suckling upon your mother’s teet and/or sustaining an erection? I thought so. That’s pretty cowardly of your four year old self, don’t you think?

Yes, Kuyt could have pushed forward a bit more to support Luis. And Giggs could have done the same for Wellbeck. But you need to stop using soccer, charts, and players to hide from the real underlying issues. What you need are some selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. None of those tricyclics that leave you up but you cant take a shit for days (which is another issue, ahem). And stop blaming a “lack of support” for your own inability to address these issues.

Now, view this image and try to place it temporally. Yes, you can try to place it within the context of the United-Liverpool game, but only as a first step towards examining your own much larger issues.

Do you see an MS Paint rendition of the clusterfuck that was the last twenty minutes of this game? Did Sir Alex really play three forwards plus Nanni? Did King Kenny really take off Leiva for a second-striker-esque player in Henderson? When Gerrard scored off a free kick, did your heart skip a beat? When Chicharito scored a classic poacher deflected goal off a corner, were you really all that surprised?

You’re inability to make any sort of tactical shape out of these players is intriguing and very problematic. Sir Alex and King Kenny did not just toss on offensive players and hope for a goal. They would never do that. Not even in a Champions League final against Bayern Munich. From a tactical standpoint, King Kenny obviously opted for a 4-1-1-1-1-1-1, with Adam shielding the backline, Gerrard slightly advanced and to the right, Kuyt slightly more advanced and to the right, Henderson slightly more advanced and to the left, and Suarez slightly more advanced ant central. It’s clear as day.

What’s not clear, though, is why you are still in denial about your childhood issues. How much longer can you go about like this, watching EPL games while the guilt, shame, and loneliness eat away at you? Until you take all the above medications, hire me as a shrink, and apologize to your mother for suckling at her teeth while teething and/or sustaining an erection, I’m afraid the answer is…indefinitely.

This post was conceived and created in close collaboration with the wonderfully talented Andy of Toblerone Jones. If you liked this, then you should also check out theShortFuse’s answer to Arsenal’s right back dilemma. And, of course, you can find real and insightful tactical analysis from Michael Cox at the excellent Zonal Marking.

But, sigh, ho-hum, we’ve already explored that topic.

So here’s another idea that bounced around my head during yesterday’s game – how would all these characters fit into a cable TV series on vampires in high school? Easily. That’s how.

Lou Messi would be the protagonist, obviously. He would arrive at La Magia with a duffel bag on his shoulder, fresh from his native Argentina. He would be impressed by the mad flowing foot-skills and camaraderie of his new classmates, Andres-Dre and Flava-Xav. But something about them would creep him out. He would only see them training at night. He would invite them to lunch, maybe some late afternoon tapas, but no dice. And they would detest playing under those accursed floodlights.

Messi would have a love interest. And that dastardly Jerry Pique would steal her from under his nose. With his broad shoulders, affable grin, and, gasp, facial hair, Pique and the rest of his jock buddies would make Messi’s arrival a living heck. Until, of course, one night Pique would fall prey to a bite from a vampire bat. Then, realizing only Messi could save him and his friends, he would become an undercover vampire agent, infiltrating the seedy underground of Catalonia. Nightclubs under Stamford Bridge would seem tame by comparison.

As for Arsenal, Cesc and Tomas Rosicky would be torn between the sinful urges of Lestat and self-immolation. They would raise profound philosophical questions such as – why do handsome and talented vampires experience even a shred of self-doubt? Is it hormones? Peer pressure? Both? Neither? Regardless, at the end of season one, they would both go the way of Luke Perry & get axed, heroically (or perhaps shamefully) tossing themselves them under the sun’s destructive rays. Then disappearing in a cloud of dust.

Manny Fulmunia would be the creepy groundskeeper with the lazy eye, disheveled hair, and permanent tint of Scotch on his breath. One day, the sophomore Davey Hampton Villa-Inn would ask him: “Manny, is it true you live in a haunted mansion?” With a shy grin on his face, Manny would reply: “Why don’t you spend the night to find out for yourself?” Creeped out for all the right reasons, Davey would always get the eerie sensation that Manny kept an eye on him, hiding in his blind spot, waiting to pounce.

And the werewolves? You know who the werewolves are. Nicklash Bendzer, from a long and twisted genealogy of great Dane wilder-beasts, would scowl and howl at the moons and curse Andres-Dre and Flava-Xav. Damn the pass to feet! Damn the first touch! Tied invariably and inexplicably to the forest, to the dark, haunted forest, his ferocity would be his greatest weapon and weakness. Yet Andres-Dre and Flava-Xav would prey on the divisions among the werewolves. And ultimately Nicklash Bendzer would get stabbed dramatically in the back by none other than….fellow werewolf Java Masterahn!!!

Questions abound at the end of season two. Have the werewolves been defeated? Or are they licking their wounds? And who truly runs the vampire ring – does Andres-Dre really only carry out the surgical hits? Flava-Xav appears to call the shots, but what about….Lord Pep Guardamort? If they discover the secret horicrux to slot his lower back disc into place, things may never be the same at Transylvania High.

Stay tuned for Season Three!

Thus, it is only fitting that Karim Benzema scored in last night’s game after a few seconds. While Jose can point to the incredible form of Di Maria, a goal is a goal is not a non-goal. And an away goal in the Champions League is almost worth two. Almost. Karim’s strike clearly impressed Perez, but the question remains: will molehills become mountains? Or will mountains move?

I am waging on neither.

Jose’s CV reveals the “talented turnover dilemma.” As a prospective employer, you can’t help but be impressed by the titles won and the teams coached. However, a pattern emerges. A routine raises red flags. Mourinho the genius suffers from eternal and inevitable…wanderlust. He may build a beautiful and trophy-winning squad, but how long will he stick around?

I know your reaction – Ha ha Ha ha. Madrid worried about coach turnover? They might as well install a carousel in the sala de prensa and give popcorn to the journalists. I’ve never seen the business card for the Real Madrid manager, but I imagine it has all the details of the job sans one: the name of the current manager. Instead, a blank space allows each successive manager to pencil in his or her name. Props to Madrid for going green. But…but….

In England, my team is Manchester United. However, I respect Arsenal. What do they have in common? Stability. Managerial stability. In professional sports, turnover is inevitable. Players get old. New players jump into the picture from out of nowhere. Still, coaching consistency can help to assure smooth transitions in the personnel department. Maybe, just maybe, no team on Earth should have four holding midfielders at one time (Diarra-Khedira-Diarra II-Gago).

Especially after letting Cambiasso and Makelele slip through our grips!

However, consistency and successive waves would challenge Mourinho as much as Madrid. Could he establish roots in the capital? Could he learn to blood rookies only to later cut the same player when they become veterans? Jose loves the sport and his tears for Schneijder showed his strong bond with certain players. At what point can that bond be severed? At what point would he himself sever it?

The temptation is to view this as the “hook-up” of the decade. Jose has the attention span of a fly and wants to win titles in Spain, just because he got bored in Portugal, England and Italy. Madrid just wants some trophies. Perhaps I’m naive to think either will change.

But if Benzema does not drive a wedge between the two, the black sheep of the family could very well be its unifying force.

But it dawned on me that, after taking a “personal day” at work, I had just seen a great soccer game. It also occurred to me that the “Barca-backlash” had reached its saturation point – cynical minds in North America have grown to detest Barca not for their style of play or debt-driven-spending, but because they inspired mainstream and popular interest in the sport. I can imagine these same counter-culture-elitist dumping soccer in a few years at the drop of a hat, turning to cricket, badminton, or hurling.

But not me. I saw a great game. And here’s why it was great.

First, certain truths about Barca became evident. David Villa was exposed for the fraud he really is. We all love the chin stubble and faux-hawk, but he truly has the easiest job in all of soccer. He basically gets paid to stand between two central defenders for 90 minutes and wait for a) Xavi’s inch perfect pass, or b) Messi to draw a triple team and then slot him an inch perfect pass. If Barca was a post office and Villa was a mail man, he would be paid to stand on the client’s front porch until his supervisor arrived with the mail, handed him the mail, and then rang the doorbell of the client’s house for him.

Still, he delivered a goal. And a crucial away goal. Even if he just lingers on doorsteps these days.

Second, Arsenal has officially transitioned from “transition team” to “teething Tiger.” Several years back, Manchester United lost 1-0 to AC Milan at home & away in the Champions League. The boo birds complained about the young Ronaldo and Rooney, but the canny eye saw a talented team ready to turn a corner. Last year, Barcelona bled Arsenal like a sheep. This year, Arsenal has shown its new-found claws.

Third, Barcelona depends on two things: sublime finishing from Messi & clockwork passing by Xavi. The universe does deserve criticism for fawning over Barcelona’s La Masia because Xavi is the key to Barca’s style, not some magical assembly line of instruction and talent-hoarding. In the few games where Barca has had to play sans Xavi, they look a normal side without him running every which way & completing more passes in a game than Ruud Van Nistelrooy completed in his entire career. Barca will never be the same sans Xavi. And neither will Spain.

Last night, Xavi completed a lot of passes. But Messi’s early & errant chip set the tone for the night: the mythical and magical mini-goal. For 90 minutes, the goal shrunk to a five foot by five foot box and Messi could only muster the precision to shake side-netting. Of course, Arsenal did limit his chances. Djorou provided the muscle and Koscielny the pace. If the two of them can just stay away from transmogrification machines & not turn into William Gallas, the Gunners have a chance. Albeit a slight one.

Finally, for all the love sprinkled on Jack Wilshere, Andrei Arshavin did score the game winning goal. Yes, he had a comical defensive header, but at least he was defending, no? Time has finally caught up with the Russian, as his explosive first step now packs the punch of a blackcat. His lungs of steel have gotten rust, but class is eternal – his touch & timing on the first time strike were effortlessly wondrous.

Or wondrously effortless.

So I am the perfect person to examine the recent relationship between our changed, corrupted society and this duel of Gunners and Red Devils.

I begin, of course, by the obvious. As a fake shell of a fan, I am drawn to United in large part by their success. If they had not had a dominant reign under Sir Alex, I very well may be wearing the colors of another team. In fact, I may very well be a fan of cricket, not soccer, blasting forums about wickets and whatnot. But they have. And I’m not. And since when has being a fan of a winner been a crime against humanity? You can cast your lot with David, but my fiver’s on the Goliath that wins 90% of the time.

Given this backdrop, I and United get painted in utilitarian shades of black and white. United won the game today 1-0, ergo, United know how to win a game 1-0. United must win a game 1-0, therefore they find a way to win the game 1-0. Holding a slim lead with twenty minutes left, the Red Devils packed bodies behind the ball and waited to counter. Ergo, the world hates them for being so catenaccio despite only having one misfiring Italian striker on the bench. Yes, I’m convinced that in a past life Vidic was an Italian centerback with a last name ending in “ini,” but the present and now version is Serbian. So not even close.

The world forgets about the thrilling comeback victories. Instead, they point to the watch and yell about “Sir Alex injury time.’ Of course, five minutes of added time means nothing without clutch goals. Ten minutes of added time means zilch if your team lacks outstanding fitness levels. How much time did Arsenal need to score the equalizer?

If United beat their chest beforehand by Evra comments and Ferdinand tweets, then Arsenal must be the Kantian and soft spoken alternative. In terms of personal lives, Rooney shags hookers while Cesc tweetpics himself on a couch with a cat, watching the game and presumably cuddling with Ms. Whiskers. In terms of style, before this game, the forecast called for a chilling 35 degrees Fahrenheit. Yet no United player would dare don a neck-warming snood. Giving Sir Alex another object to throw in your face at halftime is rarely advisable – better leave those sharp-as-dagger earrings in your mangbag also.

Despite the cold necks, Park Ji Sung managed to score off a nice Nani cross. The Red Devils pushed forward for a second goal, but came up short. Nani’s finishing resembled a colorblind person playing snood “the video game” – erratic at worst, inefficient at best. Ferdinand struggled to fend with the happy feet of Sami Nasri, yet Vidic’s lunging legs saved the day on various occassions.

In a game devoid of space behind the opposition’s back line, Arshavin looked ordinary and Song looked annoyed. The Red Devils’ diligent defense prevented any of the intricate Arsenal build-up play we all love, forcing Wenger to throw on the one trick horse-English hope known as Theo Walcott. Dr. Seuss deftly declared: “See Theo. See Theo run. See Theo run fast. See Theo cross. What a f’ing disgrace of a cross.”

So, United won 1-0. Rooney missed a penalty kick that was unjustly earned by Nani’s novel idea – kick the ball at the defender’s hand. Granted, the idea ranks just below Chelsea’s frequent “run into the keeper” tactic, but you get the picture. Few can argue against the cosmic justice implications of Rooney’s miss, including his missus. And perhaps his mistress.

In summation, despite the coldness of these winter months, Arsenal look forward to another eternal Indian summer where the youthful squad lacks only a signing or two to compete. Meanwhile, United will continue to cart Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs onto the field, walkers in hand and IV firmly attached. From a utilitarian standpoint, age is just a number. Knowing how to win is all that matters.

Still, I am optimistic. Even with these failings, the defense improved by one goal from the game two years ago last spring at the Bernabeu. Huzzah! I am convinced that only Junito can save Madrid form this current malaise. Mourinho is just a stop-gap measure for the next five or ten years. Hopefully the bleeding will stop by then. Because the hurt won’t.