Just Deserts?

You know how dog owners often come to resemble their animals, well I’m afraid that our team seemed to reflect a large majority of our fans this evening, with a display both on and off the pitch that was entirely lacking in character.

Believe me, I’m not knocking the club for making an effort to make the occasion special, by shelling out for all those flags and on the basis that I was expecting to find cheapest possible, little plastic Chinese imports, I have to admit to being quite impressed. Yet considering how devoid our new stadium usually is of such colourful displays, I couldn’t help but harbour some sense of resentment that it all felt just a little artificial.

Normally Champions League games at our gaff are those occasions when the ground feels least like MY football club, as so many of the seats in the immediate vicinity seem to be occupied by complete strangers and large sections of the Upper Tier are occupied by the besuited punters who’ve managed to purloin a ticket courtesy of UEFA’s corporate partners. You can seen them all being led down the stairs by a red jacketed steward at the break, like neatly dressed sheep, all heading for the trough in roped off sections of Club Level.

However tonight most of the regulars were present around me and it was as if “for one night only” our ground was to be transformed into a partisan cauldron of colour and noise. And so it proved, for all of eight minutes, as the team responded to the intense, cacophonous atmosphere of those opening moments, with exactly the sort of high-tempo start that was necessary, if we were going to rattle Man Utd with an early goal.

Sadly, if ever confirmation was needed that this was something of a superficial hoax, it came when every last drop of energy evaporated, as Keiran Gibbs had the misfortune to slip over and Ji-Sung Park clipped the ball over Almunia into the back of the net (with credit to the Korean, as he still had plenty to do following our full-backs mishap). There was me foolishly believing that our new Home of Football had finally found its voice and no matter what the outcome, we were set to roar the team on, as if our very lives depended on the result, providing the team with the sort of genuine 12th man support that’s not been seen since we departed Highbury.

Yet no sooner had the goal gone in, than the ground reverted to being more mortuary than library, with Ronaldo showing no mercy, waiting only a further three minutes, before the arrogant gobshite conned the ref into awarding the free-kick from which he read the Gunners the last rites! It was something akin to the events in Las Vegas a couple of nights earlier and if it had been a boxing match, the ref would’ve saved us from further punishment by diving in to stop the fight.

0-2 down after only eleven minutes and with four goals being such a tall order, some of the Gunners’ young heads were bound to drop and so when our support was most needed, all those unusually vociferous gloryhunting Gooners who’d been giving it their all when hope abounded, suddenly fell silent. What’s more, as I studied the team as they trudged off at the break, with their chins dragging along the turf, I looked around for the sort of characters who might stand up in our dressing room to demand “I ain’t having this” and I’m sad to say that there doesn’t appear to be a natural leader amongst the lot of them, with the sort of mental fortitude necessary to act as the rock around which the rest of his team mates could rally.

So with a crowd that’s only prepared to react to events on the pitch, rather than inspire them and a team devoid of any players with the sort of presence and stature necessary to galvanize the Gunners into producing any sort of serious attempt at a fightback, a miraculous comeback was hardly on the cards.

With the game already lost, I seriously hope Keiran Gibbs sustained some sort if injury that merited him being withdrawn, rather than Arsène doing serious long-term damage to his confidence by making him the scapegoat. Because if there was some sort of silver lining to such a demoralising display, it was that if this side had made it to the final, it would’ve merely papered over the cracks of what has basically been a pretty mediocre Champions League campaign.

Although we have proved on several occasions that on their day, this Arsenal side has the ingredients to take on and beat the very best, it’s hard to recall one occasion this season when the Gunners engine has been perfectly tuned and running on all eleven cylinders.

Adebayor discovered tonight that after having spent almost the entire season loping around with his head up his backside, banking on a big money move in the summer, he simply can’t produce form and fitness on demand for the big occasion. And having returned to the fray from an injury-troubled spell, Van Persie was little more effective.

Myself I would’ve settled for us coming out for the second half to win back some self-respect and although admittedly the longer the clock ticked on, the more open we were to the swift counter, if ever we needed a lesson in the sort of incisiveness that has been sorely lacking while we impotently pass the ball around amongst ourselves in front of the opposition, it came with the death knell of Utd’s third.

Only moments earlier I’d been vocally abusing the little gurrier Rooney as a “fat granny shagger” but as much as it pains me, I can’t help but have the utmost respect for the lad’s footballing ability. A depressingly ineffective Theo Walcott could do well to take a lesson or two from the way in which Rooney needed only the briefest of glances up, as he was barrelling forward, to know exactly where to put the ball on a plate for his annoyingly gifted Portuguese pal. It went against the grain, but I honestly couldn’t help but put my hands together in admiration when the ugly little turd was subbed soon after.

If the on pitch massacre wasn’t bad enough, I had to endure the abject surrender of some of the occupants of the seats around us, as they walked out with half an hour on the clock. Exactly what sort of “supporters” slink shamefully away from a Champions League semi, leaving THEIR team still struggling to cling to the last vestiges of pride, amidst the ultimate ignominy of their own fans doing a cowardly runner, certainly not my kind!

Who knows, perhaps the kids will go on to lift the FA Youth Cup and in so doing, demonstrate that there are several youngsters ready to make the big step-up. Yet we’ll be extremely lucky if more than one or two prove themselves ready made first-team material and like I say, if there is any consolation for missing out on a Champions League final, it is that surely Arsène cannot continue kidding himself or us that this Arsenal squad has sufficient depth in strength, compared to the multiple options available to our competitors.

A quick glance at the two benches tonight answers most questions and makes a complete mockery of the oft touted claptrap that the clubs move into property development has been ringfenced so as to avoid effecting the Gunners spending power:
Berbatov, Tevez, Giggs, Scholes, Da Silve, Evans v Bendtner, Eboué, Vela, Silvestre, Denilson, Diaby

The worst of it is that it could be that we will once again have to endure another all-English Champions League final, wishing that both teams could lose. Although I will have some sympathy for Darren Fletcher if the whistle-happy Italian official lacks the humility to admit his mistake and denies him his chance to appear in the final. I guess instinct took over, but in truth it would’ve been better for Fletcher to have given Fab a free run on goal rather than risk an unwarranted red card, as even if Cesc had scored, it was hardly going to effect the result.

Although I’ve had a fancy Chelsea will beat Barca, we can but hope that Titi will do us all a favour tomorrow night, so that we can at least have a team to be up for come 27th May!