Diamond Geezers, Episode 45: It’s Manchester United in the League Cup Semi Final, 2nd Leg
Now, I’d hate for anyone to think that I’m not taking Division Two seriously. However, the fact is that we’re 19 points clear at the top of the table with two games in hand over second-placed Bristol City. We’ve conceded the fewest goals and scored the most by some distance. This next league game against Wycombe Wanderers, which is immediately followed by the second leg of our League Cup Semi Final against Manchester United, is nothing more than a speedbump on our way to the glorious Treble that we’ve been targeting all season. As such, I have no interest in risking anyone even vaguely likely to contribute at Old Trafford — and so, Wycombe will be welcomed at Nene Park by some extremely enthusiastic reserves. Regard my understudies!
The first half is so uneventful that there’s very little to write about it. It’s sufficient to say that both teams reach the break looking limp and useless at 0–0, especially mine. Victor Renner has at least tried to make things happen, and while my fantastic coaching staff have improved Cristiano’s attributes, he’s still only got 5 for Finishing and never looks in danger of staining anyone’s goalsheets. The players look to me for advice and encouragement as they come in for half time, but I’m in the corner studying video of Man Utd and they’re distracting me, so I silently dismiss them back out onto the pitch with a good ten minutes of the break remaining.
My complete ignorance of their needs hits home in the 49th minute, when Danny Bacon saunters past my moping midfield and lays the ball on a plate for Sean Devine to thrash home the opening goal. Fortunately for me, Billy McKinlay has stepped into the player/manager role and single-handedly drags us back into it, first by testing the bone density of all the opposing attackers in the space of ten second half minutes, before starting a move that finishes with Pflipsen crossing from the right and Renner finally managing to beat Martin Taylor in the Wycombe nets and tie up the scores. Minutes later, Kalvenes marauds down the left and crosses to the far post where Mustafa has made one of his trademark 90-yard bursts and arrives to put us 2–1 ahead, and into the lead for the first time.
I celebrate as if I had anything to do with it and throw on Chris Brandon in jubilation, and a couple of minutes later, Mad Dog breaks through midfield and slips the ball through for my inspired substitute to fizz low past Taylor for three. I’m punching the air, the players are rolling their eyes, but no matter — my second, and in some cases third-choice charges have dragged me through to another victory in spite of myself. You can be sure that I’ll accept my praise from the directors and the latest Manager of the Month trophy with all my normal grace and humility.
Transfer stories accompany said praise from the board as Arsenal threaten to break my heart with a £3.2m bid for Ibrahim Said, currently at Ipswich Town. I want him desperately, so I match their offer, but I’m naturally not hopeful. While it’s obvious that Nene Park is the place to be, there seems to be something about London and the Premier League that people like. Short-sighted deserters, I’d say.
In other news, my hunt for a centre-half has thrown up a few results. Jan Fredrik Bjørntvedt looks decent, if not brilliant, but his huge upside is that he is available for a bargain-bin £55k. I’m competing with Stabæk and Vålerenga for his signature, and I should probably focus on signing one excellent defender rather than surround myself with average ones, but still. £55k for a centre-back I can sell for £1m in the summer? Deal.
A few clicks of continue later, I am both shocked and appalled. First, Bjørntvedt chooses Vålerenga — fair enough. He has no ambition; I can’t do anything about that. But then, Ibrahim Said proves that he never deserved to be here in the first place, the duplicitous so-and-so.
You didn’t find it that hard to leave now did you, Ibrahim? You snake in the grass. We don’t need your kind around here.
My phone buzzes on my desk. Hello? Why, it’s Middlesbrough manager Steve McClaren again! Hi Steve, what can I do for you this time? You want to improve your offer for Billy McKinlay to £2m?! Yes, yes, he is quite mad. Can we Delay this chat until after the biggest game of my career against Manchester United at Old Trafford? Steve? Steve…?
With Macca accidentally sent packing and Mad Dog’s morale summarily improved to Very Good, I’m able to look away from transfer business and towards the M6, as Chugger’s still-rusty door creaks shut and we set off on the road to Old Trafford. It seems incredible that we’ve already played Manchester United three times since I took over as manager just 18 months ago, recording a win, a draw and a defeat against arguably the best side in Europe. They only have a few players missing for this one, notably Roy Keane, who’s suspended — can’t imagine how — and Wes Brown is orange injured so I don’t expect he’ll play. However, United have the same embarrassment of riches that they always have; they still haven’t signed or sold anyone of any real note, and so — with Hitzfeld’s side trailing to us from the first leg — I have to expect that all their big guns will be pointed in our direction. The only shred of hope is that star striker Ruud van Nistelrooy is “unhappy with his manager”, so hopefully his confidence will be as dented as his shinpads once I set Marcel Mahouvé on him.
For our part, we generally have good news. Although Victory is cup tied, Gazza has just returned from his injury, which is a massive boost — he naturally takes his place in the centre of my midfield. I pick Bubb and Brandon either side of him based on form; they’ve been sterling over their last five games each and warrant a spot in the starting team. The rest of my side basically picks itself, especially up front, where I’m still lamenting the injury to Meysam Javan and so Benjani and Sir Les will be instructed to do the dirty work. I scribble instructions onto my tactical magnetic whiteboard as we pull into the car park at Old Trafford; in truth, my plan is quite simple. Kick them, bother them, give it Benjani. Some managers would drive Chugger onto the pitch and park him in front of our goal in an attempt to defend our slender first leg advantage, but that’s not how we operate around here. Even when we’re at the Theatre of Dreams, under the floodlights and with 80,000 people roaring from the stands, we play the Rushden and Diamonds way. Death or glory awaits. I prefer glory.
Much like last time we played them, it’s a semi-strong United side. You aren’t going to get much change out of Barthez, Scholes, Beckham, Yorke and Cole, but even still, there’s no sign of Van Nistelrooy, Veron, Gary Neville, Butt, Johnsen, Giggs or Silvestre. It could be worse. “It could be worse, lads!”
That’ll encourage them.
Beckham and Scholes are straight into the action for United, with the latter setting up the former to hit a crashing long-range drive in just the second minute that Hugo is forced to fly and tip over the bar. I’m straining every sinew in my body as I watch my defence stand firm in the face of United pressure and launch a long pass to Sir Les, who knocks down to Chris Brandon — he gets a shot away! Saved by Barthez and cleared by Beckham! Then Luke Chadwick, who’s made more appearances for Utd than any other player this season — I know — hits the right byline and crosses for Andy Cole! SAVED again by Pinheiro! Then Bubb gathers, breaks ahead of the midfield and tees up Gascoigne! Barthez turns it over the bar!! Gazza’s corner, headed down by Mahouvé, LUCIC! Blocked by Barthez and cleared by Phil Neville!
I am both immensely proud of my players and screaming internally at the tension of this game as my lads continue to go hammer and tongs at United. Stoppage time arrives, Neville gets down the left and crosses for Djordjic! On the volley! Turned away by Hugo, but it falls for COLE! SAVED AGAIN BY PINHEIRO! My keeper is having the game of his life out there, and he protects our nets just long enough for the half time whistle to blow. My goodness, what a half. We’re going toe-to-toe with Manchester United and we aren’t getting battered. Some considered thoughts are needed as the players return to the dressing room at the break.
Firstly, Beckham is all over the pitch and making passes left and right, so I make Marcel aware that I am not happy with that, and he fires back the look of a stone cold murderer. Fantastic stuff. I also consider hooking one of my midfielders and putting on Mad Dog to deal with Scholes, but I really don’t want to compromise my attacking verve, so decide to leave it for now. That’s the sort of change we can make a bit later if we’re still clinging on to this 2–1 aggregate lead.
Ten minute into the second half, disaster strikes — and by disaster, I mean Luke Chadwick. Mahouvé misses a clearance, Beckham collects, he passes inside for United’s best player to steady himself and fire a low drive past Pinheiro to give United the lead. But wait, what’s this? Dwight Yorke was offside! The goal is disallowed! IT’S DISALLOWED! My angry swearing on the touchline turns to joyous swearing as the game continues — Lucic shoves Yorke over and Beckham lines up a free kick on the edge of the box. I watch through my fingers as England’s captain whips his dead ball right into the top corner — BUT HUGO IS THERE TO TIP IT AWAY AGAIN!
I could kiss my Portuguese mammoth if I didn’t have some serious managering to do. Gazza (6) gets booked for yet another clumsy trip, so I decide it’s time for Plan B: he comes off and is replaced by Mad Dog, who’s given the role of Scholes Botherer in the centre of my midfield three. With both of United’s England internationals now being followed everywhere by my best ankle-snappers, we suddenly see more of the ball. Scholes is booked for a trademark lunge on Mahouvé — I’d be very careful, Paul — before both Sir Les and Bubb have efforts saved by Barthez. The 75th minute arrives and we’re still goalless, and Benjani hasn’t featured at all — so I make my second change, swapping him for Møller and putting both the Great Dane and Sir Les on “hold up ball” duty to try to relieve some of the pressure on my tired defenders. I also switch to Normal mentality and Mixed passing for the final 15 minutes. Come on boys. We’re almost home.
The 83rd minute comes, and Kalvenes is on the ball. He passes inside to Mahouvé, who slides a ball into the path of Bubb. Bubb shapes to go past O’Shea, and does — but O’Shea wipes him out! It’s inside the box! PENALTY REFEREE! SURELY! WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO? WHAT GAME ARE YOU EVEN WATCHING?! MY GOD MAN.
I am hovering just above my chair with pure tension as we enter the 89th, then 90th minute. Cole breaks forward with the ball, but Costacurta rolls back the years and robs him superbly. He feeds Duff, who finds Møller. I’m genuinely, literally sweating. Møller looks up and attempts a shot, but is clattered by Phil Neville. It’s a booking for him, and Duff lines up the free kick. I replace Bubb with Knutsen to waste a few more minutes, Duff sends the free kick over the bar, I’m eyeing the referee… he checks his watch, AND HE BLOWS THE FINAL WHISTLE! WE’VE DONE IT! We’ve held Manchester United at Old Trafford and beaten them over two legs! WE’RE IN THE LEAGUE CUP FINAL!!
Absolute scenes at Old Trafford — the players are jumping and roaring as they come back into the dressing room, dousing me and the other coaches with a vat of warm Bovril. It’s a wonderful moment that’s only enhanced when we hear that Liverpool have smashed Blackburn 6–1 on aggregate in the other semi, so it’s official: on March 30th, we will play Gérard Houllier’s Reds in the League Cup Final. I’m dizzy with happiness and gravy fumes. THE TREBLE IS ON!
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