March On

[Sweder]

I bailed out of my morning run thanks to a combination of an early meeting in The Smoke and a late night spent feasting on the re-run glories of the Champions League.

Hats off to Arsenal, the first team from England to tame the mighty AC Milan in their own formidable back yard. For twenty minutes it looked as though Milan’s maestro, Kaka, would carry on where he left off last year against the Rowdies. That night United had their pants pulled down on a very public stage, their tender European inadequacies cruelly exposed. Arsenal rocked and rolled and withstood the early pressure, growing in confidence before their own conductor took up the baton to gather his musicians. Pace, power and – yes, it has to be said – youth took centre stage. Milan’s elder statesmen, Gattuso, the peerless Maldini, aged visibly in the second half. You could almost see the grey hairs, like those of their coach, spreading like a virus. The ailment was not confined to the pitch; the Milanese, so used to dining on the finest footballing fare, stood aghast as their heroes were driven back by the wonderful Fabregas and his darting, weaving apprentices.

When Walcott came on, sadly the first Englishman to take to the turf in the match, Maldini seemed to shrink. Pirlo, surely having the most torrid time since he won his spurs, went from poor to simply wretched. It was fitting that Fabregas should score the opener with seven minutes left, a goal that all but sealed the tie with Milan needing two; entirely in keeping with the flow of the game that Walcott and Adebayor should combine to deliver the coupe des grace.

My own side were struggling to a barely deserved one-nil victory over Lyon at the Devilbowl. I’d resolved to flick between ITVs 1 and 4 to follow both games live, but frankly there was only one team worth watching and it wasn’t United. I should also say at this juncture that Lord Ferg had only found four Englishmen of his own to start the match; Brown, Ferdinand, Carrick and Rooney. It was a prodigious Portuguese talent, scoring his thirtieth goal in as many games, who stole the honours. I’m looking forward to Euro 2008 when Ronaldo and Nani look set to torture a few defences.

But the last word lies with the Gunners and their professorial manager. Wenger did a fabulous job of suppressing his obvious joy, speaking in measured tones about achievement, optimism and humility. His heart must have soared as he watched his charges embarrass the European Champions, playing with élan, a freedom of expression and attacking flair that will surely add a little spice to the chill wind blowing through Europe this morning.