Manchester United: The Eternal Sunshine of the Football Fan's Mind

Barcelona's triumph over Manchester United in yesterday's Champions League final was as absolute as it was expected. After the Indian summer of the first period, in which the false seed of cathartic hope was sown in the hearts of Manchester United's loyal fanbase, the prophecy that had already been written played its card in the second half.

The majesty of some of Barcelona's play was such that watch in awe was all we could do, us and Michael Carrick that is.

Writers have been quick to eulogise in fantastical terms about the brilliance of Barcelona and its talisman, the phenomenal Lionel Messi. Some have gone further to bemoan the performance of Manchester United, "boys" schooled by the Catalan machine.

Yet I digress from my intentions. I was in the stadium last night, in my part-time role outside of university as an event steward at venues including our very own Wembley (I admit, lucky doesn't quite do it justice). The occasion was a tumultuous range of emotions, from the despondent through the elated and back again, all hinder behind a fluorescent bibbed facade.

In the event though I don't want to talk about the match per say. No, it was the fans that made the greatest impression on me.

These people, from all walks of life were bound together by their shared patronage to the Red Devil. They payed in excess of £150 each, some I dare not even imagine what they payed, for a match that simple logic foresaw would end in disappointment. 

Yet in the last few minutes, with their beloved side trailing 3-1 to the brilliant Hobbits of Catalan-Shire, the fervour was still there. Old men, wearied by a lifetime's support, men who had witnessed the rebuilding of the once great Manchester United after the death of the Busby babes, with tears in their eyes, joined the chant "United, United."

It was support at its rawest level, an inherent disease that grips your very soul. We endure the rough, enjoy the smooth and celebrate the triumphs, but the support never dies.

As they trooped their weary way out of the stadium, there was no bitter mutterings of blame for Manchester United, merely a mutual appreciation for what is undoubtedly the greatest football team since the great Madrid side of Di Stefano and Puskas.

Next year, judging by the trend of the last couple of years, few would bet against Barcelona completing the triumvirate, such is the strength of their reign. It is the core of the Spanish national side, the world's best national football team, coupled with the world's best player; it is essentially unplayable.

The noises coming out of fortress OT are that Sir Alex will address the imbalances in his playing roster in the offseason (of which the central midfield is a very obvious malaise). He will have to pull several masterstrokes to join Barcelona in the pantheon of the two.

Essentially though this is irrelevant, natural logic and rational probability is an abhorrent practice to the ethos of the true football fan. For we are just that fans, together, as one, through it all.

As the fans left the stadium, heads bowed slightly at the comprehension of what they just witnessed, "We'll get you next year," I heard a few mutter. Rational probability would purvey this as a pipe dream, but in the mind of the football fan, pipe dreams are the staple of the patronage. 

It doesn't matter how long it takes, one day Manchester United will usurp Barcelona at the pinnacle of the European summit, and at that point the joy of the true fans will taste all the sweeter. I believe as did the other 40,000 Manchester United fans in the stadium last night because in the heart of the football fan, hope springs eternal.