I hear LCD Soundsystem’s “New York, I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down” when I watch Manchester United. Yet, even as James Murphy laments the various flaws and contradictions of living in the city, the song still reaches its conclusion as a kind of love letter. I, on the other hand, am reaching a level of ambivalence towards the club I’ve supported since I was nine years old, where love is slowly fading out of the equation. While one may be inclined to question how much “love” has to do with following a billion pound corporation situated in a neighbouring country, I’m forced to put down my usual cynical journalism act and lay my cards on the table. I do love Manchester United. Not that I’m too happy about it.
Following on from my brief comments in my recent article on the other Manchester club, I’m a Red because my dad is. This is the case for a lot of people; committing to a side when they are young because an older person in their life follows them. Unfortunately, I made this decision in 2014, a year on from Sir Alex Ferguson’s decision to close out his 27-year spell as manager. In those 27 years, the club had gone from sleeping giant to the dominant force in English football. In the 13 since, it hasn’t been nearly as good. While some trophies have been garnered, the same heights have never been reached. The intervening years since Ferguson’s departure have constantly been measured by the metric of his success: not only the failure to emulate it, but also the influx of players, managers, and even owners. Each new arrival is ushered in under the pretense of a return to the familiar upper echelons, yet one by one they have all fallen short. Big names such as Jose Mourinho, Paul Pogba, and even Odian Ighalo have all felt the fire of a disapproving Old Trafford, and all have come short of league glory. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with failing to win the most competitive league in world football, but when the expectation is to constantly do so, anything less than perfection is unsatisfactory. It’s gradually become toxic.
When I sat down to write this, I intended to delve into some of the tactical and personnel issues that are plaguing the team in the new season, before it dawned on me that I simply can’t be bothered. The current team is a mishmash of styles and eras; signings made by different managers in order to create different kinds of football. A Frankenstein’s monster if Victor was trying to cram Harry Maguire into the same XI as Bryan Mbuemo. It adds an air of pointlessness to the entirety of the proceedings. We’re not going to compete for big prizes when we’re stuck with the same injury-prone, unfit left back that has been occupying the flank for the past 12 years. This is not to say that Luke Shaw has not put in a proper shift for the club; it’s just to say that he isn’t that good anymore. It also reduces the laments of senior players regarding standards within the team to something of a gimmick. Captain Bruno Fernandes was recently dropped for criticising Michaell Carrick’s tactical setup, despite his torrid, erratic performances this season. I’ve never been convinced of the Portuguese — despite his stellar individual campaigns and the love he has garnered from many fans — but his constant squandering of possession this season is seriously beginning to wear my patience thin. The fact is, United have been underachieving for 13 years. Fernandes has been part of that for six. Lisandro Martinez is another repeat offender, as is Marcus Rashford. Their claims may have weight if they had achieved anything major, but they have not. Martinez’s World Cup medal came largely as he sat on the bench in 2022, and Rashford is at the club by virtue of Barcelona simply preferring to sign Anthony Gordon during the summer. What we are left with is underachieving, overpaid players parading their disappointment when they themselves are part of the problem.
Yet, things can change very quickly. I don’t mean a new manager, a new signing, or a new formation. Even in the most truly disheartening campaigns, the team can give fans a reason to dream. Ruben Amorin’s abysmal first six months as manager still brought incredible comebacks against Man City and Lyon, with the latter being one of the most truly remarkable efforts I’ve ever witnessed from a team in a losing position. Erik Ten Haag’s topsy-turvy second year at the helm — possibly the most singularly frustrating series of events I’ve suffered through in my time following the club — still gifted us Amad Diallo’s final minute winner against Liverpool in the FA Cup. Same goes for the other managers that have succeeded Ferguson. For all the frustration, all the running on the spot, all the mistakes that could have been easily avoided, the sight of a roaring Old Trafford when the team has overcome the odds is nothing to be sniffed at. It is a shot in the arm, a reminder of the potential the club has for great moments, a vision of the pure thrill sport can provide. The bullshit becomes secondary as you’re handed just enough rope to hold on. Or maybe just enough to hang yourself with. Either way, even as my disillusionment reaches an all time high, I’m probably one good game away from falling back into the old trap. Better to be a dreamer anyway.
