On nights such as these it can feel as though football is choosing to remind you of its true nature. Which is, it turns out, the most gloriously perverse, slow-burn, 400‑miles‑from‑home, 10.15pm on a Tuesday, waving your arms in the air, gripped‑with‑final‑plot‑twist-ecstasy pursuit ever devised.
For Manchester United’s travelling support this game must have felt like a slow-motion strangulation. Your team have had two shots on target all night. They’re 1-0 down against relegation-haunted West Ham – 95 minutes have passed. Narratives are being muddled. Arcs of hope reined in.
The ghosts of the Amorim era have begun to clank their chains at the edge of things. Maybe nothing is ever really solved.
Continue Reading on The Guardian
This preview shows approximately 15% of the article. Read the full story on the publisher's website to support quality journalism.