Tears, tantrums and the title

SOMETHING in the air around the Etihad stadium yesterday told you it wasn’t going to be as straightforward as the bookies believed.
This was Manchester City, ‘typical’ Manchester City and a routine win for Roberto Mancini’s men was never going to be on the cards.
On Ashton New Road before kick off opportunist vendors were trying to shift ‘Champions 2011/12′ t-shirts and flags – there were no takers.
Despite the presence of thousands, soaking up the partial sunshine, City Square was subdued. Old habits die hard.
Not that Cult guitarist Billy Duffy was towing the line – telling the crowds the only problem the Blues would have was figuring out how to deal with success.
Inside a carnival-like atmosphere greeted the players onto the pitch, seeming to defy the tension.
But the early goal the Etihad craved never came and nervous frustration soon descended as chances came and went.
Even the opener, when it arrived, was met with a split-second of uncertainty. As Pablo Zabaleta’s shot hit Paddy Kenny and looped into the air it appeared to hit a post. An eerie silence followed before the ball rolled into the net.
Bedlam. Strangers embraced, children were lifted into the air and next to me one lad who looked as though he had been on the pop since daybreak fell across two rows of seats.
But still doubt persisted. At half-time the talk was of how City would deal with the absence of the injured talisman Yaya Toure rather than of plans for the night out to end nights out.
And we didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Within the time it takes for a Joey Barton meltdown and two blinks of an eye the visitors were 2-1 up.
Disaster. News filtered through that United were 1-0 up at Sunderland. Badly Drawn Boy Damon Gough headed for the exit clutching a pack of Marlboro Lights. All of a sudden it was ‘typical’ City again.
Behind me it was too much for one lad. “******* useless,” he screamed. “Ten men and we still can’t beat them.” Those around me resisted urge to remind him of those away trips to York and Macclesfield.
As time ticked away some headed for the exits. Others stared at the floor. Many could not believe what they were seeing.
Even Edin Dzeko’s equaliser was greeted with watered-down cheers. There was a glimmer of hope but it was as faint as the pulse of City’s title hopes.
And then the winner. The glorious, unthinkable winner. And the noise. The noise of forty-four years of hurt blown away thanks to Sergio Aguero’s cool finish.
“It’s like Gillingham on acid,” one lad told me when things calmed down.
Seconds later, after more twists than a useless Pontoon player, the referee obliged. Thousands raced joyously onto the pitch, some diving head first into the goals.
A gang of lads appeared next to me who had clearly managed to sneak in. One had lost a trainer, presumably in a turnstile.
Finally the masses disappeared from the pitch and the trophy was held aloft.
History made in the space of five, mind-numbing minutes.
On the way out one lad summed it up perfectly. “You know what, dad?” he said. “That was typical City. The new typical City.”



