I've witnessed maulings by Manchester City before. I was at Old Trafford when they tore us a new one two seasons ago. I recall, as if it were yesterday, turning to my brother as the sixth goal went in. His face was ashen, his skin pallid, his wild, staring eyes desperately searching my own for some small crumb of comfort, some shred of solace or explanation. I knew that my own face bore the same corpse-like complexion as his because, looking around the Theatre of Dreams that day, every face I saw was a picture of shock and disbelief, except, of course, those in the away section, which were all gurning in monstrous glee.
Yet, even in the midst of such gut-wrenching agony, there was one monumental difference to what we felt yesterday, as the players trudged forlornly off the field of play. Namely, Sir Alex Ferguson. His presence on the touchline that day was, to us, the equivalent of a mother's warm bosom to a new-born baby. He was our comfort blanket in times of fear, our father figure when we sought calm assurance, our leader through the fog of war. Even after such humbling and humiliating defeats, we trusted him to lead us once more into the breach, and victoriously out the other side.
Yesterday was different. I'm no doom-monger, and I certainly have no time for those amongst our ranks already calling for David Moyes' head on a stick. The poor bloke needs time. He must have felt utterly wretched yesterday, without the added calls of 'Moyes Out' ringing in his ears. Still, the performance was bafflingly abject, whereas the performance in the 6-1 was more farcical than anything else.
Of course the loss of Robin van Persie was keenly felt, as it would be by any team. Yet it seemed his absence was more a psychological blow than anything else. The team chased the City players' shadows with an air of do-we-have-to sullenness, all puffy cheeks and childish finger-pointing as pass after woeful pass went hopelessly astray.
Then there was the reaction, or lack thereof, to the carnage unfolding on the pitch. We all watched, aghast, as Tom Cleverley stripped off. He was hardly the saviour we'd been hoping for, especially while Kagawa and Nani, two players capable, on their day, of moments of defence-unlocking brilliance, remained seated on the bench.
Marouane Fellaini's first big test as a United player was a stark reminder of the calamitous summer we've just endured in the transfer market. Oh for a Mesut Özil, or a Cesc Fàbregas, or anyone with a modicum of guile, pulling strings between midfield and attack. It's early days for Fellaini, and a huge step up from big-fishdom at Everton, to big pond-dom at United, but he was made to look weedy by Yaya Touré and painfully slow by Jesùs Navas.
Not that I wish to single out Fellaini. Other than the unhappy, want-away Wayne Rooney, the entire team were woeful, with Ashley Young knocking another few million pounds off the price we'll get when we come to sell him, which we surely will.
Yet the final blow to our collective dignity was made by Moyes himself, when he exhumed his fixture list conspiracy theory during his post-match interviews. Who knows, other than the man himself, why he chose to dredge this feeble argument up again? Perhaps he was trying to deflect attention from his players. Still, from where I was leaning, head in hands, it simply served to pile further embarrassment on an already sky-high pile of embarrassment.
David Moyes deserves our patience. It can't be easy replacing one of football's true Goliaths. It will take time, perhaps years, for him to grow into the role; to 'bulk up.' Yesterday's defeat though, and the manner of it, left United fans up and down the land feeling justifiably concerned about the future. Which is a deeply unfamiliar feeling after a quarter of a century with Fergie at the helm.
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