It was a good match too. Maybe not if you're a Gunner, given the result. Still, for us neutrals (Dortmund fans for the night), it was a pretty, entertaining spectacle of passing and moving and what not.
Still, on that day of days, with the details of Sir Alex Ferguson's latest, and surely last, autobiography being first trickled in tantalising droplets, then poured in great deluges throughout every media platform going, the game at the Emirates seemed somewhat trivial; an afterthought. Which, I suppose, is just as Fergie would have wanted; one final (?) 'up-yours' to Arsene Wenger, reminding the Frenchman, nay, the world, that he's still as box-office as they come.
Yet it was not Sir Alex, alone, that succeeded in diverting the nation's attention away from the match. For another player entered the stage, shortly before kick off, having been prodded and provoked all afternoon.
There are few among us that would willingly disturb this particular beast. His fury is legendary, his wrath frequently fatal. Many have tried, and failed, to take him on, only to be crushed by his relentless force of will. Sir Alex is, perhaps, the one man that would dare stand up to Roy Keane, though it's hard, even now, to pick a winner from the two.
Yet, therein lies the point. Who needs to pick a winner? Who would want to choose a side? Who cares whether or not the two men like one another?
Granted, it makes for a good story. Yet, for Manchester United fans of my generation, who were spoiled like bloated children over the Fergie years, Sir Alex and Keane are simply two sides of the same coin, destined to be forever intertwined in the club's rich history.
Do we care whether they are now stabbing each other in the back? Would we prefer they were enjoying a weekly game of croquet on the lawn? No. We couldn't care less, because we adore them both, for the incredible memories they've bestowed on us.
Much has been said, and written, about Ferguson this week. And rightly so. If anyone has earned the right to hog the limelight, it is surely him. And he's become quite the master at doing just that.
Still, with the embargo on any revelations from his memoir having been lifted at 2pm on Tuesday, I found myself tiring of the media's feeding frenzy by around ten-past, bored and weary and strangely saddened by the rug of opportunity to read his account for myself, thus drawing my own conclusions and forming my own opinions, being pulled from under me, then defecated on by all and sundry.
Which brings us back to Roy Keane, whose relationship with his former manager had, predictably, been chewed over, cow-like, then greedily devoured, throughout the day. The fact that he was scheduled for a stint in the pundit's chair, that evening, added a hint of spice to an already blisteringly hot dish.
Keane didn't disappoint. He never does. As I watched his measured response to Adrian Chiles' inevitable enquiry as to his feelings regarding Ferguson's version of events, transfixed by this moment of raw, compelling television, I was transported far away from the impending football match, to a night in Turin, fourteen years ago, that remains the most profound and powerful footballing memory of my life, hitherto; an example of breathtaking loyalty and self-sacrifice, the likes of which I haven't seen in a sporting arena since.
Fear not. I'm not about to run through a minute by minute match report of that fateful night when we witnessed the Old Lady being ruthlessly ravaged in the sanctuary of her own home. We all know what happened. It's forever etched on our psyches and branded on to our souls.
It is what happened to Keane that night that struck me so hard, and has stayed with me through all these years.
He wasn't like a man possessed. He was a man possessed. The football player equivalent of the Army of the Dead in The Lord of the Rings, Keane was an unstoppable force, everywhere at once, sweeping all before him and providing hope to his comrades when all had seemed lost.
Keane's performance is made all the more remarkable when set in the context of the personal tragedy he suffered that night, receiving a booking that ruled him out of the match he had been working towards all his life.
Others would have wallowed. Not so, Roy Keane. It was as if his grief at seeing the tatters of his dreams strewn around the turf of the Stadio delle Alpi spurred him on all the more, as he dragged the team he captained with such pride and distinction, kicking and screaming, back from the dead, towards the light of a Champions League final in the Camp Nou.
That night, Roy Keane epitomised what it meant to play for Manchester United. As fans, we can only sit and watch, often wishing we could play some part on the pitch, for we know that, if nothing else, we would run to the ends of the earth, and shatter every bone in our body, just to make a difference. We saw that commitment to the cause in Keane's sinew-snapping, eye-bulging display.
He was playing, not for Roy Keane, but for Manchester United, the club; for Charlton, Law and Best; for Sir Matt Busby and all his magnificent 'Busby Babes'; for each and every one of the poor souls lost in Munich; for all those that saw Old Trafford destroyed by Nazi bombs, and who rebuilt it brick by brick; for the fans, past and present; for his team mates, who he would make damn sure would play in the final showdown in Barcelona, even if he couldn't; and, yes, for his manager, the yet to be knighted, plain old Alex Ferguson.
The truth is, we don't need to pick a side out of these two men. They are both too big a part of our club's rich history. This is one scrap neither of them can win. Which must be galling for them both.
Let them play out their futile feud for the circus-loving masses, while the rest of us continue to relish the memories.
And bare in mind, without each other, neither would have been nearly so great.
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