Hope, Obsession and Jose Mourinho

From an English perspective, Euro 2016 was a fitting addendum to an astonishing Premier League season. It still seems unreal to consider that we go into 2016/17 with Leicester City as defending champions, and it’s striking that no football fan I’ve spoken to minds in the slightest that their team lost last season, simply because Leicester winning was too good a story to ever feel rueful about.

It was a moment of delight for all football fans. That said, I have yet to garner the opinion of any Coventry City supporters- who are not known for being affectionate towards Leicester- but I think everyone except those who frequent the Ricoh Arena savoured last season’s historic climax.

We should remember not only Leicester triumphing, but also the fact that at the crucial moments of the run-in, when the title still hung in the balance, a resurgent and respectable Spurs were Leicester’s most credible opponents.

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And after that, an expanded Euro 2016, rendered unwieldy and poorly paced by it’s newly over-sized format, but still enjoyable. Russia did their best to ruin the tournament. Wales and Iceland charmed, battled, and for a while took the continent by storm.

And England. Oh England, with the optimism of an untainted, youthful, sharp and skillful squad… England hit rock bottom. Surely some kind of watershed moment? But then, who would’ve thought they still had any water left to shed, and could they still have a secret bottle of Evian that needs offloading at some point in the future?

By the final stages, after some increasingly unhinged but hugely entertaining displays of pantomime villain naughtiness, Ronaldo’s rage, single-mindedness and pathological craving for attention paid handsome dividends, as the great man hoisted the trophy for Portugal’s first ever crowning as tournament champions, something they and their divisive captain richly deserved.

Going back to the Premier League, from the perspective of a Manchester United fan, it was a bizarrely disjointed campaign, shaped in the image of Louis Van Gaal’s stubbornness, idiosyncrasy, and uncaring incomprehensibility.

Still now, from a position of hindsight, it’s hard to see what he was up to- what was his plan and where was he going with it? Fans spent most of the year in a state of bewildered, flat despair. There were no signs of the prowess that had afforded Van Gaal such an impressive CV.

Compare that to Ferguson’s last season, when he knew he was leaving and did everything possible, using three decades of guile, craft and command, to smash and grab a final, increasingly outstanding campaign victory, and the deficiencies seem stark. Van Gaal’s United were shapeless and meandering, stranded halfway between Salford and the Algarve, or lost on a minor road in a stolen Porsche, like John Cleese in Clockwise (‘it’s not the despair, Laura…‘)

Were there any positives? Sure, the main one comes from Wythenshawe and is called Marcus Rashford. Some other confident new entrants stood up and made their presences felt too- Lingard and Fosu-Mensah caught the eye, and it’s to be hoped that Jose Mourinho gives them further chances. Martial made an instant impact, and looks like he could actually be worth the incredible price tag, while Rooney’s form was largely good, and he put in some real captain’s performances. De Gea, of course, is consistently excellent.

But change was needed, wholesale and without sentiment or restraint. For the new season- a new era, conceivably- Jose Mourinho brings a palpable sense of refreshment, hope, and the requisite obsession with victory. He has the elusive cachet required to bring in the very best players and feels, tangibly, like the man for the job.

He wanted it, they wanted him, and the distance that has been put between him and Ferguson by Moyes’ and Van Gaal’s foreshortened tenures is a valuable asset. Fergie’s shadow still flickers, but it can be more easily lived with now, and anyway, Mourinho has the gall, humour and capability to out-shadow anyone.

With Pep across town, and Zlatan delivering lines like this already- ‘I won’t be King of Manchester, I will be God of Manchester‘- the city feels like the centre of an unexpected alignment, as the regal celestial bodies of the footballing world calibrate mechanistically into potent equilibrium.