Maybe Eminem was right. You do only get one shot. Manchester United only had one of them at Craven Cottage, or at least only one on target, 78 minutes into this exercise in minimalism.
They also had no corners. Nobody really knows what key passes are, but they only made one of those. Even the game’s only goal had no assist, the ball given to Lisandro Martínez after a scuffle, prelude to Martínez spanking a powerful, deflected shot that veered into the net over the palm of Bernd Leno.
As they say in cricket, it’s in the book. It also really doesn’t matter how you get them. Ruben Amorim, you feel, would love the leave in cricket, love seeing off the new ball en route to a hundred from 267 balls. At the end of this taut, mannered, arms-length 1-0 defeat of an energetic Fulham, Amorim looked as contented, relaxed and generally playful – he is always a bit playful – as at any time in during his spell in England.
Basically he really enjoyed this. A solid, orderly, un-mucked up 1-0 win. This is currency. It represents control, in an environment where there has been none. United are still 12th in the league. There have been brittle new dawns before, phoney renewals, turning points that turn in on themselves. But it is also rare to win a game like this, to win it while only just winning. There is a kind of art to it.
United had an academy-reared midfield on the pitch at the end, Kobbie Mainoo and the eager, totem-ish Toby Collyer. The away fans were boisterously happy. Even the manager’s way of pacing on his touchline, coiled for some unseen threat, like a late-night taxi driver braving the main drag on a Saturday night, had settled. This kind of night is exactly what Amorim is after right now.
It did also feel consistent with his recent comments. It seemed last week as though United’s manager had stumbled on an amazing new tactic. Amorim’s approach right now is basically to neg his own players. Old Trafford? We’re terrified of that place. Bad? We’re the worst. And not just the worst. The worst ever. We are alpha bad.
Rasmus Højlund spent much of the game with his back to goal, fending off Joachim Andersen and Fulham’s other defenders. Photograph: Tom Jenkins/The Guardian
It is in its own way just another kind of exceptionalism. And there is of course an element of self-preservation in this. Amorim knows there is a small window of opportunity to make this thing work, that his own career is still on an upswing, that it’s vital to make it perfectly clear none of this chaos is actually his fault. Better to fail grandiosely, with a plan and a smile.
This is perhaps best seen as an exercise in bottoming out. Crash the team to make it better. Take the short-term pain. Drain the juices. Force an elite group of players to learn a new way mid-season. Like every other approach, it will work as long as it works. And it did here. At least, it did by the end.
Amorim’s approach right now is basically to neg his own players. Old Trafford? We’re terrified of that place. Bad? We’re the worst. And not just the worst. The worst ever. We are alpha bad.
First things first, the 7pm Sunday night kick-off was an abomination, a show of contempt towards anyone with the gall to actually try to support their team in the flesh. Who wants this? Not UK television. Clearly not match-going fans. It is hard to imagine a more inconvenient and costly time. This isn’t necessary. The league already makes lots of money. No more please. This is not just another TV show.
It was also thrillingly cold and damp. On nights like these Craven Cottage feels like it’s actually in the Thames, like you’re playing a game on some storm-tossed Dickensian jetty shrouded in fog and river mulch. And early on United looked a little lost in their own patterns, a team remembering instructions. This was like watching an arthouse film noir, long sequences with not much happening but in a tense kind of way.
United’s starting XI still didn’t seem to have enough midfielders, with Bruno Fernandes the other half of the main pivot and Manuel Ugarte looking as if he was being asked to cover too much space. Again: how to win when you’re not really functioning. This is what control can give you.
Rasmus Højlund spent most of the first half in a full body wrestle with the Fulham centre backs, arms, legs elbows askew, tottering on his feet, like a man trying to put up a complex wooden clothes horse in the dark. This isn’t what he’s good at. What is he good at? Definitely not target-man stuff. He lost the ball eight times in the first half. He only had 17 touches.
André Onana also had another odd game, and a unique one perhaps, playing badly, flapping and flailing, chasing after the general idea of a corner, but still managing to keep a clean sheet in a tight 1-0 win.
For long periods either side of half-time, Amad Diallo looked like the only red-shirted player with any real hope or joy in his game. But United were also solid here, the miracle missing ingredient in recent times. There will be more pain along the way. Amorim will get to talk about suffering again, which always cheers him up. And by the end this felt like the most minimal and orderly of footholds.
