First the highlights of Manchester United’s afternoon. Highlight No1. With 34 minutes gone David de Gea produced a genuinely brilliant save, sticking out his left foot to block a close-range shot from Joël Matip after a corner. It was a game‑saving moment, an example of the way a fantastic goalkeeper can drive his team from the back, snatching those small, stand‑alone moments that direct the wider story of matches won, points gained, teams built.
De Gea is something of a gymnastic freak, a tall man with startling fast-twitch reflexes and a dancer’s control of his limbs. Just to get his foot down in that position, so quickly and with such certainty, is a feat beyond most human beings, even the elite athletes among us.
Highlight No2. On a noisy, oddly balmy afternoon at Anfield, Romelu Lukaku played a role similar to that of Matt Damon in the film The Martian, a man entirely isolated in the harshest of environments, cut adrift on an alien red planet and reduced to foraging desperately.
Lukaku bullocked gamely from wing to wing throughout this stodgy, directionless 0-0 draw. With 40 minutes gone he found himself unexpected proximity to another grey United shirt. Readjusting with commendable speed to the shock of human company, the striker played a neat one-two with Anthony Martial and shot powerfully but a bit too close to the Liverpool keeper, Simon Mignolet.
Next up, the filler. Or in other words the rest of it, on an afternoon when a collection of talented, pacy, powerful United players spent most of the game crouched behind their guard in a 4-5‑green space-1 formation, eking out a neurotically cautious point against a Liverpool team that had not kept a clean sheet since August.
By the end Lukaku had touched the ball 22 times. One of those was that shot, also United’s only effort on target. He should probably have been sent off but avoided even a booking for a horrible tackle on Joe Gomez and then some minor contact with Dejan Lovren’s head on the other side of the pitch. Perhaps the referee felt sorry him, seeing a man just seeking out a little human contact.
This was probably the kind of occasion Jorge Valdano had in mind when he offered his infamous, and often-misquoted line about the intensity of English crowds and the energy of the players, contrasted with the artless spectacle at its heart. This was a game with everything – spectacle, history, big names, speed, power, commitment – except, perhaps, moments of craft, imagination and invention. C’est magnifique. Mais ce n’est pas anything that resembles a high-class game of attacking football.
Afterwards José Mourinho was, as you might expect, unbothered by any of this. Instead he portrayed his team’s performance as something only a purist could really appreciate, one for the coaches, the aesthetes, those who see beyond the gaudy thrills to the chess match beneath.
Mourinho pointed out, rightly, that United were missing three key midfielders. He is of course also right that to keep a clean sheet is not as easy as it sounds, and is instead the product of a huge amount of discipline and expertise. Those who venerate him unquestioningly will say United came here for a 0-0 and that this was mission accomplished, the kind of result that wins a title. Mourinho – in particular Mourinho – is not here to dance for us. He’s here to win things. And this is how he does it.
In spite of which Mourinho will surely look back on this game with one or two regrets. United arrived at Anfield as title contenders, a driving attacking machine up against a local rival with a glass jaw, opponents that shipped five goals to Manchester City at the Etihad, even if four of those came while down to 10 men. United failed to press at any of those bruises, failed to wrench at the stitches, and left Anfield with no real idea if Liverpool’s defence might have caved to some concerted pressure.
By the end Liverpool had dominated this game without ever really dominating it, betrayed by a lack of precision in attack for all the eye-catching skills of Mohamed Salah 40 yards from goal. United had De Gea’s brilliance on their side, and a studied doggedness.
Mourinho still gets cut a lot of slack for this kind of performance, based on his winning record, a pantomime villain persona and the idea that defending deep for 90 minutes is some kind of toxic tactical masterstroke in his hands. As indeed it is when your opponent is a superior attacking threat or when all that is required is a draw at the very last. But we’re still in October. And lads, it’s Liverpool, a team that had conceded 14 goals in seven games before Saturday.
Mourinho judges the rhythms of a season as well as anyone. He knows his team and his players, and knows there is every chance United could end up winning the league by a point. Should it go the other way, however, matches such as this will stand out for other reasons, an afternoon when a vulnerable opponent was allowed to remain pretty much unshaken.