Now That`s What We Call Drama...

Now That`s What We Call Drama...

I'll go out on a limb here and say that one of the qualifiers for the Champions League semi-finals will come from Ligue 1. But none of the quarter-final first legs proved decisive, which is exactly how it should be. Better than that, it has been a treat to watch the games so far. Reading reactions to Wednesday night's spectacular from the Emirates, especially, that seems to reflect the views of the majority.

There are so many ways to judge Arsenal's 2-2 draw with Barcelona, but I'll settle for this: it was the perfect riposte to anyone who doubts football's capacity to deliver complex drama.

Old Trafford's styling as the Theatre of Dreams is a self-serving cliche and an act of theft, because every stadium is a stage and so little dreaming is required at the home of one of the most successful clubs in the world. It is also the pursuit of dreams - more than their reality - that rewards the audience.

The range of characters and their plotlines on display at the Emirates was impressive. To pick three: Arsene Wenger, with his career-long pursuit of the Champions League; Cesc Fabregas, the fragile embodiment of Arsenal's hopes; Manuel Almunia, the fragile embodiment of Arsenal's fears.

As if by script, Almunia decided to surrender his goal seconds into the second half, tossing away any credit for how he had kept it intact in the first. Wenger, still burned by distorted "memories" of imagined injustice in the 2006 final, seemed spent once more at 2-0, the boulder rolling back down the hill having got nowhere near the top.

Fabregas, though, was on hand to be both victim and avenger as a late penalty revived Wenger's hopes - only for the crack to his leg to put into jeopardy his pursuit of domestic, European and global glory. And unlike the truly scripted theatre, the emotions of these three - and of the vindicated Zlatan Ibrahimovic and the now-suspended Gerard Pique and Carles Puyol - were real.

There was so much to admire in this ensemble production without even considering the man whose introduction changed the game. Theo Walcott, to borrow from Muhammad Ali, often floats like a butterfly, but this was one of those occasions when he remembered to sting like a bee.

The show was, in a word, engrossing. And that was only the first act.

*****

The more cast members take the stage, the better the football spectacle. Some, though, wish to hog the limelight.

"I miss English football and English football misses me," Jose Mourinho said on the eve of his Inter side's first leg against CSKA Moscow. The man cannot help himself, even if the result is to undermine his commitment to his team as they prepare for a major game.

Inter's triumph over Chelsea was an advertisement for his managerial skills (as well as refereeing blindness at set-pieces). Just in case anyone was in any doubt that there were goods for sale, Mourinho spelt it out when he should have been concentrating on further progress.

I accept there are plenty who want the scene-stealer back in the Premier League. But without underestimating his talent, I must confess a preference for those who know that football is not a one-man show.