Cantona (63 page)

Hadn’t Guivarc’h played as a centre-forward? The real truth is that Éric froze at the precise moment when he was called back in. His reluctance to admit it, his lapses of memory, speak of a fragile man who will forever carry ‘the greatest regret of his career’ (that much he has confessed, speaking of his missing out on two extraordinary years in the history of the French national team) as if it had happened to someone else. If retiring, for a footballer, is ‘a kind of death’, the cause of it in Éric’s case was not murder. ‘You cannot go against the choice of such a player,’ Émile told me, ‘and only Éric could tell you why he made that choice.’ But Éric left no suicide note.

No Euro 96 meant no World Cup. It also meant that Cantona could never exorcize the demons of November 1993, never know what could have been; he would remain, for ever, the nearly man of a nearly team. He would play on through the remaining year-and-a-half of his career with no hope of doing for France what his hero Diego Maradona had done for Argentina in 1986, and been so close to doing in 1990 and 1994. ‘[If I had been selected by France for Euro 96], with the World Cup in 1998, I would certainly not have stopped in 1997,’ he confessed much later, in April 2007. ‘And if we’d won the European Cup with Manchester that year, maybe I’d have carried on too.’ But isn’t it significant that he himself has never spoken publicly about his conversation with Jacquet, that, even in private, he claimed not to remember a word of it? It’s tempting to see in this denial of one of the most pivotal decisions in his life a desire to stamp out the vertigo that must have engulfed him when Jacquet and Émile left his hotel room. And then, as if freed from an unbearable weight, he devoted himself to the cause of Manchester United, and did for them what he had made sure he couldn’t do for France: be the architect of victory.

There seemed to be no hope of catching up with the runaway leaders, Newcastle, who were twelve points ahead of their nearest pursuers Liverpool at that stage, and were now rumoured to have captured one of Serie As most potent attackers, Parma’s Colombian Faustino Asprilla. United themselves trailed in third after their 1–0 victory at West Ham, sending a mixed message to their supporters. Once again, they had finished with ten men after Nicky Butt received two yellow cards, and had Éric to thank not just for a stupendous winning goal, scored from a very acute angle, but also for defusing an ugly confrontation between Julian Dicks and Roy Keane which could have led to further dismissals. His convict’s hairstyle may have made him look more threatening than ever, but his peacemaking role earned a few admiring comments in the Monday papers. There was also the confirmation that Manchester United’s reliance on their French talisman was growing by the game. He was again a central figure in a brutal dismantling of first division Reading (3–0) in the fourth round of the FA Cup, in which the only surprise was to see the psychic Uri Geller practise one of his spoon-bending tricks on Bobby Charlton and Cantona’s father Albert, who had come on one of his increasingly numerous Éric-watching trips to England.

Albert was in the stands again on 3 February, the guest of honour of Wimbledon’s chairman Sam Hammam, to see his son return to Selhurst Park a year and a week after the infamous game against Crystal Palace. United won at a stroll (4–2), with Éric at the heart of every single one of their attacks – Éric wearing the captain’s armband after Steve Bruce, his forehead badly gashed, had been forced to leave the field. The first of his two goals was as exquisite in its conception – a bewildering exchange of passes with David Beckham – as it was brave in its execution, as defender Chris Perry had raised his boot to reach the ball when Cantona headed it. He then rounded off the scoring with a penalty, and the Dons’ manager Joe Kinnear joined the long list of English coaches who had praised their chief tormentor. ‘He’s got everything that’s great about a player,’ he gushed. ‘He drifts in, ghosts in and out, making it almost impossible to do anything about him. Some say he’s a lesser player since he came back, but I can’t see that.’

Manchester United had played their last four games away from home, and won them all, Éric scoring four times. The pattern for the rest of the season had been established. Cantona had, it seemed, made a vow to himself. I do not choose the word ‘vow’ at random. His tonsure and his silence in public had a quasi-monastic quality. There was a sense of a man inhabited by a kind of ferocious but controlled anger, of a zealot bent on redressing an injustice and imposing a greater truth. Nothing would stand in his way, certainly not Blackburn, who were next on his list of victims. Of the seven chances United created in 90 minutes, he was involved in five, including that which led to Lee Sharpe’s winning goal. Then Manchester City were disposed of 2–1 in the fifth round of the FA Cup. Once again, he had made the difference in one of the tightest Mancunian derbies in recent years, which United might well have lost had it not been for a controversial equalizing penalty, awarded by that man Alan Wilkie for a foul by Michael Frontzeck on, who else, Éric Cantona. City’s left-back wrapped both his arms around Cantona’s shoulders, the whistle blew to the bafflement of both culprit and victim, which didn’t prevent the victim from turning executioner with his customary efficiency.

United’s ferocious rhythm did not slacken: Everton – fielding the traitor’ Andreï Kanchelskis, who was booed relentlessly on his return to Old Trafford – lost 2–0, Cantona having a hand in both goals. On 25 February it was Bolton’s turn to face Éric’s wrath. United eviscerated their hosts 6–0, Cantona walking off the pitch to be replaced by Paul Scholes (who scored a brace) with 15 minutes to go: the job had already been done, and Ferguson could give his star player a rest. This was United’s eighth victory on the trot in all competitions, their fifth in the Premier League, and the tremendous pressure applied by their challengers started to have a telling impact on Newcastle. A couple of disappointing results in late February (a 2–0 defeat at West Ham, and a 3–3 draw at Manchester City) had seen their lead dwindle to four points. They had a game in hand, however, and would have an opportunity to blunt United’s chances in the very next game. Alex Ferguson and Kevin Keegan were to come head to head on 4 March at St James’ Park, in one of the most anticipated top-of-the-table clashes one could remember. The two French outcasts, David Ginola and Éric Cantona, would also resume their game of one-upmanship in English football. Should Newcastle win, the title, their first since 1927, would become a near certainty.

Keegan stuck to his principles of blitzing the opposition from the outset, fielding an ultra-attacking side which included just the one all-out defensive midfielder (Éric’s former Leeds teammate David Batty, who was making his debut for the Magpies) to United’s two, Roy Keane and Nicky Butt. Ginola, Asprilla and Peter Beardsley could be relied on to provide the ammunition for their powerful centre-forward Les Ferdinand, who tested Peter Schmeichel twice in the first half. Little was seen of Cantona in that first 45 minutes: his own midfield had been too busy trying to soak up Newcastle’s offensives to supply him with decent service. How much this was part of Alex Ferguson’s pre-match strategy is impossible to say. It may have been that he had instructed his team to work the ball like an opening batsman on a tricky pitch: block, and block again, wait for the bowlers to tire, then open your shoulders. This they did five minutes after the resumption and, inevitably, it was Cantona who applied the decisive stroke. Phil Neville found himself on the left of Newcastle’s penalty area and lobbed a cross towards the far post, where Éric was lurking on the six-yard line, free of any marking. He met the ball with a solid right-foot volley which hit the turf before beating Pavel Srní
ek’s dive. Silence engulfed St James’ Park. There would be no way back for Newcastle, not in that game anyway. They were still one point ahead with a game in hand, but fear had chosen its camp.

For Cantona, this game marked the beginning of one of the most astonishing purple patches enjoyed by a player in the history of English football, to which, in all honesty, I have been unable to find any equivalent. It’s not only that the 1–0 win on Tyneside was the first in a series of six games in which he never failed to score. In terms of statistics, others have done better, Thierry Henry and Cristiano Ronaldo among them recently. It is also that, every single time, his goals proved decisive – in the context not just of the matches themselves, but also of the progress his club made towards the second Double of its existence, and at a time when many of his teammates were experiencing a dip in their own form. On 11 March United ensured their qualification for the semi-finals of the FA Cup by beating Southampton 2–0. Éric had opened the scoring against the run of play with a goal of breathtaking beauty, in front of the biggest crowd of the English season so far (45,446 spectators): he had combined with Cole and Giggs before surging at the far post, again with deadly effect. Southampton stirred and threatened for a while, but Cantona applied the killer touch, drawing their ’keeper Dave Beasant from his line and squaring the ball for Lee Sharpe to poke in. Incredibly, Éric had yet to lose a single FA Cup tie since his arrival from France three-and-a-half years earlier, and maintained his record of scoring at least once in every round of that year’s competition. United were now 5/1 on for the Double with most bookmakers.

On the 16th, a day the British had woken up to the dreadful news of the ‘massacre of the innocents’ in Dunblane, QPR were close to halting United’s juggernaut. It looked as if most around Éric had lost the plot, some commenting that Andy Cole, who spurned chance after chance, had never grasped it to start with. The Reds looked set to suffer their first defeat since 1 January when Cantona decided to take the matter into his own hands – but not before unleashing a verbal volley at Cole which showed that his command of the vernacular was far better than some might have thought. In the third minute of added time, Cantona looped the ball into the QPR goal and United left London with a deserved but unlikely point which ensured they stayed within touching distance of Newcastle (3–0 victors at West Ham), and kept a resurgent Liverpool (who won 2–0 at Chelsea) at arm’s length in third place.

Four days later, when Arsenal, who had gone six games undefeated, visited Old Trafford, it was up to Cantona to compensate for his teammates’ wastefulness once more, Andy Cole doing nothing that would elevate him in his striking partner’s estimation. Éric exploited a misunderstanding between Andy Linighan and David Seaman, chested the ball, took two steps forwards and struck a dipping volley under the bar. ‘It had to be a special goal, and we got one,’ Ferguson said. ‘The most thrilling part was the way he advanced, it was sheer class – like a ballet dancer.’ Newcastle, meanwhile, were shedding points like a team destined for relegation. When Arsenal beat them 2–0 at Highbury on the 23rd, they had only earned four out of fifteen in their last five outings, and United took full advantage of this slip-up a day later. Another ‘Cantona special’ was enough for them to prevail 1–0 over Tottenham, the last team to have beaten them, fifteen games previously. Michael Henderson hit the nail on the head in his match report for
The Times.
‘Day by day,’ he wrote, ‘piece by piece, the picture is becoming clearer. When the championship jigsaw is complete, it will surely reveal a central image. Éric Cantona, of course, for the brilliant Frenchman seems determined to bring the trophy back to Old Trafford on his own.’ Andy Cole had failed again, and been substituted. Éric stepped up to the crease. With 50 minutes gone, he picked up the ball well within the Spurs half, brushed off two challenges, drifted into an inside-left position, and drilled a shot to the opposite side of the goal from 20 yards. He had found the net for the fifteenth time that season – a season, it should be remembered, that had only started for him on 1 October. His failure to find the target in his club’s next game – a 2–1 victory over Chelsea that gave them their third straight appearance in an FA Cup final at Wembley – was jokingly seen as an aberration, and so it proved to be. He opened the scoring against Manchester City with a penalty (3–2), three days after Newcastle had famously surrendered a 3–1 lead at Anfield to lose 4–3, and guaranteed all three points against Coventry with a forty-seventh-minute strike two days later, on 8 April. He had now scored in six consecutive league games.

I am aware of the repetitive, almost rebarbative nature of this account of Éric’s most prodigious spring, a litany of goals, victories and mind-boggling statistics. My defence would be that it seemed exactly that way at the time: repetitive and strangely unexciting for unaffiliated observers, magical for Manchester United fans, galling for the rest. The unwavering sense of purpose of Cantona’s crusade forced admiration and demanded a re-evaluation of his character. But it didn’t prevent a form of regret from taking hold in a substantial part of the public: Newcastle, for all their brittleness, had produced thrilling football for most of the campaign, playing with an abandon and a sense of joy that only Arsène Wenger’s best sides emulated afterwards; Peter Beardsley, in particular, had been in superb form, and put paid to the idea that England could not produce footballers as skilful and imaginative as their Continental counterparts. The relentlessness of United’s pursuit of the title was remarkable – the degree to which it was owed to a single man even more so – but it was difficult not to feel for Keegan’s Cavaliers and, for some, to think of Ferguson’s troops as Roundheads.