Even Total Haaland cannot stop Manchester City’s continuing nightmare

By the time Real Madrid scored their first goal of this game on 60 minutes, half of that string‑and‑brown‑paper back four had either gone off or was already limping. Rico Lewis was being twirled around the place by Vinícius Júnior like a child at a wedding reception disco. And half an hour later, as Jude Bellingham scored to make it 3-2 to Madrid, City’s hopes of making the post‑playoff second knockout phase of this competition had narrowed to a fine point.

Who knows, Antonio Rüdiger might even be back for the second leg. This would provide its own point of interest, because for City the other significant element was that Erling Haaland still managed to have a brilliant game, surely his best for City given the stage and the opposition.

Haaland was good in a very Haaland kind of way. This was Total Haaland, a masterpiece in minimalism without subtlety. Has anyone ever completed two passes in an entire half against Real Madrid but at the same time weirdly dominated the play?

This was always going to be a huge occasion for City’s indentured galáctico, not only liberated from Rüdiger’s ongoing full-body man-man hug but required to produce his best, finally, in a high-stakes game against elite opponents.

Before the game Pep Guardiola had spoken about trying to take possession away from Madrid, defence through containment in the classic Pep style. Tonight we’re going to party like it’s 2009. In practice City attacked at speed when they had the chance, often with direct forward passes to Haaland, with a clear sense that unleashing that startling running power really would be the best way to hurt Madrid.

It worked for a while. Haaland looked different in the opening hour, less a single hammer blow waiting to strike, or a portable human crossbow, or a boxing glove on a spring, more an all-round influence, able to dictate how parts of the game were played. His third touch was a neat turn and spin, feeding the ball back to Jack Grealish on the left. His fourth was the opening goal, finished with the clarity of a perfect line drawing.

It came from a lovely combination down the City left between Grealish and Josko Gvardiol: Grealish flipped a perfectly dinked instant pass into Gvardiol’s path, he chested the ball to Haaland, who zinged it across Thibaut Courtois into the far corner, finding just the right empty spot, and doing so against a goalkeeper who looms up like the Angel of the North in these one-on-ones.

All through that period Haaland’s movement was excellent, not subtle or cleverly angled, but effective and relentless. It helped that he loomed over his marker Raúl Asencio, who is four inches shorter and three years younger. At one point Haaland grabbed his shirt and just lifted him out of the way, like a cat fussing over a disobedient kitten.

Just after half-time Haaland almost scored again with his 10th touch, blitzing inside then spanking a drive on to the bar. It turned out to be City’s most comfortable moment. Guardiola seemed to know, looming up on his touchline in dark robes and putty coloured basketball shoes, scarf fluttering, waving his arms, feeling the day start to slide away from his team.

Carlo Ancelotti will, as ever, get minimal credit for the way his team turned this around. Perceptions of Ancelotti change with the light. In triumph he becomes a kind of man‑whisperer, blessed with a semi-mystical power to see into the souls of these captive princelings, to say, go out and there and fly my beautiful boys. Chuck in a sticky patch of form and he becomes an overcoated fraud, a celebrity cling-on.

Here he came looking, as usual, like an elite gangland undertaker, with that way of standing, radiating a cold, calm white energy. Even on a stage shot through with aura, Ancelotti has Aura. His persistence with the front four, the conviction that City would tire, the use of Dani Ceballos in midfield, the well-timed use of subs. All of this is routine Ancelotti game management.

Kylian Mbappé made it 1-1, shinning the ball in a zany arc past Ederson from a fine diagonal pass by Ceballos. Phil Foden was tripped in the Madrid box.

Haaland, who really doesn’t have any issue with confidence, routines or clearing his mind on such occasions, ran in like this was just the most fun he’d had all day, and spanked the kick with startling power into the corner.

It never really felt done or safe. City fell back, the muscle memory of other late collapses kicking in, as first Brahim Díaz, then Bellingham scored late on. They are still in this tie. Madrid will fear Haaland, just a little more. But they will also know that they’re pushing at an open door.