Guardiola's supremacy: how City became too good for their own good | city ​​of manchester

ohOnce again, without feeling. The sun rose on Sunday morning, the Earth completed one full rotation around its axis and city ​​of manchester He won the Premier League title, just as he did in 2012 and 2014, and 2018 and 2019, and 2021 and 2022 and 2023. One more trophy in the display case, one more silhouette to add to the mural. English football's greatest saga has been recast as ecclesiastical liturgy, its rhythms hardened into routine, and here Arsenal were simply the latest team to succumb to the myth that there was ever a race to be won.

For City, of course, there is now a glorious familiarity with these rituals, a muscle memory in those trophy-bearing limbs, the arms that lift it and the legs that win it. Of course, there is the full-time, large-scale invasion, which occurs in disregard of the many big screen warnings prohibiting it, because it has already become something of a tradition. There are City fans in the Lower North Stand who can boast more appearances on the Etihad Stadium pitch than Kalvin Phillips.

Eventually everyone gets bored of walking on the grass and retreats over the fences. The stands are set up and the carpets are placed on the field. Expectant and radiant families gather in the tunnel. Pep Guardiola takes a bow, dressed in a novelty garment that will later be sold in the club shop for a three-figure sum. Then, the moment itself, duct tape and pyrotechnics, a large but not overwhelming roar of approval. And then it's all over: I return home to begin the excruciating 12-month countdown until City can win the first division again.

The problem, of course, is that at some point Guardiola's supremacy over City became too good for its own good. Too good not only for your competitors but for the competition, for the product and the people whose job it is to sell it. City claimed the title by winning their last nine games in a row, but even this only tells a fraction of the story. All of those games were won by two goals or more, with the average time to the first goal being 17 minutes. Here Phil Foden crushed them 1-0 in two minutes. We are Manchester City. Pleased to meet you. Game over.

We should point out that none of this is solely City's fault. We can talk about money, we can talk about the 115 charges related to alleged financial irregularities, we can talk about human rights in the United Arab Emirates. But if it hadn't been City then, it would have been someone else later. The point is that greed and bad intentions have always seeped into sports from every corner. It is in the very nature of sports franchises to crave dominance by any means, and of sports businesses to crave certainty at any price. Therefore, it is the sacred duty of those who formulate the rules and the governing bodies to prevent them in advance, to build the structures that correct distortions and imbalances before they materialize.

Instead, the Premier League turned a blind eye to the immeasurable wealth of the autocrats, cashed the checks, bathed in reflected glory, gripped above all by faith in the intrinsic virtue of its product, the belief that competitive balance it would simply occur, it was simply in its essential nature. The result, years later, is another Manchester City title that really only matters to Manchester City, and even they sometimes seem to be going through the motions.

The atmosphere before kick-off was one of joviality rather than danger, and the City faithful gathered not with hope but with expectation. Emotionally speaking, Tottenham had already made great efforts on Tuesday. This was the fun part. Songs and banners. Children kicking soccer balls on the field. On the touchline, Noel Gallagher muttered something into a microphone and everyone was relieved that it wasn't a new album.

Finally, the game began, although even when Foden scored the first goal, one had the feeling that West Ham had not yet received the message. After all, this is a club that has spent the last few weeks wandering around as a kind of phantom entity, a largely disembodied sporting experience, essentially indistinguishable from a piece of paper in a filing cabinet with the words “West Ham” written on it. . he.

David Moyes said last week that his team would struggle to stop City's under-14 team – and everyone wrongly assumed it was a joke. Foden scored again. Jérémy Doku shot from 20 meters. Rodri shot wide. In the middle, West Ham simply gave them the ball back so they could try again.

Ironically, it was City transfer target Lucas Paquetá who made the mistake of Foden's first goal. It was probably a strange afternoon for Paquetá, playing against a team you have to assume he is desperate to join. This is, of course, another of City's strengths: a preternatural ability to scoop up the best and most adored mid-table talents (John Stones, Nathan Aké, Jack Grealish, Matheus Nunes) and find them a golden place in the Etihad Stadium. bank.

Mohammed Kudus's spectacular bicycle kick shortly before half-time silenced the noise in the Etihad Stadium, as if a terrible social faux pas had been committed. Rodri's goal on the hour mark started the party again. The VIPs sitting on the padded seats began to dance Poznan, their golden shoelaces swaying up and down as they did so.

The temptation is to see this as some kind of pinnacle. Four titles in a row, a feat never before achieved, the type of football never before seen on these shores. But of course, no one has ever made five in a row, or six. Guardiola is still the best coach in the world. Erling Haaland is still the best striker. The backroom operation continues to be the envy of world football. Oil revenues continue to flow. Winning routines are grooved and perforated. See you all here in 12 months.