Mourinho was back at the Bridge and like all spurned exes he dressed the part. His sartorial elegance in contrasting sharply with Sarri's preferred chain-smoking tramp look seemed to insinuate that Chelsea's standards had dropped somewhat since the swoonsome heyday he himself embodied. Of course the juxtaposition was much more profound than a none too subtly emblazoned blazer, it reached into the heart of the game's identity to capture two contrasting footballing philosophies, those of Chelsea past and Chelsea present.
The lineups brought surprises on both sides. Sarri favoured Morata ahead of Giroud in attack, the Frenchman's draining Nations League exertions likely a decisive factor here. Giroud plays the most undefinable role in modern football, he is a non-goalscoring number 9, cum advanced number 10, cum target man turned pivot, cum devilishly handsome distraction, and hence his contribution is difficult to replicate. Especially so for Morata, who at the moment at least, is just a non-goalscoring number 9. As if to evidence his shortcomings Morata played like his laces were tied together, the victim of a childish prank, he seemed to tumble to the ground every time the ball came near him.
Mourinho, also sprung surprises, Martial, Rashford, and Mata all started, while Fellaini didn't even make the matchday squad. While daring on paper, make no mistake about it the starting XI still had Mourinho's fingerprints all over it. Mata's role was that of a defensive number 10 tasked with stalking Jorginho throughout, while Rashford played like a glorified right back to limit Hazard's influence. However, to frame this as another example of Mourinho stifling creativity is to discredit him unduly. The counterattacking game plan aimed to couple the defence stretching pace of Martial and Rashford with the intricate guile of Mata, a balance Utd have failed to capture too often in recent memory.
So to the match. The opening exchanges bristled with intent. Hazard linked up neatly with Kovacic on the edge of Utd's box. However, the Belgian's footballing brain outpaced not just Utd's square defence but also the attacking instincts of his fellow teammates and his resultant ball across the six yard box came to nought. For their part Utd, though largely happy to sit back and absorb Chelsea's blows, also displayed the outline of an attacking threat on their occasional sorties into the home team's territory. Indeed, vulnerabilities in Chelsea's defence were highlighted as a mistimed Lukaku header flew wide when perhaps he could have done better.
Soon after Utd were behind. From a 21st minute corner, an unmarked Rudiger sent a thumping header past a helpless De Gea from all of 6 yards out. The movement from Chelsea was clever, pulling Utd's defenders to the front and back posts in order to create the space for Rudiger's run. Clever, yes, unintelligibly complex, hardly, and in no way an excuse for the lamentable tokenism of Pogba's defending - slow to react, slow to the ball, quick to point the finger. His response afterward, that of a hysterical egoist convinced of his own infallibility, bore the incredulousness of Kanye West being told he isn't the second coming of Jesus.
In the immediate aftermath, Mourinho's side resorted to instinct and like a hedgehog stranded on the free flowing motorway of Chelsea's football, curled up into a ball. In midfield Matic, displaying the turning circle of a, very slowly, orbiting planet, was guilty too often of surrendering possession cheaply. Pogba, now operating under a cloud, was equally ineffectual, while Mata was straining to balance his defensive and offensive responsibilities. With no recognisable midfield platform Utd's counterattacking intentions were stymied, leaving Lukaku to look like Easter Island as he stood motionless, alone in a vast grassy sea.
Yet Chelsea failed to land the knockout blow. Their clearest opening was wasted when Alonso, with Utd's defence but helpless dots far on the horizon, mis-controlled Rudiger's looped pass with only De Gea to beat. And while, Hazard toyed with Utd with all the superiority of a suspiciously stubble-faced kid playing in the under 8s, the eureka light bulb of his genius flickered rather more than it illuminated. Still, even this slightly lower wattage incarnation was sufficient to attract the moth like attention of Utd's enthralled defence and hence to create space for other lesser lights. This though was a gamble Utd were happy to take.
Thereafter, the game settled into a peculiarly tentative pattern. Chelsea's dominance went unchallenged, but for all their neat interplay and endless possession they failed to unduly trouble a Utd side who were now regaining a semblance of composure. Indeed, at this point the game was in danger of becoming just another over-hyped top of the table clash. In truth it felt like a 1950's convent school dance, all hands above the hips and no kissing, there was very little to get truly excited about.
That was to change in the second half. An augur of the excitement to come was offered by Jorginho who in exploiting Chris Smalling's decision to go on a morning stroll into midfield created a very presentable chance for Morota. The Spaniard's tame effort which struggled to dribble as far as De Gea provided nothing more than a sad summary of his time in London. Chelsea's profligacy seemed to renew Utd and soon they were level. Mata was instrumental, orchestrating the attack with his best pinball wizard impersonation, his legs whirled in a flurry of repeated shooting and crossing. Chelsea failed to clear their lines as the ball flew randomly around the box and were punished as it finally found order on Martial's left boot. It was a composed finish from the mercurial Frenchman, made possible by a deft first touch which killed the ball dead. If the finger could be pointed at Pogba for the first goal, here Marcos Alonso was equally culpable, he took the hedgehog symbolism of an earlier paragraph a step too far and literally curled up in the box as the play unfolded around him.
The game now hummed along on a wave of excitement. From a Willian free kick, Utd's defensive union continued their season long strike and ushered the unchallenged David Luiz into the heart of their penalty area. However, the Brazilian, like a spoilt child unsatisfied with his birthday present, didn't accept their generosity and sent his header arrowing wide. Soon after, Kante watched as his fine effort from the edge of the box was parried by a fully extended De Gea.
For all this, Utd had also found their rhythm. Pogba showed in flashes the marauding presence he can be, Matic's play was gripped by a heretofore unseen impetus, while the soft shoe shuffle of Mata's dancing feet added beguiling subtlety to the affair. Indeed, it was Mata again who was instrumental as the Red Devil's took the lead. Nipping in ahead of an out of position Luiz, the Spaniard rushed forward before finding Rashford with a clever pullback. Rashford in turn teed up Martial, who now brimful of confidence, dispatched an unstoppable finish low into Chelsea's net. 1-2 and Utd were on the comeback trail once again.
Mourinho, never one to spurn an opportunity to shut up shop, soon withdrew Mata, replacing him with the more prosaic talents of Ander Herrera. How he must have wished roles were reversed when it was Herrera who was presented with a match winning opportunity for Utd. Chasing down a Lukaku flick on, Herrera seemed to freeze when the enormity of the moment struck him, swinging his legs like Bambi on ice he made but minimal contact with the ball and allowed Arrizabalaga to smother his effort; his profligacy earning Chelsea a crucial reprieve.
Rashford and Martial soon joined Mata on the bench. As an aside it shouldn't be overlooked that it was the protracted farrago surrounding their substitutions which ensured that injury time would be lengthy. Without Mata's composure and with the enormity of victory weighing on their shoulders, the rough edges began to reappear in Utd's game. Against this and true to the form of the team who has scored the most late goals in the Premier League this season, Chelsea continued to push. Nevertheless, entering the 95th minute it appeared than Utd had done enough to cling on. But there was just enough time left for their grip to weaken and give way. Azpilicueta lofted one final cross into the box and mayhem ensued. A thunderous Luiz header crashed off the post before rebounding to Rudiger whose effort from 4 yards was somehow repelled by De Gea. Unfortunately for the prostrate miracle worker his parry fell to Barkley, who drilled an unstoppable, even by De Gea standards, effort into the bottom corner.
Pandemonium engulfed the stadium as heightened emotions swept down from the stands to consume the football match and to momentarily overtake it as the spectacle descended into a rolling melee of players, managers, stewards, and anonymous backroom provocateurs. But these scenes should not be the abiding memory of a game which had so much more to recommend it.
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