How Mourinho outwitted Ferguson

In his quiet insistence that, the red card notwithstanding, the best team had lost, Jose Mourinho was brief, understated and absolutely
not inclined to revel. He was, in short, rather humble. And humility just does not seem right from the self-anointed Special One.

All that dignity and gentlemanly refusal to gloat: we all feel a lot more comfortable when he is sliding down the touchline on his knees, arms spread in celebration, daring us not to acknowledge his genius. And frankly, on Tuesday night he had a lot to celebrate. Not least in the demonstration he gave of his extraordinary managerial abilities.

Mourinho clearly had a purpose in his behaviour. He does not do anything by chance. As one of those who attended put it, his performance after the game was less of a press conference than an audition. He has made it perfectly clear that he wants to come back to the Premier League next season.

It is also pretty obvious that, having managed Real Madrid, if he is to return it will not be to take over from Brian McDermott at Reading. There is one club in England he has long felt is his destiny. Sure, there is no official vacancy at Manchester United. But there will be eventually. Perhaps, following the result of Tuesday night, sooner than that.

And Mourinho knows, while there are plenty who reckon he is the only plausible candidate with sufficient depth of self-worth to take over from Sir Alex Ferguson, there are senior figures within the club who would prefer to endure root canal work rather than see him in the Old Trafford dugout.

Sir Bobby Charlton, for one, has expressed the view that Mourinho's habit of abrasive engagement in internal politics would not be welcome.

Under Ferguson and his ally David Gill, the corridors at Old Trafford and Carrington have been bathed in calm for a decade or more. There is none of the internecine feuding that characterises so many clubs, particularly those associated with the Portuguese. The arrival of Mourinho would be like chucking a very large Alka-Seltzer into untroubled waters. His braggadocio they might be prepared to tolerate. His love of a feud would be harder to accommodate.

From the moment he arrived in Manchester this week, then, Mourinho behaved as if anxious to prove such a character assessment wrong. The man who believes that the only purpose of a pre-match press conference is to undermine his opponents ("make them think, always make them think" he once said) was suddenly speechless. He said little beyond a WH Auden-style prediction that the clocks would be stopped for the duration of the game.

On the touchline, too, he was emollient, unobtrusive, modest. He played along to the crowd, winning them over by smilingly following their instruction to sit down midway through the first half.

Once victory was attained, he did not poke Mike Phelan in the eye as he has done other rival managerial assistants. He barely celebrated, consoling Ferguson with some carefully chosen words delivered from behind his hand to ensure they remained private. He left the scene before the final whistle, not wishing to upstage anyone. What a performance it was.

And one about as transparent as Kenny Dalglish's attempt to pretend, on his return to Liverpool as manager in 2011, that he had turned all happy-clappy and relaxed, a mask which slipped within a couple of months to reveal the prickles and neuroses that everyone knew lurked beneath.

We all know that were Madrid to draw Barcelona in the next round, all Mourinho's snarling instincts would immediately resurface. He cannot help himself.

But never mind the ludicrous Uriah Heep self-effacement, the fact is all Mourinho needs to put on his audition tape is a reminder of what he did in the 57th minute of the game on Tuesday night.

While Ferguson raged at the referee, running down the steps of the dugout, his blood pressure reaching thermonuclear levels, Mourinho calmly assessed what Nani's red card meant and made the most astute readjustment.

Having seen Ferguson win the tactical battle up to that point with his carefully structured team designed to constrict Madrid's room for manoeuvre, Mourinho realised that the departure of Nani would, albeit fractionally, increase the available space. So, even as the winger made his way down the tunnel, he sent on Luka Modric, a player fond of running with the ball, with the instruction he should attack the newly opened up areas of the pitch. Modric did just that to devastating effect.

By the time Ferguson had calmed down sufficiently to appreciate that he needed a like-for-like replacement for Nani and sent on Ashley Young, it was too late. He had been out-thought, outfoxed, outwitted.

In that one change, Mourinho won the game. And proved to whoever was watching that, whatever the unattractive facets of his character, he is without peer as a touchline operator. That was the moment when, if they were watching the really important part of the audition, those in charge of Old Trafford should have realised there can be no better candidate for the biggest of all managerial roles.