ManUtd1

Ouch. Need to bring that coefficient back up! Granted, the explosion of tycoons in my early men save coincided with Brugge's rise (as I vaguely recall), so it's early doors still...

The final whistle blows. So close, yet so far. The roar of the crowd is incessant. Defiant. Animalistic. If you'd asked me at the start of the year -- even 2 months ago -- whether I'd accept a third-place finish, above Bayern, I'd have snapped your hand off. But having come this close, it is hard not to feel disappointment. When Zlatan returns from wherever they've carried him, we'll begin planning for next year. The final insult? Our 95th-minute equalizer denied Claude Makelele's men the title, handing it to Dortmund instead. The DFB has to get this massive shield off to the other side of the country, now...kicking Leverkusen right where it hurts. If we can't win it all, I'll settle for spoiling someone else's party...at least, this year I will.

In the 5th minute of injury time, Grzesik claims the rebound after Laimer smashes the post. 4-4 on the night, but surely it is too late. Zlatan is now crowd-surfing around the arena in his underwear. Football. Bloody hell.

With 5 minutes left in regulation, Zlatan draws a second yellow -- this time for shouting at the fourth official. Sent to the stands, he screams in rage, slicing his pants off with his shiv -- to the delight of the crowd -- before throwing them at the official from the 5th row. The crowd is loving every minute. But our focus must be on the match.

End-to-end football now, as Leverkusen smash the post on the counter, before we counter their counter at pace, Teuchert finding Grzesik who buries it! 4-3! Is there enough time?! Zlatan is egging the crowd on, shirtless. He's abandoned the technical area, drawing a yellow card in the process.

Another corner. Another shambolic display of defending. We need 3, with only 20 remaining.

AND WITH HIS FIRST TOUCH, PEHILJ SETS UP LAIMER!!! IT'S NOT OVER YET!!! THE BOSNIAN HAS DONE IT, LEAPING INTO ZLATAN'S ARMS AT THE SIDE OF THE PITCH!!! But we need 2...a draw does nothing for us.

Krafft and Pehilj are called upon to turn the tide, as we press forward more aggressively.

Leverkusen find their 3rd in the 62nd. Maybe it was inevitable, but our chance is slipping away. We need to turn it up a notch.

Lannon's day is done in the 57th. Zlatan watches him from the technical area, playing with his shiv in a menacing fashion...Lannon hustles down the tunnel without a word of complaint. He's been awful. A liability.

In the 53rd, even Foster's golden touch seems to desert us as he blasts wide from close range. We need to dig deep, lads.

Halftime. During the long walk to the dressing room, I ponder my next words. I tell Zlatan that we're going to go good cop, bad cop. I go in hard, and then he comes in. He nods wisely. I stand quietly in the middle of the room. Speaking gently at first, with my voice rising steadily...I question the legitimacy of their parentage. I promise to do unspeakable things to their wives. I demand nothing less than pure sacrifice. And when they are broken, I step back, nodding to Zlatan. Zlatan, taking the cue...proceeds to grab a watercooler filled with RedBull in each hand, heaving them across the room at Laimer's head, missing by inches. But Zlatan's not done. Screaming incoherently in rapid-fire Bosnian, he throws a youth team player next, before ripping his shirt off and pulling a shiv crafted from materials out of the recycling bin and duct tape from his sock. He holds it to Lannon's neck, mere layers of flesh separating the rusty blade from Lannon's carotid artery, screaming in rage, now in broken German..."The Zlatan is going to make you eat a plate of human feces, you useless sh*t!!!" Finally, several physios manage to restrain Zlatan, but not without silencing the insults... Once we're removed to the tunnel, Zlatan relaxes, a smile flashing across his gob like a bemused child. "The Zlatan is really sorry about that, Boss. The Zlatan saw how aggressive you were being, and He thought, 'wow, the Zlatan must go even bigger than that since we're doing bad cop bad cap." "What?! No. I said good cop bad cop, I'm the bad cop, you're the good cop!" "Okay. Then there it is. The Zlatan thought you said bad cop bad cop."

If we're going to mark like this on corners, we're going to be exposed. Gauthier, again with the header. Leverkusen have the bit between their teeth now.

YOU HAVE GOT TO WANT IT, LADS?! GAUTHIER, THAT LITTLE FRENCHMAN IS GOING TO OUT-JUMP 3 OF YOU?! AND HOW MANY TIMES DID i TELL YOU THAT THE SECOND BALL WAS KEY?!? DID I STUTTER?! Moments after he was the hero, Hassan must claim the ball from the back of the net as Arp fired home from point blank range off a knock-down. Utterly unacceptable. We cannot let Leverkusen find a rhythm.

IKECHUKWU YOU GLORIOUS SON OF A...!!! Zlatan is on the sideline, shouting like a man possessed. By all rights, it should be level. Berge clears, as the stadium roars in approval, our young Nigerian keeper loving every moment. He's had his doubters this year, those who question whether he's ready for this responsibility, whether he should be picked ahead of Onana -- a steady hand, by any measure. He's answered those critics in the biggest moment of the season, there.