With 27 minutes gone, and Manchester City 1-0 up, Erling Haaland did an extraordinary and also very funny thing. Strolling with feigned disinterest away from a free‑kick in the centre circle, Haaland turned, took the ball, and decided to run straight at the Borussia Dortmund defence, dragging with him a pair of desperate yellow shirts, grabbing and stumbling and firing their useless harpoons into the great white beast ahead of them.
There was nothing uncontrolled about this. It was an act of targeted violence by Haaland, the application of a superior force (basically, me) to a point of weakness (that would be: all of you). Eventually the ball ran free to Nico Oâ€Reilly, all alone, as the entire Dortmund defence was dragged along in Haalandâ€s wake, by now, frankly, in need of a bigger boat.
Oâ€Reillyâ€s shot was palmed away, and from the corner Haaland scored. Jérémy Doku made it, cutting the ball back across the area. The finish was just power, fun, a full, meaty thunk of the left foot. And in that moment Haaland had a perfectly symmetrical game, one shot, one goal, one charge-dribble, one clearance, like a perfectly pitched Haaland tribute act.
Even the cheer that met his goal was less the standard roar, more a sound of fond recognition, the kind of cheer that might roll around the room as Frank Sinatra appears on stage at Madison Square Garden, tapping his toe, pointing at things, being Frank Sinatra. Watching Erling Haaland: itâ€s quite a thing right now.
The run of this game, even the basic scoreline will confirm that Phil Foden was the best player on the pitch, scorer of two excellent goals and perky and precise all night. Another good thing for City: this was a 4-1 win with three different scorers, Rayan Cherki adding a late gloss with his right foot. There was a gathering sense of fluidity here, of other gears.
But it was still Haaland who provided the show. There was an air of expectancy around the Etihad Stadium from the start, the sense of having access to some premium experience. On the current run this has moved away from an everyday athletic contest into a kind of theatre. Roll up. Observe the bi-weekly human event. The worldâ€s strongest man will now tear a phone book in half. David Blaine has made a grapefruit disappear. Noel is doing Wonderwall. And Erling will score a goal.
Phil Foden was the best player on the pitch against Borussia Dortmund but Erling Haaland provided the show. Photograph: Adam Vaughan/EPA
The numbers are of course extraordinary. The goal here made it 55 in his past 55 games, 27 in 17 this season. But it isnâ€t just the numbers. Haaland is just really fun to watch right now. Heâ€s doing YouTube videos in Aldi, drinking raw milk, goofing about with Pep Guardiola, alternating with alarming ease between annihilating athletic entity and just a fun, cool guy doing stuff.
Here he was captain for the night. He was the pre-match Tifo, pictured in full warrior garb. He was even the subject of a huge firework and light display, his face projected in huge scale on the big screens, although, on closer inspection this turned out to be Haalandâ€s 16th‑century terror-plot doppelganger, Guy Fawkes.
Early on he loitered, watching football happen. Even his basic presence is a heavy thing these days. He has to be managed, resources diverted his way. Guardiola was busier, whirling his arms on the touchline, dressed immaculately in charcoal suit, chestnut slip-ons and open‑neck shirt, like a billionaire on day release from an executive prison.
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And Guardiola also deserves his flowers. The current Haaland Supremacy is not a fluke, nor a tactical fall-back. There is a key misunderstanding of Cityâ€s Haaland-dependence, the idea that this is monotonous or one‑dimensional, that it must inevitably fail. In reality it is fascinating to watch, both as an extreme expression of human talent and also a really interesting piece of tactical adaptation. It is as though Guardiola has looked at his transitional squad and said, we have one remaining elite super-strength here. We have the worldâ€s greatest goal-hammer. OK, letâ€s lean into that. Letâ€s overload it, like a netball team funnelling every move through goal attack.
It is a major act of reinvention by Guardiola, who has gone from the great midfield obsessive to champion of the rampaging centre‑forward. Orthodoxy states youâ€re only really supposed to get 10 years as an elite manager. But there he is, outwitting Andoni Iraola with a triple No 10, rejigging the furniture again, still out there raising his tactical dukes, basically insatiable.
In the process this iteration of City has morphed into a new category of thing. The blue machine. Cold domination. Death by a million knitting needle clicks. Yeah, well, forget all that stuff. This team now feel like a counterpoint to Arsenalâ€s extreme control. City are the fun guys, broken lines, skirling breakaways. The games are unusually open, as this one was at times. All the better to open up space; and to feed the destroying angel up front.