An assault on the senses

The smell of fried onions wafts around the stands, the roar of voices raised in team song, the thundering underfoot when the impatience of that elusive goal translates into a reverberation of clapping hands and stamping feet.

We only hit the woodwork four times, so when that extra-time goal slammed home, coherent thought was impossible. We screamed, pumped out fists in salute, celebrated like that ball had come off our own boot.

And then there was Weng standing quietly next to me, thinking about the kind of hill Man Utd would have to climb tomorrow.