Before this visit of the greatest team in modern English football, a gaggle of excitable young West Ham fans were overheard discussing their side’s prospects for the afternoon. “No, but actually be honest,” said one boy to another. “What do you really think will happen?”
After a moment’s thought, he predicted a 3-1 defeat for the hosts, with Erling Haaland scoring two of the goals. A couple of hours later, his crystal ball had delivered almost the perfect forecast.
Matches like these are peculiar beasts for supporters of opposing teams playing Manchester City, a club who continue to make a mockery of the supposed competitive nature of Premier League football. For West Ham, in particular, a hearty dose of pre-game realism is hard to dismiss.
It is now nine years since their side beat Saturday’s opponents – an 18-game winless run that equals their longest in the top flight against a single opponent. No wonder there was a palpable sense of resignation before a ball had even been kicked.
For a brief period in the second half, before Haaland sealed successive hat-tricks, the hosts did actually incite a frisson of excitement. But it was fleeting. And the sense remained that, even had a West Ham player actually managed to score – in addition to the own-goal gifted by Rúben Dias – the visitors would simply have added more to their tally. Whatever was required.
In Haaland, City possess a footballing cheat code to provide the finishing touches to one of the most perfectly cultivated squads in world football. His personal tally of seven goals this season is single-handedly more than any other top-flight team has scored. He now has more Premier League goals (70) than appearances (69).
His precision in front of goal is currently unrivalled in the upper echelons of the global game and continues to improve, irrespective of any nonsense social media soundbites suggesting his all-round game might be worthy only of England’s fourth tier.
His goals here – one placed, one hammered and one dinked – were the mark of a player at the very top of his game. “Unbelievable,” was the verdict of his manager Pep Guardiola, who only last week revealed he had scolded the Norwegian for letting his defensive, off-the-ball work slip during pre-season.
To that end, it was notable that, in addition to his goalscoring brilliance, Haaland never shirked his responsibilities in different parts of the pitch, gaining the gratitude of his teammates after sprinting more than 50 yards late in the first half to dispossess Michail Antonio deep inside City territory.
“Everybody is going to run,” Guardiola said, of those exertions. “Erling is the perfect example of that.” So exacting are his standards.
Eager to deny his side’s illustrious opponents the time with which they excel, West Ham manager Julen Lopetegui could frequently be seen gesticulating wildly in an almost entirely forlorn effort to persuade his players to close down their opposite numbers and narrow the space. No – cue waving, flapping and bellowing – not like that – more frantic arm motions – like this.
The trouble is, it is an incredibly tough thing to do. Jack Grealish, buoyed by his England recall, played with the arrogance of a man who can make a football talk. The precocious Rico Lewis left Guardiola lost to explain the teenager’s ability to constantly find pockets of space to receive the ball. And then there was a man who has done all of this and more for approaching a decade.
If Kevin De Bruyne was not Kevin De Bruyne – which is to say, if he was not an outrageously talented footballer and just a vaguely normal human – he would be the person guaranteed to be served first in a packed bar; the man gifted unblemished sunshine whenever hosting a summer barbecue; the mate who (let’s go there) bagged Oasis tickets for his friendship group. On days like these it is difficult to envisage the Belgian ever not delivering whatever he desires.
Despite not scoring or assisting, by the time he departed in the 88th minute, his 107 touches were 27 more than the most by any West Ham player, and he had taken more shots (six) than anyone else on either side. He dictated proceedings, just as he customarily has done for so long.
In the face of such talent, it was no wonder the West Ham fans’ resigned fate manifested itself after half-time not so much in a background hum as an absence of any noise whatsoever; too disengaged even to converse.
That Mohammed Kudus managed to raise a few choruses after smashing a shot against a post was testament to West Ham’s fighting spirit. But it always seemed destined to prove futile.
“God, I hope we play well,” a different home supporter had said to his friend on the walk to their seats before kick-off. “Just try to enjoy the football,” replied the other, with pragmatism that comes in handy when watching your team play Manchester City.
The abundance of empty seats before the final whistle suggested not many of the home fans had quite managed it.
