Throughout this game, Pep Guardiola patrolled his technical area in a thick, padded, hooded winter coat, hunched against a moderate March chill. A few yards to his right Plymouth’s Miron Muslic seemed to be radiating his own warmth, wearing a flimsy gilet over a thin, cream sweater. The point being, even Muslic’s clothing was optimistic, a refusal to submit to the obvious and unavoidable. And so too his team, for all that in the end they could not quite outrun it.
For a while it felt as if Plymouth were controlling the game, inasmuch as it is possible to do so while enjoying 25% of possession, being 39 league places below your opponents and demonstrably worse than them in almost every metric. They rarely looked stretched or panicked, always seemed to know what they should be doing and where they should be doing it. Inferior teams can often hold opponents at bay for a while, throwing themselves into sprints or towards the ball, tiring visibly with every desperate, wild effort. This was not that. This was a team in balance, clearly beautifully prepared and motivated, rising to an occasion that might have humbled them as it has ruined many others.
