“I feel close to the rebelliousness and vigour of the youth here. Perhaps time will separate us, but nobody can deny that here, behind the windows of Manchester, there is an insane love of football, of celebration and of music.”
From those words it’s clear that Eric Cantona just gets Manchester. Both in sentiment and psychology. There is something undeniably cool about the city – but more than that, it has the world’s biggest superiority complex.
There’s the old saying that Brummies think Birmingham is the second city, whereas Mancs know that London is.
Eric relates, and has a genuine kinship with his former home. Manchester returns that love with interest. Even some City fans are willing to mumble reluctant praise for the ringleader of their tormentors over so many years.
It’s what sets him apart at a club rich in legends. Eric came, saw and broke the mould. In relentlessly being himself, lashing out, and putting a finger up to anyone who argued the toss, Eric demanded hero worship.
He lags behind others in records and decoration. But Cantona was the catalyst for all United’s success in the 90s and beyond. It is no exaggeration to suggest that without Eric, Ryan Giggs would not have half his medal haul.
He is the man for whom the great dictator made an exception. Sir Alex Ferguson feared no man, yet he allowed Cantona his own space and rules because he knew he had an Infinity Gem on his hands.
Before Eric, United were the sleeping giants of English football with only one eye open. They had won trinkets at home and abroad, but a crippling obsession with league supremacy remained painfully unfulfilled.
After Eric, the club were swollen with success and belief, and much of it was down to the maverick Frenchman. It’s rare that any individual can swallow up everyone’s hopes and fears and grow stronger as a result. But Cantona did that.
He is Brando, Picasso and the Smiths combined. Like them he is brilliant and knows it, but more vitally he shares their capacity to influence and inspire. He was a giant fish in a big pond and his ripples are still felt today.
The other reason why Manchester is so willing to remove its head from its own arse to salute Eric is the magnificent bastard factor. For many he is the most iconic and enigmatic character ever associated with the city.
The upturned collar; the studs to xenophobia; the delicate chips, the effortless flicks; the puffed-out chest; the sardine and trawlers; the Ken Loach film; the standing up for kids in Gaza. Everything – everything – is so f*cking on point.
In November of 1992, Eric Daniel Pierre Cantona landed in Manchester and a quiet eruption occurred. No one heard it back then but they can hear it now.
