Manchester City are the best team in the world.
This is not real.
This is not real.
But it is.
A little over 25 years ago, I watched the team I love lose to Preston North End 1-0 at Maine Rd while we languished in the third division. It was beyond grim.
There was a song that sparked up during those times: "Just like the fan of the invisible man, we’re not really here."
It went to the heart of the insanity of supporting City and the futility of following a club seemingly hellbent on self-destruction.
I hope those players who battled their way out of that quagmire of mediocrity watched the Champions League final with tears streaming like I did.
None of them would have come close to making our current squad but they fought through adversity — particularly trips to hell-holes like Colchester and Wycombe — and consecutive promotions saw us back in the Premier League.
Now we have reached the zenith of club football, and it was no easy ride.
We beat Bayern Munich in the Champions League quarterfinals, destroyed perennial winners Real Madrid in the semifinals and dominated three-time champions Inter Milan in the final on Sunday.
I know it’s irrational, I know it’s just 22 blokes kicking a ball around a field, but it means more.
Football headlines are so frequently dominated by the superstars and while Man City have their fair share it has never been about individuals.
Norwegian cyborg Erling Haaland had received all the plaudits this year, scoring more than 50 goals, breaking records and receiving almost every award available to him.
Had he been the match-winner on Sunday, the media hyperbole would have reached new levels.
But it was fitting he was not.
Unlike many other top teams, City operates with a small squad, the most integral of which is midfield linchpin Rodri.
The Spaniard has featured in nearly 60 games and his work has often gone unnoticed.
Rodri’s specialty is hacking down opposition players intent on launching a counter-attack, and his first touch and short passing are sublime.
Oh, and when he started making mega-bucks as a professional footballer, his first car was a red Opel Corsa which he bought second-hand from an old woman.
If you pause Sunday’s game as the ball falls into space in the Inter Milan box, Rodri is not even in the picture.
Suddenly he glides forward and uses the inside of his right boot to bend it around two defenders into the back of the net — a goal that will never be forgotten.
His selflessness has epitomised the attitude of this team.
Trouble-makers have been shown the door and those remaining have shown an unwavering desire to win.
Now there are financial fair play allegations on the horizon, the possibility of City being relegated several divisions; potential catastrophe.
I do not care.
We may be stripped of titles, docked points, fined, but no-one will ever be able to take the pride of winning this treble away from us.
If you think football is a bunch of princesses diving around, complaining to referees and celebrating over-exuberantly — it is.
But for those of us who grew up being tormented by those on the red side of Manchester, those of us who spent our childhoods loving and hating players in sky-blue shirts in equal measure, those of us who anticipated every weekend with renewed (and illogical) hope; this is our religion.
This is Utopia.
- Rob Kidd went to his first Manchester City game at the age of 8. He was a season ticket holder for 12 years before moving to New Zealand and plans to have another son just so he can name him Rodrigo.
