Man City’s Erling Haaland is inevitable - all the rest of us can do is quake in our boots

The Norwegian scored his 18th Premier League goal in 12 matches on Saturday.
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There he sat, glinting with the assured intent of a fire axe in a glass cabinet, waiting to be shattered in case of a emergency. Ordinarily, Manchester City don’t deal in plight, but then again, ordinarily they don’t find themselves down to 10 men against a precocious newly-promoted Fulham side who look perfectly content to frustrate for a sharing of the spoils. Thankfully, in those rare instances when calamity does loom, they now have an Erling Haaland.

On Saturday night’s episode of Match of the Day, Gary Lineker quipped that City should perhaps be made to play with a man fewer every week to help make the Premier League a fairer competition. He might have a point. Despite their numerical disadvantage, the champions still enjoyed 71% possession, completed 717 passes, and had 16 attempts on goal at the Etihad. But when it came to converting those dizzying figures into tangible points, there was only ever one genetic freak for the job.

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Benched initially, Haaland watched as his deputy, Julian Alvarez, smashed City into an early lead. Then he watched as Joao Cancelo bundled his man over in the box and saw red. Then he watched as Andreas Pereira cooly slotted home the subsequent penalty to restore parity. Then, shortly after the hour mark, he watched as his number was raised by the fourth official, and thus, he entered the fray.

Like a mountain lion stalking a lame elk, there is a ruthless inevitability about the Norwegian. It’s a deadly certainty that can inspire a still serenity or a frenzied panic, depending on whether or not you’re his fellow predator or his prey. Fulham’s resolve notably took on a more anxious hue as Haaland and his recurring partner in crime, Phil Foden, emerged from the dugout awaiting instruction. Presumably, said instruction was “Bring me their skulls”.

Ten minutes later, Haaland would have the ball in the back of the net, his movement and power proving too much for the Cottagers’ defence as he wriggled loose from their grasp to plant a header beyond Bernd Leno. The City sensation is like Flubber and Ivan Drago rolled into one. Either way, he was surely honed in a lab somewhere. This time VAR would save Fulham. Next time it would not.

Even as the clock trudged into stoppage time, Haaland’s ineffable presence teased - convinced you, even - that one more chance would come his way. And all he ever needs is a chance. Sometimes he doesn’t even need that.

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In truth, Haaland’s penalty was poor. It didn’t nestle in a corner, nor did it possess the cannonball velocity of unadulterated venom. On another day, perhaps Leno would have saved it. Except, that would have been wholly unimaginable.

After the final whistle, the striker claimed that his late spot kick was one of the most nervous moments of his life. Watching him lock onto his target like a heat-seeking cyborg, or connect sweetly with his frightful instep, or whirl away in celebration, sky blue shirt flung above his head in rapture, you would never have known. Perhaps Haaland does feel nerves. Perhaps he feels some hitherto unrecorded form of electronic consternation imperceptible to the rest of humanity. Only he truly knows. But from an outside perspective at least, there can be no doubt when the Norwegian phenomenon is near. To the rest of us, he is inevitable.