Respect to man who always looks on bright side of strife

IT'S A singular individual who feels he has to apologise for falling to his knees in celebration of victory. And an even more extraordinary chap who can invoke the Holocaust, his father, who buried his grandfather "with his own hands" – and still crack a smile. But then, Avram Grant, the Chelsea manager, proved in victory over Liverpool that he is not the regular footballing man.

It's been impossible not to admire Grant over the past few months, partly because he has the friendly look of a short-haired muppet, and partly because he exudes a world-weary wisdom which is born of having married a nutter.

His wife, Tzofit – described in the media by her "friends" as "superstitious, loud and wildly emotional" – is a daredevil Israeli talk-show host, who for the benefit of the cameras, has variously bathed in chocolate and spaghetti and drunk her own urine.

Grant must breathe a sigh every morning he shuts the door on his missus, but he knows much worse is to come. At work he has been stabbed in the back so often you could use him to grate Pecorino cheese. The English press hate him. The Chelsea loyals taunt him, his players question his ability and Peter Kenyon, the chief executive, refuses to back him. He's even had death threats from anti-Semites.

But Grant just keeps plodding on to victory, in his own good-natured words, as the "manager of a team which may create history". And yet, he's still is so connected with a wider world that, the morning after his night of professional triumph, he was at Auschwitz remembering his ancestors. "Respect" as everyone around Stamford Bridge should now say, while offering grovelling apologies for their behaviour over the past six months.

If there was plenty around in last week's Champions League semi-finals which kept football in perspective, there was in the football plenty of that draining catharsis which comes with the best games. Both matches were fantastically unpredictable, and Wednesday's raised crucial questions about pub-based Scottish football audiences. Why do so many of them support Liverpool, when they've never been closer to the place than Knutsford services? Is it rational to hurl abuse at a TV screen? Do they understand the offside law? Does anyone?

Tuesday's game from Old Trafford had fewer goals, but was just as nerve-shredding. Barcelona played like a circus act, juggling the ball, bamboozling their opponents and delighting the crowd, but entirely forgetting that the purpose is to stuff the leather in the net.

Another of the EPL's unsung heroes fared well. Paul Scholes, like Grant, has ticked the "no publicity" box, and doesn't even do post-match interviews when he's the hero. Mancunian to the core, Scholes long ago rejected the Cheshire-set lifestyle of his team-mates and lives on the unfashionable side of town with his childhood sweetheart. He fouls competently, passes well and has a shot like a howitzer, as he proved when he smashed home the winner from 30 yards. "What about that?" yelled Clive Tyldesley. Who shut up for a while afterwards, because there wasn't really an answer.

For 20 minutes in each half, United stayed on top, but as the end closed in, Barcelona won more of the ball. "I really believe United should just sit," said Pleat. "And pray?" suggested Tyldesley. "And pray," confirmed Pleat, invoking the little-known Methodist Hymn Book defence. Five minutes later, Tyldesley's dusted off his victory sermon. "History is made. Fifty years on from Munich, Manchester United will play for the European Cup again in the biggest game ever played by two English football clubs. Quite simply, the game of games."

Back in the studio, Steve Rider was having none of that. He had another match to sell. He said this, though his punctuation may have been different: "There's more European football on Thursday. If you can bear it, we've got Rangers."

After all that excitement, of course we could bear them, those cuddly teddy bears.