Antonio Valencia tries not to think about that night any more, the indescribable pain, the fear that flashed through his mind when he looked down at his leg and realised it had been snapped like a dried twig, his foot hanging back to front. And, above all, the hideous sense that his four-year-old daughter, Domenica, was watching it all unfold in the Old Trafford crowd.
On the stretcher Valencia raised his arm towards the stands. At the time, it looked like he was thanking the crowd for their solemn applause. In fact, it was to show the tattoo of Domenica's name on the inside of his arm. "All I can remember now is the pain, the worst pain of my life," he says, "but my first thought was to do that for her and show her I was going to be all right."
This was in September, a Champions League night against Rangers, a seemingly innocuous challenge from Kirk Broadfoot and then those ghastly moments when Valencia's team-mates went over to see their stricken colleague then, one by one, turned away, covering their faces, and it became apparent to everyone inside the stadium this was an injury that could break a footballer's career.