Anyone who’s played sport will have experienced the zone, those baffling moments during which things are near enough perfect. Roughly, it resides somewhere around the three pint mark, at which point pool, table tennis, computer games and slapsies are simply seen and effectively executed. The purple patch, on the other hand, its manifestations separated by bouts of normal life, is a less numinous affair demanding a basic standard of elite skill and as such is the professional’s preserve, the rest of us left dreaming of jam tomorrow.

In particular, the standard is difficult to attain in collective form, all the more so with a football team, demanding the integration of so many moving parts in the context of a spontaneous, flowing sport. But for the early sides of Arsenal’s Wenger era, it was an almost seasonal occurrence.

In 1996-97, Manchester United doddered and dawdled to the title with 75 points, a record low since three points were awarded for a win. But in the early months of the next, they experienced a purple patch of their own, thanks in part to a purple patch of Andy Cole’s own. He scored four times as Barnsley and Sheffield Wednesday were consecutively walloped 7-0 and 6-1, then a hat-trick at Feyenoord.

So, when United visited Highbury in November, Arsenal were deemed desperate for a win; they managed it, just. With seven minutes remaining Peter Schmeichel’s all-time great wasted save ceded a corner, from which the winner was spun home thanks to David Platt’s curiously-shaped head.

Arsenal then lost three of their next four while United won six straight. The Manchester club’s advantage now allowed them to drop points without compunction, and so they did, losing to Coventry, Southampton and Leicester – but none of it mattered, because after they beat Chelsea at the end of February the title was clearly done.

In the meantime though, Arsenal had started winning, so when West Ham nicked a point off United the week after Sheffield Wednesday had taken all three, suddenly, the top two’s imminent meeting at Old Trafford did matter. The deficit was still nine points but, still in the Cup, Arsenal had three games in hand.

Between European ties and also without Roy Keane and Ryan Giggs, United were nonetheless expected to do the necessary. But, with Gary Neville hiding at centre-back, Marc Overmars dispensed the chasing for which John Curtis will forever be remembered, eventually beating Neville to slip home the winner following a reshuffle.

Arsenal’s pleasure was compounded by the slapstick of Schmeichel’s suffering; hurtling forward for a corner, hurtling back afterwards, and hurtling into a tackle en route did not sit right with his hamstring. And an even more memorable image was provided by the manic man outfitted in scarf, leather and curls, his demeanour at odds with the calm conviction on the pitch. “I believed it always, but the players believe it again,” said Wenger.

There was, though, plenty still to do, as Fergie quickly highlighted. “I don’t think they’re anywhere near as good a football team as us,” he declared, “but as you’ll find out and they will find out, they will start dropping points towards the end of the season, there’s no question about that, it’s inevitable … We’ll see what happens now.”

But as game segued into game, out-finding was absent, points remained collected, and questions begged, all distinctly evitable. Instead, that back five back-fived, and in front of them, Patrick Vieira and Emmanuel Petit trampled whatever was in front of them. Meanwhile, Overmars screeched inside and out while Dennis Bergkamp dissected what remained with impeccable geometry and inconceivable imagination.

Emmanuel Petit in action against West Ham in 1998. Photograph: Getty Images Photograph: Getty Images

Blackburn away was considered the trickiest of Arsenal’s remaining fixtures but, in the April snow, they raced to a 4-0 lead inside 20 minutes. Then, two and half weeks later, Tony Adams’ left foot thundered Steve Bould’s defence-splitter past Thomas Myhre, the title sealed with a 10th consecutive win and augmented by the Cup; thus was cemented English football’s greatest rivalry.

The following season Arsenal constructed another handy run, but ran into a better one and were nowhere near the title in the two subsequent campaigns. So, when United added Juan Sebastián Verón and Ruud van Nistelrooy, and even though Jaap Stam was towed out and Laurent Blanc wheeled in, it was assumed that they would win a fourth straight title. But breaking up the most complete, best balanced midfield of all-time – one almost guaranteed to deliver the title every season – made more sense in Europe than it did domestically.

Even so, course of dealing asserted once again that Arsenal didn’t have much chance – especially when, at the start of November United lost at Anfield only for Charlton to win at Highbury later that afternoon. Then, the following night, the teams met in the League Cup, the implicit expectation that both youth teams would play. So Fergie picked his, plus the retired Dwight Yorke, and Wenger his – just with Wiltord and Kanu up front, the scorers in a 4-0 win. And, two weeks later United returned in the league, beaten up and beaten down to lose after taking an undeserved lead.

Things intensified over Christmas, United in the midst of an eight-game winning streak that took them top. But, in mid-January, a late goal gave Liverpool victory at Old Trafford, and the following night, Arsenal won at Leicester to go a point behind with a game in hand.

Both teams won six and drew one of their next seven, but as United slipped, Arsenal skated. While Arsène Wenger played the system, appealing a suspension earned in December to ensure that Thierry Henry missed three easy games in March, Van Nistelrooy faded, flogged after a season out injured. And when Fergie anointed his team as the league’s most attractive, Wenger responded with patronising brilliance, observing that “everyone thinks he has the prettiest wife at home”.

His confidence was well-founded. Though the back five was well into its dotage, Henry was now the supercharged superhuman who reinvented centre-forward play, abetting him the shuffling, scuttling elan of Robert Pires and the movement and composure of Freddie Ljungberg – no one read Bergkamp better. So, intricate became incisive became irresistible; only they could invent angles in the tight confines of Highbury, and liberated by space elsewhere, they were even more devastating, unbeaten all season for the concession of just 11 goals. The penultimate game in a record-breaking run of 13 consecutive league wins allowed them to confirm the title at Old Trafford, after which they added another FA Cup.

By way of comparison, in 2003-04, a season that yielded just one trophy, Arsenal’s longest winning sequence was nine, with the total win count equal and goals tally seven fewer. Or, put another way, as far as vital statistics went, this was easily Wenger’s prettiest spouse – though his first and third partners might claim that personality goes a long way.

Fortified with the confidence of a double, things improved yet further at the start of the following season – the first 13 games presented 11 wins, 32 goals, and perhaps the finest football in Arsenal’s history. But then a force majeure by the name of Wayne Rooney introduced itself, they lost at Everton, and never quite recaptured the momentum; the purplest patch of their purplest patch, one through which they actually looked invincible, yielded nothing but itself, a purist’s dream.

2) Ruud van Nistelrooy, run-in, 2002-03

Ruud van Nistelrooy scores for Manchester United against Sunderland in 2002. Photograph: Michael Steele/Getty Images Photograph: Michael Steele/Getty Images

Forget Romeo and Juliet, Madonna in Cherish and all the beauty you possess inside; Van Nistelrooy’s love of scoring goals is the greatest love of all, and by far. Every fibre of his being strained to precisely that purpose, for if he failed he might die. As such, he understood that scuff was as much masterpiece as blast, his every celebration a whirl of ecstasy, lunacy and relief.

His first season in England was a personal triumph: he scored 36 goals in 44 starts, and scored in nine straight games – still a domestic record – and, most impressively, faced down Roy Keane in a dressing room broiges. But United finished with nothing while he was accused of flat-track bullying, having failed to score against Arsenal, Liverpool or Chelsea.

The following year Arsenal started as they did and United did not, so that by the time they faced Newcastle, Liverpool and Arsenal at the end of November and start of December, nine points were required. They won them all, Van Nistelrooy contributing a hat-trick in the first game, but the key moment came in midweek. Away to Basle, typically, United conceded in the first minute and continued in typically miserable fashion, before, on 61 minutes, Van Nistelrooy headed home Solskjaer’s cross. Then, a minute later, he tanked across the box in pursuit of a bouncing ball, leaping into a tackle that took it away from a defender towards the left-hand touchline. Turning with consummate dexterity, he dumped his man atop his anus, cut back into the area, swerved outside another along the by-line, and smacked a finish in at the far post from an improbable angle.

This marked the turning point of a season not especially promising until that point, and also the changing apprehension of Van Nistelrooy as a player. This was the kind of goal in which he did not dabble.

United duly dealt with Liverpool and Arsenal, before losing to Blackburn, then Middlesbrough, their last league defeat of the season. Next came nine wins from 11 games, Van Nistelrooy scoring nine in the process; so far, so normal.

They were booted out of the Cup by Arsenal, before two wins over Juventus – Van Nistelrooy scoring in both – were split by a draw at Bolton. They were now five points behind Arsenal, with a trickier run-in, and the following week lost to Liverpool in the League Cup final.

Then, without warning, Van Nistelrooy went on the rampage. In the final game of March, he scored thrice in a 3-0 win over Fulham, the hat-trick goal coming at the end of a run from halfway – the kind of goal he didn’t get, being simply a finisher. Two more followed against Liverpool and another in Madrid, before a trip to Newcastle – who were in still in the title race. Behind to a blinder, United scored six in 26 minutes, the last of them a Van Nistelrooy penalty. And this too was indicative of his obsession: “I practice my penalty kicks three times a week,” he said. “Each time I take 10 penalties and Fabien [Barthez] is always the goalkeeper. Throughout the whole season he only saved one!”

Next, United went to Highbury – and there Van Nistelrooy was again, bursting past Sol Campbell and across Martin Keown with pace and skill that he didn’t have to lift a finish over Stuart Taylor with daintiness that he didn’t have. For two years, he’d been unfavourably compared to Henry, but here, where it really mattered, he’d scored an Henry kind of goal. So Henry responded with two Van Nistelrooy specials, one off the backs of his knees, one miles offside, but United fought back to earn a draw.

The return with Madrid yielded another goal, then another in a home win against Blackburn and another at Spurs, then three more at home to Charlton and one on the final day at Everton. United were champions, and rather like 1997-98 and 2001-02, though the result was vaguely surprising, there could be no doubt which team was best, according to any criteria: points won, head to-head, results against the top six, progress in Europe.

But, having the misfortune to be at United during Fergie’s extended sabbatical, this was the only title Van Nistelrooy won at Old Trafford. Reporting on the players’ celebration, Rio Ferdinand identified him as the happiest person he’d ever seen, an accolade he’d earned to moving extent. In total, he scored 44 goals that season, and at least one in each of the last 10 games, 15 times in total; not only was he expected to score, it was simply inconceivable that he would not. Now that is a swatch of the mauvest hue.

3) Cristiano Ronaldo, 2006 to present day

Cristiano Ronaldo … and Alan Smith in 2007. Photograph: Jason Cairnduff/Action Images Photograph: Jason Cairnduff/Action Images

Perhaps there comes a time when a patch achieves such elephantine dimensions as to no longer be a patch, rather an entire garment. But, inevitably, it ends and time continues, evaluated against eternity and shrunken accordingly.

In the modern era, there has been no run of form that compares with Cristiano Ronaldo’s current activity. Since the start of 2006-07 he has scored 342 times in 415 appearances, standards intensifying with almost every season.

Though only a weirdo derives pleasure from reducing artistry to numbers, with Ronaldo, they’re important. Early in his career he was decried as a “show pony”, as though football isn’t a show and ponies aren’t sleek and elegant, and, in particular, his “lack of end product” was criticised because, of course, that’s what draws people to sport, rather than the life-affirming privilege of watching a spectacular and unique talent develop.

As a teenager, he spent time acting the self-indulgent moron – as we all do, without the aggravating factors of wealth, fame and brilliance. Then, at the 2006 World Cup, he got Wayne Rooney sent off by blatantly existing when Ricardo Carvalho’s testicles were stamped upon, and people became even more upset.

Just two months later, Gary Neville was taken aback at pre-season training, when an ogre arrived – but the real change was cerebral. There had been signs of a descending centavo towards the end of the previous season, but no one could even have contemplated the magnitude of the change. A significant beauty of football is its ability to reinvent itself, but the player Ronaldo became had scarcely been hinted at in 128 years of association football.

Astoundingly, many still failed to enjoy him even though the football he played was the football of the playground, his tricks and feints intended to humiliate opponents. So, when James Morrison, affronted by his skills, flattened him and was sent off, Gareth Southgate sagely surmised that “we’d all like to do that”. Which isn’t to say that he was wrong, nor that Ronaldo was especially likeable – he was underhand, entitled, brave and wonderful – but also many of the things that make for a compelling character, in what is, after all, only sport.

Nor was he bothered to beg for biscuits or join in the circle jerk. After that Boro game, won by a penalty he earned and scored, he was asked for his thoughts, replying with a broad grin: “Against Cristiano, every time is polemic, I don’t know why.” Innocence laced with knowingness, laced with ‘screw you’; a heady mix.

Just a few weeks earlier, he’d scored the goal of his career so far, a last minute sashay through the Fulham defence giving United a crucial and undeserved win, and he simply carried on going. In particular, he was fond of the brace, three in three games over Christmas that season, then 10 in the next and seven the one after. Usually, the first part was administered early, extinguishing hope prior to its existence, and the second around the hour, just as it germinated anew.

In addition to the run of performances and achievements came a slew of original masterpieces, goals that only he could score – particularly notable given his positioning as machine relative to Lionel Messi the improvisor. But it’s Ronaldo who does things we’ve not seen before – the drive in Porto, inventing a new way of kicking the ball, the flair player who scores headers so violent as to be illegal in some countries. And it was Ronaldo who near enough won a title on his own; persuading him to remain in Manchester for the 2008-09 season was one of Alex Ferguson’s finest pieces of man-management.

Eventually, though, Ronaldo went to Madrid, where somehow he contrived to become even better and even more unique, the first man to defeat tautology. The achievement of beating to a title perhaps the finest club side ever could be achieved only by virtue of his shocking consistency; he contributed 46 goals in 38 games. Yes, Messi managed 50, but it is not simply the scoring of goals, but their timing – Messi’s came in 24 different games, Ronaldo’s in 27, a crucial detail in an intense race.

Present-day Ronaldo. Photograph: Carl Recine/Action Images Photograph: Carl Recine/Action Images

Though elements of the fantasy that first defined him are gone, he invented a position and reinvented himself, a wide player who’s also a centre-forward, a scorer of great goals and a great goalscorer. And make no mistake, the visceral thrill of watching him play is as much about humanity as ability; achieving these standards for this long, to keep the body operating at its zenith, is a triumph of both character and mind.

And, as remarkable chance would have it, since leaving England he has become exponentially more interesting and likeable as a bloke. Yes, the flouncing and posing is still there, but so too are the public stances taken on gay marriage, philanthropy and kindness, reminding us that football is fiction to be enjoyed in that context.

4) Paul Warhurst and Mark Stein, 1992-93 and 1993-94

In chapter 11 of the book of Numbers is found the parable of Eldad and Medad, two no-marks who, out of nowhere, perpetrate prophecy. And that was it. It worked once, after which they returned to obscurity, defined by the purest purple patch of all.

Lots of football supporters who follow a club seriously find it hard to enjoy their respective national sides, partly because it’s impossible to feel temporary warmth towards those hated permanently. So the invention of Fantasy Football League, which suffers from an identical aspect, seemed like one for water cooler uncool, fabrication for fabrications not really interested in football.

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But, most of all, it was something to do, an Owzat for the Sky generation but with teams comprising real people rather than Romulus, Remus and Plug from the Bash Street Kids. For the first time game after game was televised and fantasy football was a way of making the irrelevant ones interesting for those with time to watch but without the wherewithal to wager.

So attention was focused away from players who were good, who always did stuff, who everyone had, and towards those who weren’t that good, but also did stuff – Rick Holden, Stuart Ripley, Jason Wilcox and ilk. But the most of important of all skills was predicting a purple patch, or identifying it in its infancy; in his first season at Swindon, for example, Jan Aage Fjørtoft didn’t score before Christmas, but then found 13 goals in 17 games.

Paul Warhurst in action for Sheffield Wednesday in 1992. Photograph: Bob Thomas/popperfoto.com Photograph: Bob Thomas/popperfoto.com

In the winter of 1992, injuries to Mark Bright and David Hirst gave Sheffield Wednesday a problem. Trevor Francis decided to send Paul Warhurst, his centre-back, up front, and it worked. Warhurst caught a buzz, scoring 12 goals in 12 games, not bundles, headers, pokes and trickles, but calm finishes of difficult chances.

By the time Bright and Hirst returned Warhurst had decided that actually scoring goals was better and easier than preventing them, so when Francis suggested he change back to his old position, a ruckus did thus ensue. So he left for Blackburn, where he was used in defence – but injury meant his time there was a limited success – and, naturally, he spend the latter part of his career in midfield.

The following season, the Daily Telegraph partnered with Fantasy League and ran a free competition, turning craze into permanent feature, and Mark Stein into cult hero. Known as the Golden One at Stoke, his goals had earned them promotion so, when Lou Macari left to manage Celtic, Chelsea punted £1.5m in the hope that he’d be good at a higher level. And briefly, he was, setting a record of scoring in seven consecutive league games between December and February. Then it stopped.

Sport, and terrible patter, is full of ‘would you rather …’ questions. Would you rather have your insides scraped out with a cola bottle, or have Piers Morgan tickle your feet until you die of old age? Would you rather be Denis Irwin or Matt Le Tissier, Robbie Fowler or Michael Owen, Glenn Hoddle or Bryan Robson?

One way of looking at sport is as a treatise against mediocrity, normality and temperance, a perspective thrillingly and viciously encapsulated by Totò Schillaci. In the days when foreign players lacked an army of 140-character biographers, he was near enough unknown outside Italy and Brian Glanville before the 1990 World Cup – despite scoring 15 times in a Uefa Cup and Coppa Italia winning team. This was just enough to earn himself a spot in the Italian squad. “Toto, you have got into the national team right at the last minute,” he told himself. “Whatever happens to you now is a bonus.”

Salvatore Schillaci during Italy’s 1990 World Cup semi-final against Argentina. Photograph: Simon Bruty/Getty Images Photograph: Simon Bruty/Getty Images

So, when Italy were struggling against the Austria of Polster and Rodax – fearsome, if you believed the various guides – it was Schillaci who came on for his international debut, rather than the hyped Roberto Baggio. And within three minutes he’d scored, the nationwide scale of aggression through relief through delight perfectly described by the pumping of his arms.

Next came USA and again, Schillaci began at the side, this time coming on when Italy were ahead; they stayed there to record another narrow win. So to win the group and stay in Rome for the knockouts they had to beat Czechoslovakia; Schillaci was picked to start, he and Baggio replacing Andrea Carnevale and Gianluca Vialli in what the Italian press called “the team of dreams”. And within nine minutes, Schillaci had scored again, nodding home from close range. This time there was just delight.

In the second round came Uruguay. With over an hour gone, the game was still goalless – but then Aldo Serena cleverly laid Baggio’s ball into Schillaci’s path, who let it run across him as he turned to lash a rasp across Fernando Álvez and high into the net. This earned him the rich reward, not just of a Barry Davies “What a goal!” but a follow-up “what – a – goal!” too. Up went the arms, bent went the elbows, clenched went the fists and shake went the ensemble.

Next were the Republic of Ireland and of course it couldn’t keep happening, but it did. Packie Bonner, as though part of a conspiracy, could only beat out Roberto Donadoni’s shot, at which point everyone and everything paused to absorb what was about to happen again – because there was Schillaci, body inclined left, ball slotted right. Goal!

In semi-final came Argentina and, within 17 minutes, it happened again. Now confident enough to get involved in the play, Schillaci bundled through a couple of tackles and lifted a pass to Di Napoli who, looking for Giannini, found Vialli instead. He lifted back a return, returned to him via header, which he met with a hard snap shot, blocked by Sergio Goycochea – by which time Schillaci had obviously arrived into the box, obviously able to finish without adjusting body or run.

But Claudio Cannigia equalised in the second half and Schillaci had been replaced by Baggio by the time the shoot-out arrived, which Italy lost. They beat England in the third-fourth place play-off – and in that one, he scored a penalty – but as far as his career went, that was pretty much it. He played one more season for Juventus, after which Giovanni Trapattoni lost faith as he lost fitness; he was shovelled off to Inter, who shovelled him off to Jubilo Iwata.

But in a way it mattered not at all; Schillaci was the last of his kind, concept as much as man. How good he might have become, and whether he was actually any good, we’ll never quite know, but we can all be sure of something far better: he is immortal, and you would rather be him.

6) Dixie Dean, 1923-1940

The name Dixie Dean is as synonymous with Everton as it is with goalscoring, as it is with the definitive purple patch; one that lasted an entire career, its status established by relative, not subjective comparison. After scoring 27 times in 30 appearances for Tranmere, Everton showed an interest in buying him and Dean, who had been taken to Everton as a child, was so keen that he ran the two-and-a-half miles to meet the club secretary, Thomas H McIntosh. So, when Tranmere diddled him over his share of the transfer fee, giving him 1% instead of 10 of the £3,000 fee, he simply gave it to his parents, who donated it to the local hospital.

Dixie Dean runs out for Everton against Arsenal at Highbury in 1936. Photograph: Allsport Hutton Deutsch/Allsport Photograph: Allsport Hutton Deutsch/Allsport

And, ensconced at Everton, he set about things. His first season yielded 32 goals, but then, that summer, he fractured skull and jaw in a motorcycle accident in Holywell. There was doubt as to whether he’d live – but, relates Everton’s Jubilee History: “His survival astonished them. When recovery was assured the medical pronouncement was ‘This man will never be able to play football again.’”

But play again he did, even scoring with a trademark header in his next game. “In this respect he excels every other famous centre-forward,” wrote a contemporary report. “Ordinary players butt the ball with the crown of their heads, Dean artistically glides it downwards with the side of his.”

It was the next season for which he became most famous, his 60 goals – in 39 appearances – still a record for a major European league, comprising more than half of Everton’s total and inspiring them to the title. He failed to score only eight times and managed at least one in each of the first nine games, season’s highlights also including all five against Manchester United, four at Burnley and five hat-tricks, one of those at Anfield – oh, and 15 braces.

Even so, with nine games to go he was still 17 shy of the record number of goals scored in a season, achieved a year earlier by Middlesbrough’s George Camsell. And after his four at Turf Moor on the penultimate Saturday, he was withdrawn injured. Everton worked hard to have him ready for Charles Buchan’s Arsenal, Camsell’s record equalled via header and penalty – but with five minutes to go, surpassing it seemed unlikely.

“Five minutes from time we made up our minds that Dixie wasn’t going to get the other goal we longed to see,” wrote Thomas Keates. “Good heavens! While the thought was formulating, [Alex] Troup (the electric tripper) sent a nice dropping shot in front of goal, the ball hung in the air, Dixie’s magical head went for it and tipped it into the net. You talk about explosions, and loud applause; we have heard many explosions, and much applause in our long pilgrimage, but, believe us, we have never heard such a prolonged roar of thundering, congratulatory applause before as to that which ascended to heaven when Dixie broke the record.” His grand total for the season, including cup-ties and internationals, was 84.

Unsurprisingly, his was a face in demand; “young footballers will have no cause to complain that smoking interferes with their general fitness … if they smoke Wix”, went as snappy a tag as can ever have existed. This association was met by an absence of Wilsherian outcry – but then he wasn’t wearing a baseball hat, in a swimming pool, at the time.

And the goals continued. In 1930-31, when with Everton in Division 2, he scored more times than he played, returning 39 in 37, and again the following season, 45 in 38, as Everton again won the league. Then, in 1933, he scored in every round of the FA Cup but the semi-final, leading his team to Wembley victory over Manchester City.

By the time he left Goodison he’d scored 383 times in 433 games. Then, at Notts County, Sligo Rovers and Hurst, came three in nine, 10 in seven and one in two, which, added to 18 in 16 for England, made for a career total of 424 in 482 games; in English football, only Arthur Rowley was more prolific, and in 619 games, the majority of those outside the top division.

“He belongs in the company of the supremely great”, enthused Bill Shankly, “like Beethoven, Shakespeare and Rembrandt. His record of goalscoring is the most amazing thing under the sun.”

On retirement Dean bought the obligatory pub in which he nurtured healthy disdain for the pretenders who came after him. “They play in carpet slippers with a beach ball,” he said. And was it true that his record hadn’t been equalled because marking became tighter? “No, I don’t think they’re good enough. It’s not about the marking, I’ve had as many as two and three every time I’ve gone for the ball. So I don’t think anybody was marked more so, especially on my body, limbs, and one and the other.” Which is to say there has never been a patch remotely the equal of Dixie’s, nor will there ever be.