Por The Red Devil Ranter
TL:DR The Best South American Manchester United players have given the club everything from trophies and iconic moments to heartbreak and chaos. Here’s the Red Devil Ranter’s ranking of five unforgettable imports from the continent.
Fred - Rey de correr en círculos
You thought I’d start with a club legend? Behave. We begin with Fred, a footballer so uniquely confusing that even now I’m not entirely convinced he wasn’t three different players taking turns wearing the same shirt.
The thing about Fred was that nobody could ever accuse him of not trying. Did he give 100%? Yes. Was 87% of it in the wrong direction? Also yes. The man ran everywhere. Forward. Backward. Sideways. Occasionally into teammates. Watching him was like watching a Labrador chase six tennis balls at once. The effort was never in doubt. The destination usually was.
Ranter memory? Easy. That absolute thunderbolt against Tottenham. I nearly inhaled a lukewarm Carling in pure disbelief. For a brief moment I thought we’d witnessed Fred’s final evolution. Like a Pokémon reaching its ultimate form. Turns out he’d simply wandered into a purple patch before immediately wandering back out again.
Still, he gave everything for the badge. He never hid. He never sulked. He just occasionally treated possession of a football as an optional responsibility.
A maddening player. A lovable player. A player who somehow became far better than most of us expected and yet still managed to leave us wondering what on earth we’d just watched.
Peak Fred was surprisingly useful. The problem was that Peak Fred only visited occasionally.
Casemiro – The Midfield Bouncer
When Manchester United signed Casemiro, I genuinely thought somebody at the club had accidentally loaded Football Manager instead of negotiating transfers. Five Champions Leagues. One of the most decorated midfielders in modern football. And somehow he was standing at Old Trafford wearing red. The best part? He didn’t arrive for a retirement tour. He arrived angry. “Tell them I’ll fix the midfield” he allegedly said. And proceeded to do exactly that.
For that first season, Casemiro looked like he’d been sent from Madrid to personally investigate why United had forgotten how to control a midfield. Every tackle was perfectly timed. Every interception felt inevitable. Opposition attacks regularly ended with Casemiro appearing from nowhere like a footballing tax collector. Need leadership? Casemiro. Need composure? Casemiro. Need someone to remind Bruno Fernandes that not every pass needs to be attempted from 40 yards? Casemiro.
Ranter memory? The winner against Chelsea and that ridiculous bicycle kick attempt against Bournemouth that nearly broke the internet. But more than any single moment, it was the feeling of finally having a proper defensive midfielder again. I’d almost forgotten what it looked like.
Now, let’s be honest. The decline came harder than expected. One minute he was patrolling midfield like a five-star general. The next he looked like he was running through wet cement.
Suddenly everyone became an expert. Every misplaced pass was treated like evidence in a criminal trial. Every slow sprint became a viral clip. The football world decided Casemiro was finished. Which brings us to Jamie Carragher’s now infamous advice:
“Leave the football before the football leaves you.”
At the time, pundits nodded along like he’d just delivered the Gettysburg Address. Then Casemiro responded the traditional Brazilian way. By making everyone look a bit stupid.
The comment aged like a pint of milk left on a radiator during a heatwave. One decent run of form later and suddenly the same people writing his obituary were discussing his importance again.
Football has a funny habit of humbling those who speak in absolutes. One month you’re supposedly finished. The next you’re reminding everyone why you’ve got five Champions League medals sitting in the trophy cabinet. Casemiro might not be the player he was in Madrid, but writing him off completely felt a bit like telling a lion he’s too old while he’s still got your leg in his mouth.
But don’t let the later struggles rewrite history.
At his peak, Casemiro dragged standards upwards. He brought a winning mentality that had been missing for years and helped deliver silverware during a period when trophies felt rarer than a competent VAR decision. Not every South American at United leaves with legendary status. Casemiro most certainly did.
Ángel Di María - Espía parisino cedido
Llegó. Golpeó a la gente. Marcó un gol tan sexy contra el Leicester que tuve que borrarlo.
historial de mi navegador
For a few glorious weeks, Ángel Di María looked like the answer to every problem we’d had since Sir Alex Ferguson retired. He glided past defenders like they were traffic cones. He carried the ball effortlessly. He created chances from absolutely nothing. For a brief period, he was comfortably our best player.
Then it all unravelled faster than a bargain umbrella in a Manchester storm.
That chip against Leicester remains one of the filthiest goals I’ve ever seen in a United shirt. The audacity. The technique. The elegance. I watched it about twenty times and still wasn’t sure it obeyed the laws of physics. It was football pornography disguised as a Premier League goal.
Ranter memory? That outrageous outside-of-the-boot assist against Leicester. Pure genius. The kind of pass that makes grown adults point at the television and shout nonsense.
But then came the burglary, the struggles under Louis van Gaal, and the increasingly obvious feeling that Di María would rather be literally anywhere else on Earth. His body remained at Old Trafford. His soul had already booked a one-way flight to Paris.
What made it so frustrating was the talent. The bloke was ridiculous. He’d already won major honours across Europe and would go on to win plenty more after leaving. We didn’t sign a flop. We signed a world-class player whose relationship with Manchester lasted about as long as a New Year’s resolution.
By the end, every interview looked like he’d been forced to attend against his will. Cheers for the chip, Ángel. Hope Paris treated you well. Judging by the trophies, it absolutely did.
Lisandro Martínez - El carnicero de la arrogancia bonaerense
Football experts and Jamie Carragher told us he’d get bullied. Opposition fans spent an entire summer making height jokes. Then Lisandro Martínez arrived and proceeded to treat every striker in England like a personal insult.
Honestly, I’ve never seen a defender win over Old Trafford quite so quickly. From the very beginning, there was something wonderfully unhinged about him. Every tackle looked personal. Every challenge looked like revenge for something that happened years ago.
At 5’9”, he’s supposedly too short for a centre-back. Tell that to the long list of forwards he’s folded into pocket-sized souvenirs. What makes Martínez special isn’t just his aggression. It’s the complete package. He’s technically brilliant. Comfortable on the ball. Aggressive in duels. Intelligent in positioning. The sort of modern defender every top club desperately wants.
Ranter memory? Watching him flatten Mohamed Salah and then roaring towards the Stretford End like a man defending the gates of civilisation. Old Trafford erupted. It felt like we’d finally found someone who understood exactly what Manchester United supporters wanted from their defenders.
Fight. Heart. A touch of controlled madness. Martínez plays every match like he’s representing his entire family tree. Every interception gets celebrated. Every block matters. Every challenge means something.
Modern football can sometimes feel sanitised. Lisandro is the antidote. He brings emotion. He brings edge. He brings the sort of warrior mentality United fans have craved for years.
Height is optional. Belief isn’t. And Martínez has enough belief for an entire back four
Antonio Valencia - Tanque humano con cañones en el pie derecho
Antonio Valencia wasn’t built like a footballer. Antonio Valencia was built like a military vehicle.
The man had shoulders wider than some London flats and thighs that looked capable of generating renewable energy. Full-backs saw him charging towards them and immediately started reconsidering their career choices.
When he arrived from Wigan, Valencia was a direct winger with one setting: full speed. There were no fancy stepovers. No unnecessary tricks. No elaborate choreography. Just raw power, relentless running and enough pace to terrify defenders.
Then something remarkable happened. He reinvented himself. As his career evolved at United, Valencia transformed from attacking winger into dependable right-back. Not many players manage that transition successfully. Valencia made it look natural.
His crossing, admittedly, could be an adventure. Some deliveries were perfect. Others appeared to be aimed at aircraft flying over Trafford. There was very little middle ground.
But when he connected properly, chaos followed.
Ranter memory? That absolute missile against Everton. Not a shot. A ballistic weapon. The ball nearly tore through the net and continued its journey into another postcode. David de Gea celebrated like he’d witnessed a natural phenomenon.
Valencia embodied reliability. Managers trusted him. Teammates trusted him. Fans trusted him. You always knew what you were getting. Effort. Power. Professionalism.
He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t glamorous. He wasn’t collecting social media highlight reels every week. He was simply one of the most dependable players of his generation.
And if football ever introduces an award for looking capable of carrying an entire team bus on his back, Valencia wins unanimously.
Carlos Tévez - La gloriosa traición
Oh Carlos. You beautiful, relentless, shaggy-haired bulldog. You ran. You fought. You scored vital goals. You gave us that night in Moscow, and then you became Judas in Sky Blue.
This one still hurts. Years later, it still hurts.
Carlos Tevez was everything Manchester United supporters adore in a footballer. Relentless. Aggressive. Fearless. Completely incapable of giving less than 110%. Watching him play felt like watching a football match and a street fight simultaneously.
He chased every lost cause. Pressed every defender. Scrapped for every single ball. Tevez played football like somebody had personally offended him before kick-off.
The partnership he formed with Wayne Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo remains one of the most entertaining attacking trios I’ve ever seen. Defenders simply couldn’t breathe. By the time they’d escaped Ronaldo’s skill and Rooney’s intensity, Tevez was sprinting after them like an angry terrier. The first half performance in the 2008 Champions League Final in Moscow remains a highlight.
Ranter memory? That outrageous backheel against Inter Milan. Pure confidence. Pure swagger. Pure Tevez.
And then came the betrayal. Manchester City. Of all places. It’s difficult explaining to younger fans just how painful that move felt. One minute he was helping United win trophies. The next he was standing in sky blue while City supporters treated him like the footballing equivalent of a blockbuster movie villain.
Then came the infamous billboard. You know the one. Collectively, United fans aged about twenty years overnight. The frustrating thing is that his footballing qualities never disappeared. He remained brilliant. Hard-working. Effective. Everything we’d loved in the first place. Which somehow made it worse.
Tevez wasn’t just a great South American player at Manchester United. He was one of the most perfectly suited Manchester United players full stop. That connection felt real. Which is exactly why his departure still stings all these years later. Some football wounds heal. Carlos Tevez joining City remains an open one.
Resumen de la samba sudamericana
Manchester United’s South American story has never been boring. We’ve had warriors, artists, cult heroes and heartbreak merchants. We’ve witnessed Fred running enough kilometres to power a small nation. We’ve watched Di María arrive like a superstar and leave like a witness entering protection. We’ve seen Lisandro Martínez turn height debates into comedy material. We’ve admired Antonio Valencia’s transformation into a human armoured vehicle. And we’ve never quite forgiven Carlos Tevez for becoming football’s version of a shocking plot twist.
That’s the beauty of South American players. They rarely do ordinary. At United, they’ve delivered unforgettable goals, iconic moments, emotional rollercoasters and enough drama to fill several seasons of reality television.
Some became heroes. Some became villains. All became memorable. And for football fans, that’s usually the point.
