There are very few teams that beat Manchester United at their own game. And even fewer managers who get the better of Sir Alex when it comes to mind games. Last night in Rome, FC Barcelona and Josep Guardiola achieved both.
It was a night when Manchester United were outplayed, outclassed and outthought. They started better than a Barcelona side that looked nervous during the initial exchanges. It wouldn’t be too much to say that Barcelona never saw the ball during this short phase as Ronaldo probed around the Barca goal, unleashing a few venomous strikes. All the omens suggested it. A Manchester United goal. A second European Trophy in a row. Yet another feather in Sir Alex Ferguson’s illustrious cap. Everything looked like a script written for the Red Devils. But then again, as Sir Alex famously said at Nou Camp in 1999, “football, bloody Hell.”
And when the goal came, it came against the run of play. And it wasn’t from a man in white. It was a neat goal, the kind the fans and the viewers have witnessed all season. A small tussle in the midfield and emerges ‘you know who’ Iniesta with the ball. He runs through the midfield as a chainsaw through butter and threads an inch-perfect through ball to Samuel Etoo. The Cameroonian, turned Vidic as if he were Senderos, poked the ball viciously past a desperate Van Der Sar and it is 1-0 to Barcelona. Silence in Manchester. Ecstasy in Catalunia. Game over.
An early goal does not always decide the fate of European Finals. But it did in this case. Manchester United lost their usual composure over the ball with Barcelona dominating possession. A second goal looked inevitable. And when it came, it came from the best player in the world. And I am not even talking about Iniesta, Xavi, Henry, etc.
Much was made of a Ronaldo vs. Messi battle on the pitch. Of who would be the best player. And in Rome, Messi was the best player on the pitch by a distance. And even a couple of feet above the pitch as he showed with a sweet header from a clinical Xavi-cross. They say that the only weakness in his game is his prowess in the air. I guess they should start hunting for a new one after that looping header. The diminutive man was enormous on the biggest of stages. The ball just would not leave his feet. It was as if it had fallen in love with him. He had tamed it. The true master he is. Such was his ball control that at times, it felt as if the ball was glued to little Argentine. There were times when he even stopped, strolled with the ball, as if it was a training session. He made a mockery of the World Champions.
As the final whistle blew, I had a smile across my face. A unique expression considering the fact the United had been beaten. Or maybe it was smile of submission. Or maybe one of realization that it is not always a sign of disloyalty to admire your neighbour’s wife; in this case, the beautiful, the enchanting and mesmerizing Barcelona. On an unforgettable night in Rome, the best team won. And it wasn’t my beloved United.
But as they say about form and greatness, the former is temporary and the latter permanent. And I shall not be moved amidst the fickle and faint hearted roars and taunts. My heart shall still beat for United and my blood shall remain red. See you in Madrid in a year’s time. United we stand.
