Drogba can have the final word in Moscow and save Grant's job

Of the 82 proverbs examined, in fact, the only one with real relevance is the one that holds: "The end is the crown of any work" - a sentiment my Anglo-Russian-Footballese dictionary translates as: "Winning is all that counts."

If ever a game was designed to highlight the wisdom of this, the Champions League Final is it.

No one involved in this exquisitely well-balanced encounter will give a pitcher of warm spit about the aesthetics, and no one planning to watch it should expect anything but a dour, tightly compressed and unlovely spectacle.

As with any collision between an attacking force as reliably unstoppable as Manchester United and a defensive object as dependably immovable as Chelsea, stalemate is strongly indicated.

An early strike for either side would transform the dynamic, but much more likely is a cloyingly cagey opening half hour in which two sets of players who know each other all too well prod and parry in the tentative and futile search for an opening, constricted by the pulverising knowledge that it will probably be decided by the first and only goal.

Both teams take that wistful end-of-era scent in their nostrils into the game.

For United, those magnificent old codgers Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs (assuming he makes an appearance) will suspect that this is their last crack at the grandest club prize, while there is also the remote but nagging possibility that this will be Cristiano Ronaldo's final appearance.

For Chelsea, that fin de siecle aroma is stronger.

If giant question marks hover over the Stamford Bridge futures of Ricardo Carvalho and Frank Lampard, there is no doubt that Didier Drogba is moving on - and he is the key to whether Avram Grant will be joining him.

If the Ivorian keeps the histrionics to a minimum and focuses all the ungodly power with which he has carried this team, just as Atlas bore the skies upon his titanic shoulders, he may yet safeguard Grant's job - if the Israeli hasn't already decided that it might be time to step back upstairs as director of football.

One of the great Narcissists of world sport, Drogba is a tornado of egomania craving a fitting stage on which to inveigle a large chunk of humanity into sharing his self-adoration.

On his night, there is no striker alive more capable of terrorising even the strongest defence single-handedly.

Without him on absolutely domineering form - winning every flick header, protecting the ball when surrounded by red shirts, showing the instinctive ruthlessness with the half chance that killed off Liverpool in the semis - Chelsea's best hope will be clinging on for the penalty shoot-out against which you would perhaps be rash to bet.

But this is a game heaven sent for Drogba, the personification of the Russian proverb "he would exclaim 'Ah' looking at himself in the mirror", to inform a watching world that Ronaldo is not the Premier League's only truly sublime talent. I take Drogba to do just that, and so with both head and heart I take Chelsea to win 1-0.

Redknapp adds quiet dignity to his impressive list of talents

If Portsmouth fan Fred Dineage were to raise the palm of a hand and ask: "How his team won the FA Cup?", the answer would be thanks to Harry Redknapp's knack of rehabilitating players disregarded by wealthier clubs.

For David James, it must have been a delicious novelty to watch the poor sod in the other goal spill the Cup, just as he did in 2000, but the fact that he had so little chance to return the hapless Peter Enckelman's compliment was down to the central defensive pairing of Sylvain Distin and Sol Campbell that conceded a solitary goal during the entire run.

His achievement is impressive, but there was a melancholy about Harry in his triumph suggesting that his first major trophy, although a delight, was a small distraction from private grief. That is as it should be, the agony of losing a twin being so intense that gleeful celebration would have trivialised his wife's bereavement, and striking the perfect post-match tone did him rather more credit than his well organised if uninspired team.

He would have made a second-rate manager of either England or a giant club, because his gift lies not in designing luxury items but in repairing damaged goods. More than that, for all the spivviness and the rumours that cling to him like cheap cigar smoke, he is an endearing and oddly impressive man, and this reward is the least he deserves.

Nadal's feats on clay will never be matched

You needn't be a soothsayer of different class to spot the omen for the forthcoming French Open in Hamburg yesterday. Yet again Rafael Nadal was too good for Roger Federer on clay, and it will take injury or a sniper's bullet to prevent the Mallorcan bull rampaging to a fourth straight title at Roland Garros.

The Fed certainly won't stop him. Even if he reaches another final, he has as much chance of beating Nadal on the red stuff as the new Mrs Peter Phillips does of becoming Queen Autumn.

The problem lies half in his mind (yesterday confirmed how he mutates into Tim Henman when leading the Spaniard in a set), and half in insurmountable fact.

Nadal is, as Novak Djokovic has observed, simply the best defensive player tennis has ever known, and if his body lasts out he could win ten successive French Opens before he is done.

Curse hits Paula early

The one surprising thing about the news that Paula Radcliffe is currently on crutches (hip muscle damage) is that it's come so soon. The cherished tradition with Britain's brightest hope - the various World Cup metatarsals, Andy Murray's pre-French Open wrist injury, and so on - is that the threat becomes apparent 4-8 weeks before the event. That way, the suspense is intensified by the urgency of the race against time.

For Paula, there are a full 14 weeks until Beijing, but since her agent says "keep your fingers crossed" there must still be a fair chance that our one serious prospect for athletics gold will miss the Games or emulate Messrs Rooney and Beckham by competing half fit.

As this uncanny curse continues, the instinctive reaction is to wonder why it couldn't have happened to anyone else. Alright, not anyone else. Just Dwain Chambers.