Dignified in defeat, the beauty of Barcelona softened hardest heart in football

Matthew Norman
28 May 2009

All that strictly need be said about the totality of Barcelona's dominance is that Sir Alex Ferguson was calm, dignified and even, God have mercy, likeble in defeat. This is not how it is meant to be. For the raging old bruiser to face the cameras after such a brutal hiding and speak without a trace of rancour was a hugely unsettling distortion of the natural order.

Then again, he'd had time to prepare. The tension had drained from him, as it had from the game, when with 20 minutes left Lionel Messi capped an exquisite display with a headed goal of such laconic beauty that it feels churlish to wonder why the shortest man on the pitch was left unmarked a few yards from goal while Rio Ferdinand glanced appreciatively on.

At that moment the fantasy that Manchester United might reprise the Houdini act that devastated Bayern Munich a decade ago died a death. Truth be told, United had seldom looked capable of equalising before, but from then on they could do little more than chase their conquistadores' shadows and marvel at their virtuosity.

Even Sir Alex seemed ungrudgingly impressed. Barcelona had been much the better side, he needlessly admitted, adding that he'd learn from this defeat. The question, it seemed to me, was why he seemed to have learned nothing from Barca's semi-final second leg.

To those who felt that Chelsea invited their misfortune that night by being so negative even when a goal ahead, here was the explanation.

As Guus Hiddink understood, it is virtually impossible to get the ball off this Barca midfield, so the only sensible tactic is to let them have it and ensure that they can do as little damage as possible, by doubling up on the man in possession, shepherding them into less dangerous areas, and maintaining rigid discipline throughout a massed defence.

It didn't work for Chelsea for various reasons (not least that deranged Norwegian referee) but ultimately because Andres Iniesta converted his side's only chance in the dying embers of that game. Once United's early onslaught had been first withstood, and then crushed by Samuel Eto'o's early goal, Iniesta picked up where he left off at Stamford Bridge. He was simply wonderful, turning in one of the most complete and memorable performances I can recall.

With his Draculoid widow's peak and mortifyingly anaemic complexion, Iniesta appears better suited to playing cameos in Addams Family films than football. To look at that deathly pallid face is to wonder what the hell's holding up the blood transfusion team. He makes Lilith Crane, Frasier's legendarily pale ex, look like Sir Alex himself after a lock-in at the claret warehouse.

We all know looks can deceive but in this case they are sociopathic liars. For whether tracking back and tackling, dribbling forward or distributing the ball with uncanny vision and precision, this is as full-blooded a midfield genius as there is in world football today, and he picked United apart.

With Messi rampant in a more fluid role than anticipated, and Xavi also superb alongside Iniesta, Barcelona swamped their opponents from the tenth minute to the last. So out of sorts were United that substitute Paul Scholes's late booking for a mistimed lunge was the first and only instance of any of their stars playing to form.

Cristiano Ronaldo started brilliantly, but quickly relapsed into the I-can-win-this-on-my-own, show pony mode of old.  Wayne Rooney was an irrelevance, Anderson an embarrassment and his replacement Carlos Tevez a frantic bystander. Nemanja Vidic's vulnerability to being turned inside out was viciously exposed, and Ryan Giggs contributed as much to this match as I did.

Had United followed Chelsea's lead and played rope-a-dope, perhaps they might have sneaked it. But whether or not he underestimated Barca, to his credit negativity has never been Sir Alex's way. And there was little shame in his men being made to look dunces by a dazzlingly clever team run by the duo, Iniesta and Xavi, I expect to power Spain to their first World Cup next summer.

As a keenly anticipated contest, this was a wretched anti-climax. As an exhibition of team football, however, it was a joy to behold.

Passionate yet clinical, expansive and industrious, endlessly creative in attack, unexpectedly solid in defence, and above all sensational in midfield where this game was won and lost, Barca were all but flawless.

And so it was that Sir Alex Ferguson metamorphosed before our eyes into the most gracious of losers. How long that will last is anyone's guess. But on reflection I suspect that he was hypnotised by the splendour of Barcelona's play, and will emerge from the trance, trusty hairdryer set to stun, soon enough.