Gavin Cooney
AND SO QATAR finally has its European Cup, and it was sealed with the greatest Champions League final performance since Barcelona left Alex Ferguson dumbstruck 14 years ago.
Paris Saint-Germain struck Gulf oil in that very same year, from which point it was possible to foresee how they would win the Champions League in precisely this style, with the biggest winning scoreline in competition history and a rout so all-encompassing that all of Europe have been put on notice.
But what was much more difficult to predict is that it would all be so. . . enjoyable. Seriously, Gulf-backed supremacy was never meant to feel so good to watch in the moment.
And, truly, the football was glorious. Vitinha’s reverse pass for Desire Doué to carve out the opening goal; the swiftness of the counter-attack for the second; Ousmane Demebele’s impudent backheel for the third; Luis Enrique’s jubilant touchline run before Kvaratskhelia even struck for the fourth; Senny Mayulu’s shocked, wild-eyed celebration of the fifth.
It would be wrong of us not to point out that these heady flourishes are the end goal of the sportswashing project; these weird, conflicted feelings is everything working as intended. So as right and proper as it is to acknowledge the underpinning motivations of the success, as you watch Luis Enrique bouncing around in celebration with his players like a giddy uncle, it feels a little churlish to be talking about it too. It was impossible not to be moved, too, by the banner unfurled by the PSG fans in tribute to Enrique’s late daughter.
Nor can it be denied that Enrique has used his ample tools to build a magnificent football team. This began when the club acknowledged the fault in their stars, and once they rid themselves of their sedentary trio of Messi, Neymar and Mbappe, Enrique could build a hungry, hardworking team capable of executing his vision which would first discover and then fulfill its own awesome potential.
Their ridding themselves of celebrity indulgence for the collective endeavour of locally-sourced youth is a seductive parable, and as ever with PSG, it’s a tale not quite so romantic when you scratch beneath the surface. PSG’s is still one of the most expensively-assembled squads in Europe: of their starting outfield players, only Fabian Ruiz cost less than €32 million. Seven of the 10 cost at least €40 million each.
Inter Milan’s Expendables just could not compete, as PSG swallowed them hole with their relentless pressing. Their hunger for work was evident from the kick-off, as PSG booted the ball directly out of play so everyone could get on with the business of working to get the ball back. Inter couldn’t play their way through such ferocity, and so their best route up the pitch were larrups up to Marcus Thuram.
Enrique exposed the flaws of Simone Inzaghi’s 3-5-2 by telling his full-backs to use all of the space available to them, and it quickly paid dividends, as right-back Achraf Hakimi found himself unmarked on the edge of the six-yard box to tap in the opening goal.
That goal was also a testament to the remarkable fluidity of Enrique’s system. Enrique, like anyone incubated at Barcelona, is a loyal 4-3-3 man, but while he wants those positions filled, he doesn’t mind who fills them. Hence the astonishing success of Ousmane Dembele at centre-forward: he has the license to pop up anywhere across the front line and often in deep midfield.
Inter’s brains were quickly scrambled by this movement. In the lead up to the first goal, centre-back Francesco Acerbi was befuddled by the fact he had nobody to mark, and so rushed madly out of position, which left space for Doué to be picked out by Vitinha and then square the ball for Hakimi.
Inter had hoped to sit deep and spring forward on the counter attack, but that plan was in tatters after the hapless Federico DiMarco turned his back and deflected Doué’s breakaway shot into the net for PSG’s second. Forced to push up after the break, PSG picked off their high line with a breathtaking kind of brutality.
After the third goal, Inter’s final became a failed exercise in avoiding humiliation.
At the end, PSG’s joy was absolute as Inter’s pain was brutal and unstinting.
Inter at least had one straightforward emotion to endure. The rest of us watching on were left to fumble through all manner of competing feelings.