As promised in my last post, I left the fawning over Messi to after the final. And just as he had done in EVERY knockout round of the tournament, Messi stood up to be counted, and delivered BIG TIME. Which was very considerate of him to make it very easy to write my final post of 2022 by waxing lyrically about the wonder that is Lionel Messi.
Sport in general, and certainly football, is littered with examples of finals being played that struggle to meet the grand expectations bestowed upon it, where two teams nullify each other to the point of it becoming - a still intriguing contest - but more of a chess match. Cagey, tight. No pizzazz.
This was quite simply the best World Cup final of my lifetime. Involving the best player on the planet, playing to the best of his abilities. Dragging his team through to a glorious end. That it also involved his heir apparent who was likely the most miserable recipient of a souvenir match ball at a World Cup is just mind blowing.
It was almost an extremely routine game. Argentina, driven by the urge to crown their king were first, second and third to the ball. France didn’t get out of first gear, with their midfield completely overrun. I’ve always found Di Maria to be an infuriating player. Brilliantly talented, but inconsistent and a penchant to fall down upon being assaulted by a slight breeze. But he was great here, all tricks and incisiveness & when alone with Dembele to “defend” him, there was only one outcome. Well two actually if you count the unceremonious hook before half time to end the Frenchman’s involvement. The 2nd goal was a thing of beauty, the best team goal of the tournament and while no jubilant Argentinian fan would admit it, one that evoked memories of Brazil 1970. Lovely.
But as if a finale of a horror film trilogy, after seeing off Australia and Holland in movies I & II, the final episode of how to chuck away a comfortable 2-0 lead proved to be the most dramatic. Otamendi finally exposed his lack of pace and liability status, while Mbappe clearly trying to catch the eye of Sean Dyche, gave a refined Wout Weghorst impression and pulled France back level, his second goal a thing of beauty. Game on.
Extra time was just the best illustration of the fine margins at this level. Chances missed, great saves - none more so by Martinez in the last minute, and a knockout punch delivered by Messi, being in the right place to slot home, only to be sucker punched by a trailing arm and a nerveless Mbappe penalty.
Exhausted (just from watching), we went to penalties. Of course we did. How could we not be treated to Emi Martinez and his shithousery masterclass. It’s not for everyone I get, and we don’t need to dwell on the ‘glove celebration’, but my god he is good at it. And it is ridiculously effective. Trumping his Copa America efforts, the French youngsters were no match for him (although credit Mbappe - & take note Harry - for dispatching his 3rd penalty past him with ease).
And that. Was that. On balance, a great effort to pull out of their malaise mid-game by the French, the young subs providing a dynamic view into the future. And in Mbappe the undisputed star to build around. But for their endeavour and control over the first 70 minutes, and the mercurial Leo, the right team just squeaked it for me.
The uneasy off-field realities of this World Cup were only too close by. It was hard not to reflect a little during the ceremony on the fact that Qatar had bought this World Cup, it’s final played out by two stars who play for a club team owned by the Qatar state, with a cozy and comfortable French president fanboy in close attendance - returning my mind to the FIFA Netflix documentary pre-tourney & Sarkozy, Platini and the Emir of Qatar. A forever blemish on a diamond of a sporting spectacle.
But just as the Emir would want, I can’t and won’t finish on such a low note. Let’s get back to Messi. I’m a little worn out from hearing endless debate post-game on whether he is the best of the best (he is), so let’s stop that now. It really doesn’t matter if you think Pele or Maradona rank equally or higher. We’re talking generational talents. Let’s enjoy the moment, he’s the best of his era, who at 35 found an extra level to harness all of his powers to win his country a world championship. This will forever be the Messi World Cup. Legend.
And with that, I box up all the euphoria, and acclimatize to the unique detox of a winter World Cup. It’s Christmas next week, and somehow I’m expected to navigate the quagmire of apologizing to Mrs C for being absent from all holiday planning (& everything else this past month!) while subtlety dropping into conversation that I need to carve out some alone time next week to watch the slightly less dramatic spectacle of Everton v Wolves…..what would Leo do?
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