The Beautiful Game

Speechless.

It's been a couple of hours now since the final whistle, and I'm still speechless. I'm not sure even the most talented and experienced writer could come up with the appropriate words to describe it, never mind a blogging beginner such as myself. I mean, what should I write? If you didn't see it there's nothing I can say that could adequately describe what you missed. If I were to fill the blog top to bottom with superlatives, it still wouldn't cover it. After all, no amount of superlatives can describe perfection.

Think I'm exaggerating? Carried away? Just get yourself onto BBCi, or find one of those replays in the early hours of the morning, or find a mate who's taped it. Watch the game, then try and tell me I'm exaggerating.

When the referee blew the whistle to begin the game it was as if the curtain had been lifted on a company of the world's finest performing artistes; prepared down to the finest detail, ready to deliver the performance of their lives. The ball began to glide from one navy blue shirt to another with such effortlessness; barely touching the turf but, of course, never leaving it. Such was the ease with which the pace was increased and reduced, you would have been forgiven for thinking that the players had been been fitted with gears by formula one car mechanics. And surely nothing but telepathy can explain the demonstration of awareness, movement and vision that was given this afternoon.

Hang on a minute, there's another game being shown on my TV at the moment. What can it be? Surely not a World Cup match? Surely the tournament ended at 3.50pm today? They couldn't even dare to think about awarding the trophy to anyone else now could they?

Let me try and return to earth for long enough to actually recap the game. To begin, 6 minutes of pacing around like a lion watching a zebra from the bushes. Then came the pounce. First time pass followed first time pass with blue shirts buzzing like wasps around defenders resembling startled picnickers who've just opened the strawberry jam. The ball seemed to make one continuous movement from Saviola's first pass to hitting the top corner of the net 6 passes and Rodriguez' finish later.

That was only the first goal, and that was sublime enough. What happened 25 minutes later deserves to become the stuff of legend. A 24 pass string, involving every outfield player, with opposition players becoming mere spectators, looking on in admiration like the other 52000 in the stadium. It was as if the players had an agreement that the final ball and finish were not permitted until only the greatest goal ever would result. Who could argue that, when Saviola found Cambiasso who found Crespo who backheeled to Cambiasso who crashed it past the keeper, all of the above played, naturally, first time, the result was exactly that. This was not a goal, it was an exhibit from the museum of footballing artistry. One can only wonder what position it would subsequently take in World Cup history had the scorer been wearing a shirt of gold. My guess is that it is destined to become a precious artefact gathering dust in a corner, unappreciated, undervalued, forgotten. Well not to anyone who saw it.

After the mesmeric Saviola had humiliated another unfortunate onlooker in a white shirt to create another goal for Rodriguez just before half time, it appeared that their work may be complete. The second half became a victory procession, the crowd (still including the opposition) priveleged to be there to pay 45 minutes of homage after the exhibition given in the first half. Then, as if reappearing after spending half an hour backstage listening to uninterrupted adulation, they graced their public with an encore to cement the afternoon's place in the memory of all who were witness to it.

For the final act, they were joined by Messi. His arrival like that of a young prince being paraded before the subjects of his future rule. For the time he was on the pitch, the ball barely left his feet. It did briefly as he supplied Crespo with a fourth goal, and again as Tevez crafted a fifth. It was the prince however, that rightly had the last word; his entourage clearing the way for him to accept the acclaim with the 6th, and final, outstanding goal. We shall surely not have long to wait for his coronation.

Argentina. Today you achieved greatness. Today you played the beautiful game. Thank you.

Sorry? Did I hear someone venture that it was just like watching Brazil? Thought not.

You wouldn't dare.