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Ronaldo will atone for hiccup at Nou Camp

United’s striker will want to show, against Chelsea and Barcelona, that he is indeed the game’s best, writes Rohit Brijnath

Great players in football have old knees, and Cristiano Ronaldo is learning that. Constantly he is felled, kicked, pushed, by defenders whose idea of music is the sound of their outstretched boot meeting this tap-dancer’s ankle.

Perhaps Ronaldo has understood that being stalked by defenders is in some bizarre way actually a compliment.

A sort of price of genius, and as confirmation he should look at footage of the 1982 World Cup, where an emerging Maradona’s talent was confirmed by the brutal affection accorded to him by Italy’s Claudio Gentile.

Towards the end of Wednesday’s soporific encounter between Manchester United and Barcelona, Ronaldo was to be found in a familiar position, posterior attached to the ground, arms furiously semaphoring his irritation.

Like any true egoistical artist, his real frustration is that he sees himself as a performer, and thus every crude tackle brings more than mere pain, it is like an impolite interruption of The Ronaldo Show.

Philosophically, he might agree with W.G. Grace, who, on being cheaply dismissed by a bowler of unimpressive merit, apparently complained to the umpire that the crowd had come to see him bat, not the other fellow bowl.

When Ronaldo’s genius is completely unleashed, defenders are reduced to being props on his stage, but Wednesday night he was not at his best. If he was, United would probably have won, and we believe this because United losing when he is in full, flamboyant cry seems almost absurd.

Of course, Ronaldo dazzled in parts, but then on his worst days, Pavrarotti could still hit beautiful notes. Even when the Portuguese fails to make an impact, he is guaranteed to leave a memory. On Wednesday, he once went searing down the wing, and only he can go from 0-60 in two flashy seconds with the ball glued to his twitching boot.

Ronaldo is greedy, always he wants the ball. Because he wants to seize control, drive the game, impose himself, show off. His insistence on taking free kicks from improbable distances seems silly, yet it also highlights his confidence; here is a player who truly believes that he can do anything.

Yet he could not influence the match, failing to score, failing to set up the final, fatal pass, failing to demoralise the opposition, failing to convert a penalty, and, by his exalted standard, failing himself.

Reducing an 11-man team to one man seems absurd, even unfair, but while great players comprehend that the team wins, they also understand their pivotal role in the team winning. They want to make their teammates better, they also want to stand out.

Ronaldo will be dejected, for he has a natural affinity for showbiz, a man as much of Old Trafford as the Old Vic.

In England, he is acclaimed widely as football’s finest exponent, a massive pronouncement if you consider the breadth of the game, but in Europe not everyone seems as convinced. Wednesday was his stage, an opportunity to silence every whistle, and still every boo.

But genius stumbled. So did his manager, whose befuddling conservatism at the Nou Camp confirmed that even the finest leaders cannot shrug off the ghosts of old Champions League defeats.

Possibly Ronaldo is slightly tired, Sir Alex Ferguson slightly nervous. But it is not the time to be, for their job, in England and Europe, remains unfinished.

Ferguson needs to overcome Chelsea to give his league title a perfect shine, he needs to manhandle Barcelona on Tuesday to put his side in its first European final in nearly a decade.

And to do so, he will turn to Ronaldo, whose hiccup in Barcelona must have both bewildered the striker (so used to producing brilliance on command that he is) and now driven him to immediately atone.

The manager’s face is lined, the striker’s face like a boy’s, but both have been in football long enough to know all labels are temporary.

The “best club in the world,” the “best player on the planet,” are honours, after all, that have to be earned, and lived up to, every single damn day.

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