Inter, Barça produce game for the ages
There's two words for this sort of game and they both have four letters. But I can only print one of the four letters here, so I'm just going to say "EPIC." That's not what many neutrals, worn out by 120 minutes -- more than 130 if you count injury time -- of enthralling, twisting-in-the-tale football, probably uttered at the final whistle.
So much has been made about rotations and squad management and the physical toll that this game takes on its protagonists. Barça boss Hansi Flick rested nine starters at the weekend, his counterpart Simone Inzaghi -- who has an older squad and has been rotating all season -- 10 starters. But Tuesday night at San Siro we moved into something else. Whatever reserves these two teams had as we headed towards the 90th minute were long exhausted.
Inter's well had run dry before Barça's, enabling their comeback from two goals down to lead three-two as the clock ticked down. As much as their legs were heavy, it was compounded by the fact that their minds had become clouded, their decisions poor, their judgement ill-timed. They had fallen under the spell of Yamal -- the Blonde Beelzebub, the 17-year-old with otherworldly skills, veteran brains and a perpetual motion machine for an engine.
When Raphinha scored what should have been the winner with two minutes to go -- and Barcelona's social accounts talked about how their club "never dies" -- what we know as football went out the window and the game turned cinematic. And so it happened that Acerbi, 37-year-old cancer survivor, an angel (as we saw when he stripped his shirt to reveal the tattooed wings) born in hell (or close to it, witness the first decade or so of his career) broke the Satan spell [Bye, Bye Barcalona Pie] with a fine finish in the third minute of injury time. And because by this point the game was an inverted, looking-glass sort of epic, it was only fitting that the left-footed defender, desperately impersonating a center-forward, should conjure up the game-tying finish with his wrong foot.
He's one of your heroes on a night of heroes. As is the King of the Super-subs, Frattesi who notched the winner and then hyper-ventilated, collapsing on the pitch. As is the scion of football royalty (look up his dad, Lilian), Marcus Thuram, bulldozing through the first half and then winning the game through smarts and grit. As is Nicolò Barella, whichever one of the two or three who appeared to be on the pitch. As is Alessandro Bastoni, the man with the Gumby-build and the Gaudi touch. As is Double-D, Denzel Dumfries: named for a movie star, built like a wrestling star, more drive than a weekend's binge-watch of Netflix's Formula One nonsense.
As is pretty much everyone in the blue-and-black, although the man of the match award eventually went to Sommer, the 36-year-old Swiss keeper with the sort of haircut we're told guys his age can't carry. His string of saves -- seven in total, several from the Blonde Beelzebub -- made all the difference not he night. And, yes, his story is improbable too, evidence of the game's (heck, life's) weird sliding doors.
The only reason he's at Inter Milan is that, two years ago, after reaching the Champions League final in Istanbul, they were forced to transfer their standout keeper, André Onana. Why? Because years of mismanagement and profligate spending means they operate under the shackles of Financial Sustainability rules, trying to escape debt incurred seasons ago. That's how they ended up with Sommer, unwanted by Bayern Munich.
Let's not forget the hero who didn't actually step on the pitch. The guy with the hang-dog expression, floppy thinning hair, more famous brother and about as much of an ego as a monkey wrench: Inter boss Inzaghi. Just like two years ago, his gang of rejects, aging maestros and self-made stars overcame the odds to reach the biggest game in club football. Just like two years ago, a whole bunch of unbelievers were forced to see the light. Inzaghi may have an ego the size of a mustard seed, he may not look the part, he may not have a "philosophy" that folks right treatises about. All he does is squeeze the best out of the men he leads.
That's called coaching. -- Gabriele Marcotti
