Manchester United 1-3 Barcelona: The Good, the Bad and the Michael Carrick

And so it was that two seasons on from the 2009 debacle in Rome, Barcelona were to condemn Manchester United to yet another defeat. And this time it would come to pass at Wembley which is arguably home turf for United after the number of Charity Shields, FA Cups and Carling Cups they have contested there.

With the bitter taste of a Champions League silver medal lingering like cyanide in our mouths, most United fans are looking for an outlet for their frustration. Unfortunately, with the greatest of apologies, this is no such outlet: we will not present Dani Alves and Sergio Busquets any trophies for Oscar-worthy turns in the roles of "Sniper Victim No. 1 and No. 2". Nobody will claim that Barcelona should never have got through the semifinals.

Instead the choice was made to analyze—in the harsh, sobering light of the post-match—what exactly was good about the game. And what went wrong. And what went really wrong. And Michael Carrick.

The Good

Unlike the "controversial" (in order to keep things civil) semi-finals between Barcelona and Real Madrid, La Blaugrana decided to play football instead of auditioning for a Quentin Tarantino remake of Schindler's List. Xavi, Iniesta and *shudder* Busquets were so dominant in central midfield that at one point the local police department began organizing search parties for Michael Carrick.

Barcelona's dominance was encapsulated midway through the second half by a single cringe-inducing statistic:

Passes Completed:

Xavi—74 (95 percent)

Carrick—19 (78 percent)

For the umpteenth time on the big stage, United's best player was Park Ji Sung. The Korean successfully fended off Dani Alves on the left flank for much of the game. He even found the time and energy to sprint into central midfield and track Lionel Messi a couple of times.

However, with Barcelona's midfield trio bossing the game and United's midfield duo avoiding the ball like the plague, Park often found himself ball-chasing much like a playful Cocker Spaniel (or as his friends know it, 'dinner').

Fabio was reminiscent of a young Gary Neville on the right wing—that is if Gary Neville had a great left foot, could cut in and make ridiculous plays. He had the measure of Pedro until he was substituted by United's resident Michael Jackson look-alike and Fergie's foolproof medication against low blood pressure.

With the arrival of Paul Scholes came a bit more organization about Manchester United. The past master managed, unlike the departed Carrick, to at least maintain spells of possession even if it was only passing to and from the back four. The burning question remains as to why Sir Alex chose to start a woeful Michael Carrick, who seemed to think he was already playing Europa League football with Tottenham Hotspur next season.

It is hard to tell whether Scholes had time on the ball due to his superior skill, Xavi and Iniesta's respect for him or due to the fact that Barcelona believed (quite rightly, as it turned out) their job was already done. Regardless, they sat off him and he managed to piece together a few attacking plays that would have done United a world of good earlier on in the match.

It is hard to talk about Barcelona without mentioning Lionel Messi. The little Argentine was simply relentless and, even though at least seven United players put their bodies on the line at various points, found a way onto the score sheet.

The same may be said of David Villa, who has endured a torrid time of late. But credit must be given where it is due and in the 69th minute, all of that was swept away with an exquisite curler that beat the best goalkeeper in the world all ends up. At this point, the writer's fingers spontaneously began spouting blood, putting an end to any polite words penned about Barcelona.

A sad nod also to Edwin van der Sar who kept United in the game with some fine saves, but is unable to add to his collection of Champions League winner medals in the last game of his career.

The Bad

It seems a moot point to include any Barcelona player here. But only Javier Mascherano will know what he was doing at the heart of Barcelona's defence for about 80 minutes. On multiple occasions, he was bypassed by Rooney and Chicharito like a faded speed-limit sign. And when Rooney swept the ball into the far corner for United's only goal, Mascherano was to be found launching into a slide tackle so late that he might get there during next season's final. 

There is a school of thought that appreciates Michael Carrick as an astute passer from a deep-lying position. That is a fair statement, but when placed under the slightest duress, his inconsistencies surface with an alarming frequency.

Midfield maestros such as Paul Scholes and Xavi Hernandez are far more composed under pressure, which simply begs the question of why he was deployed in midfield when the midfielders were clearly under no instructions whatsoever to close down Barcelona's trio. One can just imagine Xavi and Iniesta wetting themselves in glee upon finding out that they were to take on Carrick instead of Scholes.

Whether to place Michael Carrick here or in the subsequent section was a hard decision, but he was given the benefit of doubt. In an eerie deja vu of the final in Rome, United pressed Barcelona well during the first 10 minutes and twice got in behind their defence only for Victor Valdes to scramble the ball away.

At this point, rumour has it that Carrick was summoned for duty in NATO's ongoing game of hide-and-seek versus the Taliban (who recently lost the first round when their player was found somewhere in Pakistan). So impressive was his performance that no one saw the faintest trace of him for the rest of the game.

The Downright Ugly

Carles Puyol deserves mention here along with Wayne Rooney simply because this section carries the word "ugly" in the title.

However, this section was created purely with one player in mind. In today's final, the player in question furnished the "French surrender" joke-scribes with an entire crate of ammunition. Even the most sloshed of United fans took less than 30 minutes to realize that Patrice Evra was having a shocker.

It seemed not to matter whether Messi, Pedro or Villa was running at him: the Frenchman waved them through almost habitually. How it is possible to be awestruck by someone the size of Lionel Messi only Evra will know, but he was caught ball-watching more often than a fortune teller.

He seemed to be in the neighbouring county when Pedro ghosted in for the first goal and took so long to close Messi down for the second that he might as well have stopped for dinner en route. In the same way Sir Alex has been experimenting with Fabio as a left-footed right-back, might he decide that it is time to use Rafael as a right-footed left-back?

Overall

It is no use pretending that United and Barcelona were on a level playing field. No United fan, no matter how deluded we were, came into this game believing that the Red Devils were favourites. They were always the underdogs and that prediction held true.

But this time United gave an account of themselves. They dominated for the first 10 minutes and hit back after Barcelona went ahead. At half time, there was everything to play for. And again after Barcelona opened up a two-goal lead, United sprung to life and began to press them. Barcelona may have walked away with the trophy and majority of possession, but an irrefutably weaker United side than in Rome gave an irrefutably stronger performance.

So yes, the Red Devils gave a solid account of themselves. In spite of the little genius that is Lionel Messi. In spite of the past master that is Xavi. In spite of the writhing twins that are Busquets and Alves. But most of all, in spite of the walking disaster that is Michael Carrick.

So are we to hang our heads in shame? Are we to make excuses, blame the referee (incidentally, where is Howard Webb when we need him to settle a big final) and hurl insults at the Barcelona squad?

Not a chance. United fans may hold their heads high, proud in the knowledge that a ragtag group of players—who were doomed to fail by all the voices of reason—lifted the Premier League trophy and reached the pinnacle of European football: the Champions League final.

So what must they feel? Indeed, what must WE feel?

Not angry. Not disappointed. Just pride—burning hot, glowing pride—and optimism for next season...