Barça vs Inter Post Mortem: The Game that changed Everything

They say that fate is a cruel mistress; it makes you believe you’re larger than life. Unstoppable. Unrelenting. Unyielding. But fate is also indifferent; it doesn’t care about your delusions of grandeur. Fate is unpredictable. Unreliable. Unforgiving.

In many ways, the Champions League is also a cruel mistress; it lures you in with promises of plenty: a glimpse of the mountain of gold, a dragon slain and fate fulfilled. But in the end, it can leave you with nothing. Broken. Beat. And scarred. One of the main reasons why might be that the Champions League is also a competition rarely decided by quality alone. Instead, it’s decided by moments. Whoever controls their moments better is often the winner.

When you compare that to the domestic league, it’s easy to understand why it’s generally not sufficient to be the best to actually be crowned the best. To conquer fate, strength alone is not enough. You see, in a league format, quality will always shine through across several months of a single campaign. In spite of random moments of fortune and misfortune alike, teams often get what they deserve in the end. For better or worse. In that sense, you only ever depend on yourself and your strength. Many find solace in that.

In the Champions League, however, standard rules of football don’t apply.

In the Champions League, a moment can mean the difference between joy and despair.

In the Champions League, a moment decides games, campaigns and sometimes even careers.

In the Champions League, a moment makes your biggest dreams come true and break and shatter alike.

In the Champions League, a moment lasts a lifetime.

And Barcelona’s moment in the sun against Inter still keeps me up at night, like a demon that poisons your mind. But you know what they say about your demons… There comes a time when you simply have to face them.

So today, face them we shall.

A roulette of moments

Hansi Flick’s tactical approach this season has been dubbed a game of roulette. Obviously, with Barcelona being a team that likes to ride the margins, it makes sense. They live on the edge with their effective, albeit highly risky, high defensive line, they ride their momentum better than most and ultimately bank on their ability to beat any opponent into submission before they can cause them any real danger. A roulette, while not necessarily always accurate, is an apt name for it.

But there is only so many times a game of roulette will go your way. Sooner or later, luck runs out. Sooner or later, you’ll be staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. And sooner or later, the piper will need to be paid. For Barca, he came to collect on the sixth of May, a date still firmly etched in our brains.

The more I think about it, however, the more I believe fate, as cruel as she was on that day - and she was undeniably and utterly cruel - was still on our shoulder, whispering tales of greatness; of destiny. You see, these are the types of games where teams are baptised by fire, moulded by heartbreak and ultimately reborn through shattered dreams. These are the types of games where boys are turned into men and men are turned into gods.

Barcelona, as young and as naive as they were, thought strength and power would be sufficient to beat Inter. After all, they were the superior team on paper, superior in form and superior in momentum. But they were also a bunch of boys marching into the mist of the unknown. And we know strength alone is not enough to claim the Champions League crown. Not against that Inter team. Simone Inzaghi’s Inter team. It was not strength against strength. Not power against power. Not quality against quality. No; it was strength against cunning. Youth against experience. Naivety against maturity. Sadly, there was only ever going to be one winner in that coliseum that night. And it wasn’t going to be Barça.

Barcelona could not control their moments, neither at Montjuic nor at San Siro. Across those two games, they had seven big chances, scoring three. They attempted 19 shots on target, ultimately scoring six goals. They also hit the woodwork four times. Inter, on the other hand, had six big chances, scoring all six. They attempted 10 shots on target, ultimately scoring seven goals. They also hit the woodwork zero times.

For one, clear chances, sometimes harder to miss than to score, were botched. For the other, flicks, backheels, volleys and set-pieces were all capitalised on. For one, that night was blunt and inefficient. For the other, the stars had perfectly aligned. One failed to control their moments. The other dominated them.

The roulette had been spun and at that moment, the loaded gun was pointing straight at Flick. At that moment, the whole season came crashing down. At that moment, dreams were shattered. Bang. And you’re dead.

But… Post nubila, phoebus. After the rain, comes the sun.

Perspective

I’m not here to tell you something you didn’t already know. For that reason, the way you decide to experience this Champions League loss is entirely on you and has likely already been long decided. Perhaps you’ll take this failure at face value. I mean, why not, right? Because there is no escaping the fact this was a setback; it was heartbreak in a season that promised glory would return to Catalonia. And failure is pain. Failure is bleak. Failure is dark. At face value, however, there is no room for the fine print. At face value, failure will only ever be exactly that — failure.

But football, just like life itself, is rarely black or white. The truth, while certainly objective in nature, has nuance. And context. And a perspective. The same goes for emotions and analysis. I could tell you that statistically, Barcelona were in fact superior to Inter in several key metrics. Even if we delve deeper into the advanced data, you could still present a coherent, objective argument that Flick’s team was the better team of the two in that tie. And you wouldn’t be wrong.

Barça had more possession. Barça had more shots. Barça had more big chances. And yet, Inter scored more goals. Objectively speaking, they were the better team even if objectively speaking, Barcelona did more to win. And no one can take that away from either of them. So I won’t even attempt it; the purpose of this piece is not to discredit Inter’s success. Far from it.

In fact, I could even talk about Barcelona’s shaky pressing structures that allowed easy progression to their rivals. Or their great inefficiency in both boxes. Or their impatience with the finish line within touching distance. The cold analysis favours the victors even if advanced data claims they were closer to being dominated than being the dominator despite their victory. The mind says the result is what ultimately matters.

The heart, however, tells me not all is lost. And sure, Barcelona may have been damaged by fallible referees, rotten luck and yes, even fate herself. But it also tells me Barcelona could’ve or even should’ve won in spite of all those things. Underneath all that pain is the fine print. The one the best salesmen put at the very bottom of a 100-page contract. The one the devil himself hides in plain sight. And if you don’t squint your eyes, you’ll more than likely miss it.

For failure is pain but also gratitude. Failure is bleak but also essential. Failure is dark but also illuminating. Pep Guardiola’s legendary Barcelona team started off their crusade with a shock defeat. Luis Enrique’s treble-winning squad was questioned until they could be questioned no more. And Flick’s machine had to be derailed when the world seemed to be at their mercy. Struggle breeds excellence.

Where most only find failure at face value, choose to see the bigger picture. Greatness does not come overnight. And fortune favours the bold.

So be bold, believe in the process, squint your eyes, read the fine print and rejoice.

Because until death, all defeat is only psychological.

And we are Barça. We never die.