The art of the finisher

Sergio Aguero celebrates

There are few things that compare to the joy of putting the ball in the back of the net. In the immediate two seconds after the glorious act, the world is a better place; unclouded, devoid of thought or action, a bliss that seems to cloud all else.

As you make the inevitable journey back into the imperfect world inhabited by mortals, to celebrate the goal in the way of your choosing, there remains a portion of your mind that yearns to return to that moment in time, when everything was just so right. Of course, by then, the euphoria that comes with scoring explodes onto the scene, and you are left surrendering to you far baser urges, caught up in this next moment with your mates.

Quite a picture, isn’t it? One that drives every footballer who associates himself with the tag of a “predator”; as opposed to the multitudes that clamour after the much celebrated “artist” who takes center-stage in every line-up the world over, courtesy of that elusive ability to showcase this game for what it truly is – a pursuit of beauty as pure and instinctive as any other.

But in this, the world of the poacher, there is but one pursuit; chasing the fickle mistress that is the goal. And she is a cruel mistress too; let us make no mistake about that.

One minute she is yours to take, in any way that you should so desire, and the joy that fills you up in every minute you are together is indescribable; minutes out there on the pitch where you can seemingly do no wrong, and the plaudits just keep coming.

And in the next minute, she is gone; and where once there was confidence, ruthlessness and flair, all that remains is self-doubt, uncertainty and an ever-escalating sense of panic in front of goal. It seems to loom larger and larger at every sight of goal, not unlike the uncomfortable moments one has when one comes across a particularly volatile ex-flame while crossing the street, or in a mall.

And you wonder, for the millionth time perhaps, how it turned out to be this way. Where once there was love and passion in those eyes, now all you see is a cold, icy indifference. This is the world of the goal scorer; he is hopelessly, irreversibly in love with a tempestuous mistress, one who flits with him at her heart’s content.

Somewhere Fernando Torres is waking, screaming from the same nightmare that has haunted him for years.

And yet, our protagonist chooses to be on this path that liberates him, cages him, then lets him go; a fool at the mercy of the goal. And before the reader says a prayer for the striker, and begins to hear the death knell announcing a near-certain doomsday, let me regale you with tales of the marksmen who have made this game so much richer.

Sergio Aguero scores the first goal during the Manchester Story

My personal favorite, among the current crop plying their trade in Europe’s top leagues (I said Europe because a certain Frenchman is now too busy #Henrying in the good old US of A), is the Argentine Sergio Agüero. Still only 25 years old, it seems like we have been hearing about “Kun” Agüero for a very long time now. Not surprising, since he still holds the record for being the youngest ever player to compete in the Argentinian top flight, at the tender age of 15 years and 35 days.

The diminutive Argentine is a supremely talented footballer; sure of touch and possessing a graceful poise on the ball, his pace and dribbling ability allying to make him near-unstoppable at the mere hint of any space. But by God, his ability in front of goal! Just how good is this guy?

The latest version of the Manchester derby provided a better answer than any of us could think of. His wonderfully instinctive finish to hand Manchester City the lead was a moment of rare class that would bring a smile to the face of his son’s abuelito, a notoriously demanding man known to everyone else as Diego Maradona.

The striker prides himself on his instinctiveness, and his belief, above all else. In a footballing world that dissects every little detail on the pitch, it is only that unique quality within you that can propel you to greatness.

Wayne Rooney himself said it best – “The more instinctive stuff, when the ball comes and you’ve got to do something quick, that’s brilliant. When that happens, I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do, so the defenders have got no chance of knowing! It just takes over you, the ball comes and you don’t really realise what you’ve done until it’s happened.”

Through all the philosophy, I can hear the million-dollar question coming from a mile away – what of the game’s two biggest superstars? Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo, coming from hitherto unknown galaxies, have taken the art to a whole new level; their all-encompassing skill set in the modern game makes the “art of the finisher” a highly polished tool in their already burgeoning arsenal.

Admittedly one that adds a couple of zeroes to the hefty fees they command, no doubt. And yes, if you were to ask them, an ability that gives them a joy matched by hardly anything else out there on the pitch. And why not, I say? The goal is a very tempting mistress, as you can see by the expression on a centre half’s face when he notches up his first goal in the top flight after ten years in the game.

But those two (and a few select others) are not servants to the whims and fancies of the goal; she cannot hold them prisoner for too long. Their unmatched scoring charts notwithstanding, the duo has far too much to offer the game than just that act of putting the ball in the back of the net.

As for the rest of them, scoring goals is like Christmas in July; a make-believe land that you inhabit for the few seconds you are allowed to enter, and then return home, awash with that warm glow of self-satisfaction.

The striker, however, will forever be at her mercy, and she will punish him and pleasure him at her will. But there is a promised land awaiting those that can tame this wild, harsh queen of their hearts.

One where Raúl González and Ruud Van Nistelrooy sit, sipping champagne, laughing off all those days in the spotlight; for it was the nights, plagued by self-doubt, that they remember all too clearly. Filippo Inzaghi flashes a smile as he walks by; Alan Shearer and Gary Lineker high-five you. A gentle nod of acknowledgement comes from a quiet Gabriel Batistuta, while Ronaldo and Romario jabber away in a corner.

Pele sits in a throne a mile away, grumbling something about sharing the Player of the Century award. Maradona, of course, is infernally convinced that he likes the “artist” club much better, but then he goes wherever he wants to anyway. Legends stroll about, each accepting of the new face, to them a brother as much as any other there. Good times indeed.