It was Sant Jordi but for Barcelona the club there was supposed to be little cause for celebration.

Neymar, whose joy has lifted a side who has had little of it throughout an inconsistent season, was banned amidst controversy. His focus on the game more resolute than ever, he was prohibited from playing nonetheless. The noise the board of directors made, the legal gamble, the pulling out at the last minute… it was all too much of a reminder of the club’s culture of victimism that they had worked so hard to leave behind, a sorry relapse that put into question a change in mentality that had done the club- and city- good. Regardless of whether worthy of ‘applause’, the club’s antics did less to protect their player than to highlight their own shortcomings.

So, in Neymar, Lionel Messi was left not only without his partner in crime but also without a friend. But, blood spit to the side, as he endured tackle after tackle, this was business.

From the Barcelona perspective, the team dynamic heading into the Clásico couldn’t be worse. One team was built on faith, the other quickly losing it as an outgoing coach’s brash pragmatism symbolised not only a changing of a guard but a different club model altogether. Identity and style were thrust to the forefront, the crisis not of results but existential.

For Zidane’s squad, it was more than 50 consecutive matches scoring at least one goal, a historic Champions League confidence and superiority translating into a mentality that means late goals are a divine right, not a surprise. To the point that it is as inexplicable as it is expected, like Zizou himself.



Barcelona, in turn, saw a team built around MSN be held goalless by one of the top defences in Europe, a quarter-final Champions League exit a painful reflection of a team without ideas nearing its supposed end. The fragility, the highs and lows, an overall vulnerability meant this squad is capable of anything and everything, and not necessarily in a good way, which for a club that once cherished control is as terrifying a thought as they come.

The direction the team was heading, the ‘feel’ around the dressing room led by a man who has already announced his exit and will leave a mixed legacy, was one of unravelling. The group psychology had been inevitably and understandably hit hard by what had transpired in recent weeks and months.

But the greatest to ever play the game doesn’t care about context.

Unlike Pique, he doesn’t care about the goings on in the director’s box. He knew all about where the club stood and more, understood the moment, and silently cast it all aside.

With each touch, he turned cool detachment and apathy from some culés (myself included) into uncontrollable exuberance, nerves into pride, doubt into belief.

Most of all, it was a tale of suffering turned into lore, a story worthy of the day in which the match was played. A celebration of a legend, who like Sant Jordi, and despite being seen by many, is still difficult to believe possible, as if a matter of myth.

For after everything he did on Sunday night, while some may struggle for superlatives, this was oddly, in a way, Messi at his most human.



If he is a God, this was him getting bloodied. Never had he provided this much clarity. Never had he been so free.

There were too many tackles, too many football and emotionally charged obstacles, for him to not appear both divine and, at the same time, one two-footed challenge away from a fall from grace (as could have been the case had he left his foot in when Ramos lunged and saw red).

While the Argentine excelled, he also suffered. No Neymar, a board he’s had his differences with, an overall steady decline of the team’s positional play, squad planning not in line with the club’s ambitions, not to mention a coach already on his way out… he rescued a side from fatigue, self-doubt, devoid from sustainable leadership at times, and from inconceivable depths.



This was a Clásico about survival at all costs, and although Messi has had plenty of masterclasses of similar magnitude, this might be the greatest moment of his career precisely because of all that surrounded him. With that much adversity, it still feels strange to mention such a thing because it very well may only stand true until his next 90 minutes. As Iniesta pointed out in his post-match comments, there is somehow still the element of surprise.

From that foundation, the team followed suit, a collective improvement in play that seemed unimaginable given what came before. It all started with Messi, like it always does, but it wasn’t just him.



Messi showed his teammates that however lost they’d been, whatever they’d felt, whatever the collective void, that they could believe in him. Marc Andre ter Stegen, never to shy away from a chance to reveal his character, took that to heart, save after save parallel to Lionel’s dribble after dribble. Messi paved the highway so Sergi Roberto could continue to show that his football knows no positions. Messi told a criticised Alba that although the system doesn’t need him, he does. Paco Alcacer was teammate not signing or sub, while standing on the wing. Messi told Andre Gomes, who after a disappointing first season, that it is ok that your head may be spinning and all over the place, that amidst the chaos there can be calm. After several Xavi-like head glances in all directions, you can still find an inspirational, redeeming and serene ‘pausa’.

Such a back and forth match, with so many ebbs and flows, should never have gone Barcelona’s way, Zidane’s Madrid forgiving them time and again. The danger and fragility were always there, amplified if anything. This wasn’t a different Barcelona. This was the same one which Messi took to an unhealthy extreme.



The last-gasp winning goal was a return back to Barcelona’s roots. The build-up and positional play was as traditional and unifying as dancing the Sardana. Jordi Alba’s cross was as slow as Neymar’s for Sergi Roberto’s outstretched boot during the PSG remuntada. It was so unhurried, so measured, you could see it go in before it happened. There was silence from those that knew before.



The iconic photo of the celebration drew so many parallels with the PSG tie, but Valentine’s day is not the same as Sant Jordi, despite the similarities in holidays about love. If February 14th is global, Sant Jordi is distinctly Catalan in its rituals, even if the same patron saint is also a reason for festivities elsewhere. Eventually, UNESCO labelled April 23 World Book Day and the customs were exported worldwide, just like the club itself over the past decade.

With Messi, with the club he leads, Catalans can again be proud, while the rest of the globe are also deeply involved in the festivities. Las Ramblas, that wide-street tourists flock to and locals usually avoid, was filled with books and roses for all, a healthy exchange amongst equals as is tradition, a joining together for the day at least.

For on this day, Messi gifted us both: his play as poetic and encyclopedic as any prose, as simple, fierce, blood-red, erect and defiant as a single rose.