Even on a relatively poor night, the greatest club footballer of all time was impossible to tame

It is the sign of an undeniably great player. Even when you take away his space, push him to the fringes for 80 minutes, make him look a shadow of his true universe-boss self; he still somehow ends up winning the day.

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There was a degree of amusement before this Champions League quarter-final when Chris Smalling suggested he was looking forward to facing Lionel Messi, that the greatest club footballer ever should come and “bring it on”. Oh, Chris. Don’t. Please. No. Chris. Stop it.

But what else was Smalling supposed to say? Messi doesn’t operate to the usual rules. When the hour strikes Messi o’clock there is no sensible form of virtualisation, no tactical prep that can lessen his impact. You are simply an extra in his game, a prop, another zombie in his shoot-em-up. May as well enjoy it if you can.

In the event United did bring it on, making Messi look like a regular human in a competition where he so often seems to be breathing a lighter air than everyone else. In the process Ole Gunnar Solskjær’s team were rewarded with arguably Messi’s most ineffective performance in England since he was a pup being kicked by Chelsea.

When the hour strikes Messi o’clock you are simply an algorithm in his game, another zombie in his shoot-em-up

If this is an achievement in itself, it is another sporting paradox that United could still lose a game 1-0 where Scott McTominay and Fred dominated midfield against one of the great club sides of the modern age; and that they could still be undone by a single breath of that Messi genius, the whole tie skewed one way with 12 minutes gone.

Old Trafford had been a boisterous place as Barcelona kicked off, those huge clanky corrugated stands gusting with cheers and songs. The goal came from a moment of La Masia gold. But it was the period of possession before that was vital, a nerve-stretching passage where the ball was shuttled in front of United’s defence, all jabs and feints and flickers, before dissolving into a perfectly-timed change of pace.

Messi had been lingering in an inside right position. Seeing Sergio Busquets take the ball he set off on a diagonal run, a vicious little thing like a knife jabbed into the guts, finding a sliver of space.

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The pass from Busquets was wonderful, flighted into that scurrying stride. Messi took the ball the way he does, hoovering it up into his feet by some as-yet unidentified process of adhesive magic, then sent it back the other way, to the yellow shirt his footballing third eye had seen lurking at the far post.

It was a lovely cross, looped up high over the defenders, then dipping down to the unmarked Luis Suárez, who nodded the ball into the corner of the net off Luke Shaw.

VAR intervened with great success, overruling a duff offside flag and leaving Suárez leaping about weirdly on his own in front of the Stretford end as the referee conjured a goal from his earpiece.

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After which United pressed and got close at times, all the while never quite getting close enough. In the middle of which Smalling did bring it on, with a moment of arm-flailing aggression that did seem to change the flow.

It wasn’t a foul, but it was a little gruesome. Messi was waiting under a high ball. From behind him Smalling came through with great force, won the ball, then caught Messi with an arm to the nose that left a gush of that precious DNA leaking on to the Old Trafford turf. Messi sat and gathered his thoughts, then got up with his eye still dripping blood.

Looking at his baffled expression – a victim of ambient force, generalised aggression – the thought occurred that this is one reason why Messi won’t ever play in England. He’d still tear up the league and score 30 goals. But you can bet something similar would happen three times a game.

This place puts years on you, takes out chunks, demands a degree of pain and additional muscle. Messi is, lest we forget, 5ft 6in and blessed with skills that bring him into constant physical contact. Everything he has achieved has been a triumph in the face of this.

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For long periods Diogo Dalot and Shaw mustered up a loose double-team on him, passing the No 10 shirt between them. In one little spell McTominay kicked at Messi three times, daring him to snap back in the way Harry Kane had the night before against Manchester City. Messi didn’t flicker. He has, dear boy, been here before.

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By now the red-shirted press was working, let down only by a lack of precision. This is not a Barcelona team full of peak-career gun players. Take Messi out of that lineup and it looks human, something that can be managed and reeled in. The only problem being, nobody has taken Messi out. He’s still here, a walking, talking away goal, a 1-0 head start made flesh.

That away goal leaves Barcelona overwhelming favourites to go through. But United will be proud of their performance and will retain the certainty that they can chase this team down; even if Messi, on perhaps his poorest night in England, remains impossible to tame completely.