During the first half of Tuesday's Madrid vs. Madrid Champions League semi-final, Cristiano Ronaldo did something remarkable. He sprinted back from a forward position to defend in midfield.
Possibly the fittest team athlete alive, Ronaldo is nonetheless a subscriber to the Donald Trump theory of physical exertion – that humans are born with a finite amount of pep that should not be wasted unnecessarily. As such, Ronaldo does not defend in games that don't matter. It's beneath him.
Unfortunately, this derby – which should by now be the most compelling rivalry in world sport – didn't quite rise to Ronaldo's aspiration.
The Portuguese scored all three goals against Atletico Madrid in a 3-0 whipping on Tuesday. The first was a muscular header. The second – a let-it-go-over-the-shoulder-and-pick-it-out-of-the-air job – was a function of obscene skill. After the third, Ronaldo shushed the ecstatic home crowd.
It was a little like Ernest Hemingway telling a bartender he'll have a sparkling water this round – bizarrely out of character.
Long before the game ended, Ronaldo was lollygagging around the field, hugging his Real Madrid teammates during breaks in play. Well, not hugging them exactly. He'd extend an arm while standing still, then wait for them to walk over and tuck themselves into his body. For once, the rest of the team seemed happy to play Ronaldo's solipsistic game.
When mercy finally took hold and the beating was allowed to stop, Ronaldo did that thing he does when he's had one of those days – looking quite serious, verging on forlorn, in sympathy with his opponents. Lots of facial moues and slight bows as he shook hands.
He made sure to collect the game ball for himself, patting the 46-year-old referee on the cheek like a child as he took it.
Ronaldo usually looks inordinately pleased with himself, but this was something more. This was a theatric rebuttal.
Nine days ago, Ronaldo's Real was shown up in the Clasico by his generational nemesis, Lionel Messi. There were no self-satisfied hugs during that match.
Later, Barcelona coach Luis Enrique called Messi "the best player in the history of the game." Messi was the focus of the comment, but he wasn't its intended audience.
Lest that wasn't clear enough, Enrique made sure to really get the heel of his hand in there with the salt: "… and I have seen a lot of football and a lot of videos."
Enrique unfurled the red cape. Ronaldo waited until he was back on a proper stage before going through it.
Since Barcelona was eliminated from this tournament two weeks ago, Atletico are the unfortunate stand-ins for the goring. It's possible they may still claw their way back into this thing in the second game of the home-and-away if they … nope, nope, stop. I can't even pretend this isn't already over. Atletico is done, which is doubly sad.
Over the past four years, Madrid's other team can lay reasonable claim to being the best soccer club on the planet. Relatively underfunded and globally obscure, they've still managed to beat the two biggest corporations of the Soccer Industrial Complex to a La Liga and Cup title. They've been in the Champions League final twice, losing both times to Real.
This is only one small slice of Atletico's tortured history with its crosstown rival. In Spain, Real is the team of strivers and the upper-middle-class bandwagon jumpers. They are popularly caricatured as the favourite side of former dictator Francisco Franco.
Atletico fans like to paint their team as the working-class resistance to Real's establishmentarianism. One popular chant directed at Real – el equipo del gobierno, la verguenza del pais (the team of the government, the shame of the country) – captures the essence.
(Atletico is less keen to point out that, owing to the club's military associations, it was initially the Franco regime's favourite. When Real found European success in the fifties, the fascists flipped allegiances. It's once again proof that politicians of all stripes are grubby marketers first. They'll get behind whatever sells.)
Now, Atletico's noisy outsiderism has begun to founder against its inability to take the final step. It's one thing for a bottom feeder to go down swinging. It's another for a favourite to repeatedly fail to connect.
For a little while, you can shrug and say, "Bad break," and people will forgive you. But that creates an expectation – that you'll get it right eventually. If love is close to hate, sympathy is adjacent to disgust. Expend enough of the former and the latter becomes inevitable.
Atletico is in that territory now. They've been on the verge for too long. They are a significant club, but not in the financial elite. Atletico's starting XI on Tuesday makes about $60-million (U.S.) a year – just a few bucks more than Ronaldo's annual pay packet.
It's likely that several of Atletico's best players – forward Antoine Griezmann, midfielder Koke, goalkeeper Jan Oblak – will soon move to richer environs. Once that happens, this mini golden age ends.
Apparently, Real's goes on forever. On Tuesday, it was possible to believe that Ronaldo will always be leading the parade.
Lately, people have been reflecting on the fact that he and Wayne Rooney were once thought of in tandem while coming up at Manchester United – the yin and yang of the sport's present, as well as its future. They were a deeply dissimilar, yet oddly matched pair.
These days, Rooney is a broken-down soccer hack. His speed and power have deserted him, leaving him with the meagre resources of his cunning. The only thing that's still elite about Rooney is his salary.
Ronaldo remains at the peak he first reached a decade ago. He may be better now. He shows no signs of deterioration, neither of physicality nor ambition. And, at 32, he's older than Rooney by nine months.
Ronaldo's got his team on track for its first double – league and Europe – since 1958. The Real of that era – Alfredo Di Stefano's Real, Ferenc Puskas's Real – is often mentioned as the greatest side in history.
No one will say that of Ronaldo's Real.
But as Enrique might aver today, perhaps it's wiser to leave the "best everisms" to future generations.
Cathal Kelly