Natural eagerness to shower unstinting acclaim on the virtuosity and grace with which Barcelona took absolute control of the Champions League final should not prevent recognition of Manchester United’s stark inadequacy on a Rome night when their reaction to the early loss of a goal resembled a collective nervous breakdown. Memories of the occasion will rightly be dominated by images of the men whose masterly technique and flawlessly co-ordinated creativity made Barcelona’s play from the midfield forward a heartwarming reminder of how beautiful football can be. But, though my admiration for Xavi Hernandez, Andres Iniesta and Lionel Messi is just about boundless (a friend refers to me as the chairman of the Iniesta fan club), it seems obligatory to acknowledge that on Wednesday their gifts were granted a freedom of expression they must have found astonishing with continental supremacy at stake.

Even those who think the suggestion that United were comprehensively unnerved is excessive cannot deny that they looked less like determined challengers to the maestros confronting them than the awestruck audience at a recital. The ranks of the losers were awash with players whose general misery over the result had to be compounded by a gnawing sense of personal culpability. Some fell so far short of their best standards that at times it appeared Sir Alex Ferguson had replaced the 2008 club champions of Europe and the world, and the winners this season of a third consecutive Premier League title, with a bunch of dullard doppelgangers. This performance may haunt many of the individuals involved for the rest of their days. They were invited to inscribe their names in football history but by the end of the evening the anonymity of an ‘X’ might have been a desirable refuge.

It will be argued, of course, that United were reduced to jittery impotence by the shock of close-quarters exposure to midfield play of a purposeful sophistication and imaginative range currently unique to Barcelona. Undoubtedly they have a comfortable intimacy with the ball and an ability to retain possession of it and to use it as an instrument of torture that are not only utterly exceptional in the present era but have rarely been matched in the past. They have demonstrated that they sweepingly transcend the limitations discernible elsewhere in La Liga and recently underlined by the Champions League embarrassments of Real Madrid.

Understandably, the linking in the mind of Spain’s exhilarating coronation at Euro 2008 with the midweek happenings in Rome inclines many to the view that what was witnessed at the Stadio Olimpico was a triumph of one football culture over another. But there are basic difficulties with that interpretation. An emphasis on physical power in the Premier League does too often encourage a sabre charge mentality but United have been resolutely immune to that tendency. They have always sought pace as a key weapon but when at their most effective their high-tempo aggression has consistently been distinguished by the quality of their passing and the inventiveness of their penetration.

Thus there was reason to expect that they would communicate their ambitions in the same language as the opposition, if in a slightly less refined accent, and that superior athletic capacity might give them an edge. Hopes that they could outsurge Barcelona lasted just nine minutes, during which time Victor Valdes and the defenders in front of him were plunged into such a state of panic and vulnerable disarray that United could easily have taken the lead. Then, in a few seconds, the entire pattern of the action was transformed. A weak and desperately ill-advised attempt at a headed pass in the middle of the pitch by Michael Carrick provided Barça’s first glimpse of an attacking opportunity and almost immediately the great Iniesta was on a driving run towards the penalty area that enabled him to angle the ball precisely into the path of Samuel Eto’o to his right. When Eto’o moved effortlessly inside Nemanja Vidic’s clumsily incompetent effort at interception and rammed his shot in low off the despairing thrust of Edwin Van der Sar’s left hand the significance of the moment extended far beyond the scoring of a goal. It marked the evisceration of United’s self-belief and the instant burgeoning of Barcelona’s.

The failures that led to the blow brimmed with omens that would be emphatically fulfilled. Carrick went on to have a nightmarish 80-odd minutes and Vidic’s blunder proved the worries about his form that had persisted since his composure was dismantled by Fernando Torres during Liverpool’s 4-1 victory at Old Trafford in March were all too justified. The Serbian, for so long the epitome of combative reliability at the back, was a shambling embodiment of uncertainty (in vivid contrast to Gerard Piqué, the young centre-half who returned to Barcelona from United) and much the same could, remarkably, be said of United’s defensive work as a whole. Few of us in the stadium found it possible to remember another match in which they so frequently exhibited damaging ineptitude in defence. Nor could the flaws be explained away by references to the opposition’s excellence. United’s penchant for unforced blundering was devastatingly illustrated when Messi, one of the shortest players on the park, was able to head in Barça’s second goal after 70 minutes because he had been left in an acre of space on the six-yard line.

Of course, under-achievement was epidemic throughout the team. Anderson was so ineffectual he was withdrawn at the interval, wherever Ji-Sung Park went in his 66 minutes on the field almost invariably turned out to be the wrong place and the often marvellous veteran Ryan Giggs was scarcely less influential after being taken off with quarter of an hour remaining than he had been previously. But the worst disappointment was Wayne Rooney. No great footballer’s contribution to a major final can ever have been more damningly negligible. Some thought Cristiano Ronaldo was equally insignificant but the Portuguese, though as unconvincing as the rest eventually, at least showed early signs he was ready to deliver and he might have had substantial impact if his teammates had been able to exploit his pace.

Rooney never promised anything and the claims he was totally undone by tactics that isolated him out wide don’t wash. Tactics didn’t make Manchester United passive victims of Barcelona’s brilliance. That nervous breakdown did.

Confident Kinane can soar on Sea The Stars

A familiar quiet voice on the telephone from County Kildare put an itch in the punting fingers on Friday. Michael Kinane has been prominent in a quorum of expert friends who have strived benignly over the years to mitigate the consequences of my tendency in matters equine to mix erratic judgment with financial vehemence. The master jockey’s help has nothing to do with tipping. Kinane, who will be 50 in three weeks, has been winning Classics and other major races in bunches around the world for more than 25 years and enlightenment about horses is conversational currency.

So attention had to be paid on Friday when, having just partnered Sea The Stars in the colt’s final serious gallop in preparation for Saturday’s Derby, he declared himself entirely happy with an animal he has long regarded as having an outstanding chance of providing him with his third success in the Epsom test of greatness. He fully accepts the legitimacy of the doubts about stamina that must be attached to any son of Cape Cross who is attempting to dominate the best of his fellow three-year-olds at a mile and a half (doubts most relevantly expressed by John Oxx, the inspired trainer of Sea The Stars). But Kinane believes the horse — an impressive two-year-old before coming out this season to sweep a length and a half clear in the last furlong of the 2,000 Guineas — will, given his beautiful, long-striding action and ability to travel smoothly through a race, make light of the punishing undulations of the Derby course and thus increase his likelihood of staying the trip. Optimism is strengthened by the female side of the pedigree. The dam, Urban Sea, won the Arc and her progeny include the Derby winner Galileo.

Even awareness that the Derby entries still show eight representatives of the Ballydoyle stable of his former employer, Aidan O’Brien, can’t dent Kinane’s confidence: “Aidan’s horses will ensure there are demands on stamina but they’ll have plenty on their plate, enough to worry about. Sea The Stars seems to be the whole package. He has a great physique, is a wonderful mover, has plenty of pace and is blessed with a lovely temperament. He won’t die of stress.” Some of us might if he doesn’t stay.

Hiddink's fitting send-off

Even the huge admiration engendered by Everton’s manager, David Moyes, would hardly be enough to make the fair-minded begrudge Chelsea their victory in yesterday’s FA Cup final at a sun-scorched Wembley. After losing a goal in 25 seconds, they were clearly the more fluent and penetrative team and, though Everton again showed the magnificent spirit that has become endemic at the club under Moyes, the 2-1 scoreline flattered the losers. But the justification many would feel for submerging the old reluctance to react warmly to the juggernaut built on Roman Abramovich’s billions had wider origins. One was the sense that Guus Hiddink, the short-term manager whose authoritative leadership restored coherence and effectiveness to Chelsea’s performances, deserved a stylish send-off. Another was that Chelsea, having been deprived by refereeing of historic incompetence of the place in the Champions League final that Barcelona so gloriously translated into triumph in Rome, were due consolation. The FA Cup is a minor bauble compared with the trophy lifted at Stadio Olimpico, but winning it is still a thrill.