Lionel Messi on television is a genius; in the flesh, he is divine

Messi on television is a genius; in the flesh, he is divine. Dhruv Munjal catches him in action at Camp Nou and can barely believe his eyes

There’s a roar. Drums beat and flags wave. Now, as he stands over the ball, there’s synchronised clapping of hands. And then, silence. The lull before the storm, the wait for the big bang. He takes one final look, like a contract killer casually scanning his target, before wrapping his left foot around it. It soars over the wall, the keeper leaps, the ball grazes the crossbar, the crowd lets out a cry of disbelief. It’s gone over. And then they all get into it: “Messi, Messi, Messi!” The drums ring out again; the flags flutter with greater fury.

It’s 43 minutes gone at Camp Nou on a blustery Barcelona afternoon in mid February, and Lionel Messi has already created two goals and come close to scoring himself. It’s just Getafe in a seemingly routine league game, but the place is filled to the brim. The Camp Nou stadium is like a giant bowl, with the stands stretching endlessly into the sky. Getafe haven’t been all that bad themselves, pressing the hosts with a whirling energy and carving out chances of their own. But twice, one man has decided to have his say and that’s made all the difference.

To watch Messi on television is to almost underestimate him: you rarely get the full picture. All you see are the dribbles, the goals, the free kicks; Jerome Boateng being sent the other way, James Milner lying on his backside, Phil Jones wishing he had never become a defender. What you don’t get to witness, perhaps, is how Messi alternates between complete indolence and hyperactivity. You don’t see how he glides around the surface, like it’s made of ice and not grass. His legs pound the surface yet barely touch it. He executes passes with an almost non-existent backlift, generating a kind of freakish velocity that seems anti-physics.

Barcelona fans egging their team on

What you also don’t see is how defenders don’t mark him — how do you, anyway? — because he seems perpetually disinterested, a player so detached from what’s happening that he may as well take up the job of the car park attendant outside the stadium. For much of the first half, he hugs the right touchline, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the game but little to suggest he’s actually in the mood to play. With Messi, every stride is used sparingly, every run timed only when necessary. He nonchalantly drifts into spaces and half-spaces without you even noticing. That’s when you realise there’s much more to the man whose entire career has been reduced to just highlight reels.

And then, almost surreptitiously, he sparks to life. Stealth mode off, beast mode on. One moment he’s doing absolutely nothing, the other he’s pulling defenders out of position and sauntering past them. One moment he’s stood on the touchline, the other he’s feeding Antoine Griezmann with a pass so interstellar for Barcelona’s opening goal that you feel dizzy just watching it. And then, just as he had sprung into action moments earlier, Messi fades into the background, plotting his next move, waiting for the next opportunity.

By now, the Barca ultras, confident of another win, break into their full repertoire of boisterous anthems, standing on their seats and dancing, merrily drinking in the genius of Messi and his teammates. After all, the Camp Nou faithful are a privileged lot — winning here is seldom seen as a possibility; it’s more like an inevitability. As the players trudge off for half time, they play the pass for the Griezmann goal on the big screen. People seated in the row below me blow their cheeks out watching it again, as if unable to comprehend its virtuosity the first time around.

There is an abundance of talent on the pitch: Frenkie de Jong has run the game excellently from midfield; Sergio Busquets has  shown no signs of ageing, breaking up play and pirouetting around opposition players in that mesmeric motion he has mastered. Yet, the crowd’s eye constantly yearns for Messi, waiting impatiently for that one coruscating moment they can tell their grandkids about.

The second half begins much like the first. Getafe try to harry Messi, but he manages to escape, like sand through a clenched fist. Around the hour-mark, he slips past one, then two, then three, before being hauled to the ground. The crowd, back from successfully hoarding copious amounts of Estrella Damm, protests. Messi grimaces, gingerly gets up and gets on with it.

That’s the other thing about watching football at such an elite level live. The game sometimes moves faster than the eye can follow. The tardy replay-driven coverage on the telly denies us the chance to witness the sheer force of Messi’s athleticism: how he can hold off defenders and keep his balance, all at such a frenetic pace with the ball still at his feet. Nor do you quite realise how hard the defenders are actually trying. They are often perfectly positioned to deal with him, yet he keeps denying them, sometimes through a dribble, sometimes through the perfect pass.

In the meantime, Getafe pull one back and Messi creates two more chances to put the game beyond doubt. First, he plays in the youngster Ansu Fati, but the keeper saves. Then he clips one into Griezmann, only for the Frenchman to blaze his shot wide. The home fans, desperate to see Messi on the score sheet, rally behind their captain again. In the first minute of stoppage time, the Argentinian pops one from 25 yards out. The ball hangs in the air as the crowd gasps. It flashes wide. There’s silence again. And then, that familiar chant: “Messi, Messi, Messi!”