Iniesta is inexplicable. I am increasingly convinced that he is not simply playing football, but is instead practising some form of obscure and deceptively basic martial art. This morning, I sat awake watching a video of his highlights from the Copa del Rey final against Sevilla, which Barcelona won 2-0. Iniesta, despite strong showings from his team-mates, was widely acclaimed as the man of the match. If you watch that video – and good luck only watching it once – you will see one of the world’s most seasoned cup sides flailing in Iniesta’s wake. Actually that’s not true. They’re flailing even before he gets there. Because everyone knows what Iniesta’s going to do and where he’s going to be, but no-one’s got a clue how to prevent it. There are times in that video when Iniesta’s advance through opposing challenges seems as unstoppable as radiation itself.
What’s perhaps most remarkable about him is that he seems to do what he does with so few tools. It’s as if the world’s best samurai invited him to a swordfight, and then he beat the lot with a pair of chopsticks. It happens year after year, final after final, and the only thing as inevitable as his brilliance is the fact that, years from now, a traumatised group of his man-markers will be sitting together in a suburban pub, still trying to figure out how he did it.