Champions League: "Il Professore" Captivates in Defeat

There have been many moments this season when Clarence Seedorf has appeared to be shouted down. The inevitable argument every footballer has with the ravages of time looked lost.

Thirty-five on April Fools’ Day, the sparkling gifts first exhibited as a 16-year-old debutant for Ajax were receding from his grasp. However, we often see great players make one final statement, a valedictory performance that encapsulates why they captured our imagination so vividly for so many years.

For Zinedine Zidane, it was the 2006 World Cup quarter-final against Brazil. He glided between yellow shirts for the 90 minutes, bringing all his slaloming, fluid brilliance to the fore in a display of classical elegance.

For Ronaldo Luís Nazário de Lima, it would be the now fabled Champions League hat-trick against Manchester United, a display of such shotgun excellence that all sides of Old Trafford rose to acknowledge it. As well as the reception of a unique talent, it would be a greeting of sort, to the Brazilian’s pending dotage.

It is not hyperbolic to mention Seedorf in the same breath. Bar a single transitional season at Sampdoria, after the break-up of the precociously brilliant Ajax side of 1995, the Suriname born midfielder’s career has always gone hand in hand with success. During spells at Ajax, Real Madrid and AC Milan, he became the first man to win the Champions League with three different clubs.

And then he won it again.

His play will never enter the same kind of folklore that the likes of Zidane and Ronaldo have enjoyed, bar a consummate collection of thunderous long-range goals, scored with unerring accuracy and lucidity of technique. Those missiles are perhaps as close as you can get to defining Seedorf through one part of his game.

Otherwise, for much of his career, he has delivered a seamless blend of passing, vision, agility and intelligence, all coming together to make a greater whole of understated distinction. He can be regarded as one of the finest all-round performers of his generation.

Last Wednesday, at White Hart Lane, Seedorf was low. Low in the opinions of Rossoneri fans, who were convinced that his best days lay in the past. “Slowdorf” they chided. Perhaps “Old Uncle Clarence” had run his course. Low as well, was he, in the hierarchy of players who could have a telling effect on the game. Certainly, if the first leg was anything to go by, Seedorf would be destitute.

At San Siro, he found himself smothered out of the game in an advanced role which he appeared to be resolutely uncomfortable with. His withdrawal at halftime was as much a symptom of his errant deployment as his poor play.

In Wednesday’s game, men expected to take charge of the tie, men, like Zlatan Ibrahimovic, retreated to their bushel. Seedorf took their place. He adopted the regista role so embodied at Milan by the absent Andrea Pirlo.

He flourished.

It allowed him to be at his philanthropic best, receiving the ball from deep and spraying ambitious—but never ill-measured—passes to his teammates. In all, 73 of his 85 attempted passes made their target. It was a worthy follow-up to Xavi’s orchestration on Tuesday.

While statistically excellent, it was also the elegance and serenity with which they were delivered. Then there were the dainty sleights of hand, a sumptuous back heel, a fleet-footed acceleration inside his man. All this was imbued by a remarkable display of athleticism.

Seedorf was always prepared to support his full-backs with purpose not tokenism. He tackled cleanly and with assurance. Time after time, he made key interventions in his own box with sublime anticipation. In injury time, he was still running, still jinking. This was no artifact conducting the Milan midfield.

As the final whistle brought victory to Tottenham, Seedorf had, nevertheless, made his statement. Tears as he departed the pitch were perhaps an indication that a fifth winner’s medal would now be eternally elusive.

If it is to be a farewell from the very highest level, the disappointment can be somewhat tempered by reflecting that in his 153^rd European game, “Il Professore” may have saved his best for the last throes of a wonderful career.

It was a masterclass.