Born a few miles from Old Trafford, I am fated to be a lifelong supporter of Manchester United. Admittedly, that hasn't been an especially onerous burden in recent years and being soundly beaten by what is indisputably the best team in the world in the Uefa Champions League final on Saturday night was a lot less painful than a kick in the shins. Even in middle age, I still derive immense pleasure (albeit now from an armchair) from those uniquely elevating moments of excellence that constitute the beauty of football: the luminous, driving energy of a Lionel Messi, the tactical mastery of a Paul Scholes, the explosive precision of a Steven Gerrard, the elegant guile of a Dimitar Berbatov, the commanding athleticism of a Petr Cech.
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