“He’s just f**king lazy”. My Manchester United-mad Dad was at his wit’s end. The Red Devils’ mercurial striker Dimitar Berbatov had driven him to distraction. He was a divisive figure, the Bulgarian. To some, like the besotted 21-year-old I once was, he was a languid genius. To others, like my frustrated father, he was a bone-idle, barely mobile waste of space.
Berbatov had not scored a Premier League goal for two months when my Dad decided to vote with his feet. The ex-Tottenham Hotspur striker was punished for his goal drought with removal from my father’s fantasy football team. But this did little to ease tensions between the man who brought me into the world and the hairbanded forward. Because the very week my Dad removed Berbatov from his virtual squad, Berbatov belted five goals past Blackburn Rovers.
Understandably, that did little to cool the tensions between the mercurial Berbatov and my old man. But that was the beauty of Berbatov. Arriving as he did in the days before press-at-all-costs became the default modus operandi, he produced brilliance at a leisurely pace. Scintillating skills delivered gently enough that you didn’t even have to wait for the slow-motion replay to revel in them.
To play with the sort of artisanal composure Berbatov conjured, you have to be bloody good at what you do. It’s one thing going past an opponent at high-speed, racing for the touchline like a 100-metre runner. It’s quite another when you trap the ball with the same delicate care you’d show a butterfly landing on your boot, before turning like a ballet dancer to score. On the eve of Jurgen Klopp introducing the world to “heavy metal football”, Berbatov was playing the dreamy concertos of Chopin.
Drama followed Berbatov wherever he went, though given his serene nature it always felt more like the cultured slowburn of the stage than the whooping melodramatics of a soap opera. Who can forget Sir Alex Ferguson’s daring heist to snatch him from the clutches of Manchester City on deadline day? How about his goal to help clinch the last trophy Spurs won, the 2008 League Cup? As late as 2014, he was producing moments so dazzling there should be statues erected in their honour.
Regard this finish for Monaco against Nice. Everything that made Dimitar who he is can be found in this clip. A golden touch, glacial movements, a finish so casual it almost feels uncaring. But he did care. He just saw football as a canvas rather than a battlefield.
Two of the teams graced by Berbatov’s unique presence will meet this weekend, as Tottenham Hotspur travel to Old Trafford to meet Manchester United. As with any enigmatic personality, every fan will have their own story to tell about this football genius. For Tottenham he was a totemic figure just before their transition into a permanent "big six" fixture. Crucial to their last trophy and a talisman who provided some of their most inspiring moments of the 2000s. For United supporters, he was part of their last truly great era. A Premier League Golden Boot winner as the Red Devils lifted the 2011 title. He helped Ferguson’s last golden generation reach two Champions League finals before departing for Fulham in 2012.
Far from chasing a paycheck after winning abundant silverware with the Red Devils, ‘Berba’ knuckled down in west London. He racked up 15 Premier League goals in 33 games in his first season and a further four in the following campaign before leaving in January. He won the club’s Player of the Year award in his first season and scored a jaw-dropping, swerving volley against Stoke City that will live forever.
Spells at Monaco, PAOK and Kerala Blasters followed. Berbatov would always be subject to whispered links with a Premier League return. These would always grow louder when footage filtered through of him scoring impossible goals in far-flung places. His time as a weekly indulgence on Match Of The Day had passed. Berbatov was now a rarely-glimpsed event, no less bright or majestic than a solar eclipse. His power never waned, but it would become obscured over time. But like the sun, his singular ability was a beacon that never stopped shining.
When his two former teams meet on Sunday, think of Berbatov. He was never the hardest-worker on the pitch. You couldn’t measure him using the stats that rule our modern game. Berbatov was not numerical, he was visceral. Judging a current player requires the same statistical concentration as filing a tax return. Appraising Berbatov should be done with the quiet appreciation you’d give an afternoon spent wandering around the Louvre. Berbatov deserves to be remembered for everything he was, rather than derided for the things he wasn’t. That includes “f**king lazy”. Sorry, Dad.
