The clock had not quite struck 8pm local time when Marcus Rashford began to glide across the Camp Nou turf in pursuit of a pass from Fred. And Rashford really is a beautiful runner in full flow: all clean lines and clear air, a player who moves as if he will never get mud on his boots. Marcos Alonso, the man who had headed Barcelona 1-0 up barely a minute earlier, moved across to jack-knife his run.
Well, of course Rashford scored. The ball was running away towards the goalline and the angle was tightening and Marc-André ter Stegen is one of the best goalkeepers in the world and none of that really seemed to matter. Rashford operates in a kind of deep thought these days: a mind constantly calculating, triangulating, finding solutions. If there is a gap to be found, he finds it. If there is no gap, he tries to create it. Within the space of a few seconds, and a few inches, Rashford had changed the entire feel of this tie.
Back in August, against Liverpool at Old Trafford, adrift in a struggling side that had just lost 4-0 to Brentford, Rashford scored his first goal in seven months. And the celebration that followed was pure release, all that bottled-in anger and frustration finding their outlet in a single moment. He punched the corner flag off its moorings, roared unintelligibly into the noise.
When you have scored 14 goals in your last 16 games in all competitions, the sensation of scoring begins to feel a little different. He runs to the corner and stands stock-still, silent, letting the noise wash over him. Every goal these days feels like a solemn mission, a single step on a long pilgrimage.
Perhaps there is also a kind of avenging quality there as well, a quiet stand against everyone who ever disparaged him or sent him a monkey emoji or told him he would never make a No 9 or advised him to stick to football. He holds his fingers to his temple as if to say: “You made me do this. Is this what you wanted?”
And this was a game that was really all about Rashford in his various shades and textures: the central striker, the blitzing winger, the baller, the leader. The Catalan press had singled him out as United’s greatest danger. His threat on the counter forced Barcelona to defend a little more cautiously than usual. And when the ball reached his feet a kind of electricity seemed to crackle around the Camp Nou: part thrill and part fear, the slipstream of anticipation that accompanies that very particular ilk of athlete who appears to be operating without limits.
There was a long period during Rashford’s United career when he seemed to struggle over his best role. Louis van Gaal reared him as a striker, José Mourinho saw him more as a winger, Ole Gunnar Solskjær tried a little of both, Ralf Rangnick came close to giving up on him entirely. Rashford himself once said he trained for all three forward positions because it gave him the best chance of being involved. Only now does he appear to be making good on that promise: a player rapidly becoming the complete forward.
Erik ten Hag deserves a little credit here: perhaps the first coach to recognise that a prime Rashford requires no single defined position but can simply be turned on opponents like a wind machine. It was Ten Hag earlier in the season who chided Rashford over his lack of headed goals; already this season Rashford has scored four headers. It is Ten Hag who redeployed Wout Weghorst as a No 10 in order to create space for Rashford. Weghorst himself may divide opinion, but as a foil for Rashford he is doing his job.
But the spark of ignition: this is entirely self-made. Just before the hour Rashford got the ball on the right, with no obvious pass and no forward momentum. Raphinha closed him down and Rashford slowed to a halt. But in a fraction of a second he was off again, burning Raphinha around the outside, putting across a searing cross from which Jules Koundé scored an own goal. And curiously, here Rashford’s celebration was far more unfettered. It is almost as if he takes greater pleasure in creating goals for others than scoring them himself.
At full time, with the spoils shared, the United and Barcelona players shared handshakes in the centre circle. Rashford, meanwhile, made a beeline for Ter Stegen, who was all alone in the Barcelona goal collecting his things. Perhaps he was simply offering his warm wishes at the end of a fine contest. Or perhaps the mind was still calculating, still scheming, already pitching ahead to the second leg. Perhaps what Rashford was really communicating to Ter Stegen was: “I’ll see you again next week.”
