Dimitar Berbatov: A tribute to an artist who deserved better

“I said goodbye to the people who deserve it, but I couldn’t say goodbye to Ferguson.”

I fondly remember the deadline day in the summer of 2008. Manchester United, hot on the heels of Tottenham’s Dimitar Berbatov, finally landed the Bulgarian with an eleventh hour bid, pricing him away from White Hart Lane with an astonishing bid of thirty million pounds, making him United’s costliest signing ever. Berbatov had come with an extravagant price-tag and comparisons with Eric ‘The King’ Cantona had already started doing the rounds.

For Premier League aficionados like me, who stick to their idiot boxes all day during the weekends, watching Berbatov in action gave me unadulterated footballing pleasure. These kinds of players graced the biggest of stages once in a decade. He was a cut above the rest, pure class. I consider players of his calibers not players but artists, an artist gliding on the greens and smoothly weaving his way past several lesser mortals.

Berbatov had realized his Manchester dream, as The Theatre beckoned and waited for the master to cast his spell of adorable sorcery. Millions and millions of fans stood with bated breaths, desperately longing for the imminent heaven on earth that they were hoping to be witness to. Yes, I am glorifying the Bulgarian. Yes, I might be a little too articulate for not-so-ardent fans of him, but those who loved him, worshipped him will know exactly what I am talking about and why.

My respect for his talent, a talent ever so rare, holds no boundaries. When you start idolizing somebody, it’s difficult to see him suffer. And to watch him bid adieu to a stage which connected your heart to his is a toxic pill to swallow. More so when he’s humiliated by the same man who once admired him, who once emptied his pockets for his services.

My dearest United fans, answer one question for me. Suppose you were playing for Manchester United and your brilliance and genius led the club to England’s ultimate footballing glory. Now two weeks later, you come back from a long and hard training session, you see your colleagues assembled around a list pinned onto a notice board. The squad list for a Champions League final, against Barcelona, at Wembley. You go past the crowd, expecting the expected. BUT, your name isn’t on the list. The realization takes time to settle in and you assume it’s an error. But sadly, it’s not.

How would you feel? How would you react?

I do not know how Berbatov came to know about his exclusion from the final squad. All I wanted you to do was to take his place for a moment and try to feel the disappointment, the heartbreak, the shock, and all the emotions that would have consumed Dimitar after hearing the news. That day and this day, my respect and gratitude towards Sir Alex has taken a severe beating.

Berbatov, ever since that breakthrough season, was being treated as if he had committed a cardinal sin by scoring each of those 21 goals, 20 of which earned him the league’s top-scorer award. Suddenly, the tides turned the other way and Berbatov was reduced to a bench-warmer. Suddenly, a young Mexican and an even younger academy scholar had overtaken Berbatov in the pecking order. A season which could and should have been the stepping stone to greatness, turned out be the last enjoyable and fruitful experience for Berbatov in the red-shirt of Manchester United.

Yes, I hate Sir Alex for Dimitar Berbatov. A player of his class, finesse, and elegance was handled inexplicably by him. While the world celebrated his silver jubilee as United’s boss, I watched in horror as the Berbatov sat in a corner, occupying the red bucket-seat, as if he had accepted his fate, a predicament one wouldn’t even have dreamed of just six months back, on the day United lifted a record-breaking nineteenth title and thanked their Hercules for knocking their biggest rivals off their perch.

People call him lazy. Bullshit. Stop watching football, for God’s sake. Translating his languid style of play, his serene demeanor, his impeccable slow-motion ball control and first touches as lazy is the most laughable theory I have ever heard of. I don’t care if you are offended by my blatancy. But you simply don’t call a Berbatov lazy. If he had been running all over the place, working his arse off, putting in ugly challenges, then he simply wouldn’t have been Dimitar Berbatov.

Those ‘people’ also have concocted their own opinions and tales of Sir Alex’s indifferent attitude towards Berbatov. I don’t want to delve into debates of his unsuitability to United’s direct style of play. I simply know that Sir Alex wouldn’t have brought him if that was the case, because as far as I can remember, United didn’t really play possession football before he came to Old Trafford. And yes, a goal average of 0.45 wouldn’t have been possible in that scenario. Stats aside, Manchester wouldn’t have chanted his name in unison, they wouldn’t have shed tears for him, they wouldn’t have been inspired by him, if he wasn’t clicking and was cutting a lonely figure in their eyes.

All I can decipher from the entire chronicle is one undeniable fact. The fact that Berbatov had fallen out with Sir Alex, for reasons best known to Sir Alex himself. We as fans can say whatever we want, but only one man knows what really went wrong. In this entire melee, there was one and only one loser, Berbatov himself. From having dreams of ending his career at Old Trafford, Berbatov voluntarily yet forcibly ended up in the humble surrounding of Craven Cottage in West London.

He enthralled us, he amazed us with his talent. His wondrous five goals against Blackburn, that silky touch all these years, those joyful celebrations, the ooh moments when he controlled the football like it was child’s play, they have been etched in our hearts forever. How can we never forget that stupefying Berba-Spin against the Hammers. He was and still is football’s master, orchestrator and executor. Manchester United simply couldn’t live up to him.

There’s not a moment when we wouldn’t miss you at Old Trafford. Thank You for giving us four glorious seasons of captivating artistry. Thanks a lot, Dimitar Berbatov.