Let's hope Barca prove that size doesn't matter

TIPPING POINT:The suspicion remains that Barca's fizzing football is balanced precariously on some extremely shaky champagne flutes, writes BRIAN O'CONNOR

There’s an old racing saying that a good big ’un will always beat a good little ’un,’ something to keep in mind ahead of tomorrow night’s Champions League second leg at the Nou Camp.

Have you noticed how short these top Barcelona players are? Obviously Messi, Xavi and Iniesta are never going to threaten the world high-jump record. But as the teams lined up to endure that bastardised bit of Handel before kick-off at Stamford Bridge last week, it was like something from The Borrowers.

The camera skimmed along, caught Iniesta looking bored, and then lurched up like a jet emerging from fog in front of a mountain to catch Busquets. Apparently he’s 6ft 2in – thank you Wikipedia.

And Iniesta is 5ft 7in. That’s the same as Messi and Xavi. Fabregas claims to be 5ft 10½in. And maybe he is – in heels.

There are certain things everyone lies about. Just as it can be said when it comes to the “magic number” that men multiply theirs by two and women divide by two, then it is an irrevocable fact that short men are conscious of every millimetre when it comes to their height. I bet Fabregas was tottering on his toes when coming up with that 5ft 10in – and a half.

Now put down those green biros, all you short-arses out there. This isn’t a size-ist thing. There’s no ‘ist’ of any description here. Those of us more voluptuously proportioned, particularly in the gastric area, are in no position to be talking down to anyone – no pun intended. In fact no one other than yours truly will be shouting more for Barcelona’s widely expected revenge on Chelsea.

You see all this “bigger, stronger, faster” stuff in sport is getting real old. It’s in everything.

Everybody’s ripped. Everybody’s got to have a washboard stomach. Everybody’s rehydrating like camels at an oasis and getting their body fat percentage down to .02 per cent of damn all.

There’s a touch of the fascist to it, and not in a kinky, 50 shades of grey, tie-me-up and birch-the-bejaysus-out-of-me way. Rugby used to pride itself on having a position for every body shape. But that’s crap. Let Ruby Walsh try and be a scrum-half now. Walsh’s pal Ronan O’Gara never was much of a defensive bulwark, but the longer he goes on, the more he resembles a flimsy Renault Char trying to hold the line against panzers rampaging through the Munster Maginot. And no amount of isotonic refuelling is changing that.

The GAA is ‘hydrating’ all the time too, and in the process has gone to pot, producing gristly endurance-runners to whom the ball is actually an unwelcome intrusion on the task of motoring around the field like coked-up Duracell bunnies. Even the GAA president has used the ‘b’ word about Gaelic football – boring.

The less said about athletics the better: Even tennis has gone skyscraper with platoons of grunting, blonde Russians emerging from the Steppes, still carrying winter snow on top of their altitudinous foreheads.

In contrast, it is always an aesthetic joy watching Barcelona play. But it is even more refreshing because it is based on nothing more than the application of talent.

Xavi might be able to run “box-to-box” but his progress would be stately. Messi is technically a brilliant header of the ball but he’s never going to be a “belt-it-up-to-the-big-lad” option. Both Iniesta and Fabregas can tackle but no one’s ever going to mistake them for a headachey Roy Keane.

And yet put that vertically-challenged quartet together and they might just be the best midfield diamond ever seen on a football pitch. It’s hard to imagine anyone has ever kept the ball better than these four little men with little else going for them except imagination, wit and raw football talent.

Only those chronically devoid of sentiment could not want Barcelona to twist the comparatively dull talents of athletes like Obi Mikel and Essien into submission tomorrow night. However, it’s no gimme.

Guardiola may be indulging in mind-games of a sort when he says Chelsea are favourites to get through, but only up to a point.

Because those rushing to proclaim this Barcelona side as the best ever seen are ignoring a defensive inadequacy that isn’t exploited regularly simply because the men in front of them hold on to the ball so well. But it nevertheless continues to exist.

Defending is not glamorous, or sexy, and it doesn’t require masses of talent. In fact you don’t have to be a particularly good player to be a good defender.

It’s the law of every field game played in every backstreet or patch of grass in the world: you stick your best player in the middle, the next best up front, and work your way backwards to the goalkeeper.

And as we all know, goalkeepers are goalkeepers because they can’t play.

But what you do need to effectively defend is a good mind. The ability to anticipate danger and read the game overall is all-important. Being physically capable of matching your direct opponent is hardly a skill either. It’s certainly not as glamorous a gift as Messi’s. But lacking it always makes a team vulnerable. And Barcelona don’t have it.

Mascherano’s nickname is “El Jefecito,” the little chief. If Puyol has a nickname it is probably something to do with Fraggle Rock considering that thatch of his. But what both lack is inches and a convincing default position when it comes to defending.

Just remember that Barcelona haven’t actually beaten Chelsea in six matches going back to 2006.

That puts the task of scoring on Tuesday in its overall context. But the tie could ultimately swing on Barcelona’s ability to stop Chelsea from scoring again.

Didier Drogba is 6ft 2in, built like a cruiserweight, and carries himself with a hubris that’s hard to warm to. Or at least he carries himself until he feels there’s an advantage to falling down as if picked off by sniper fire. His simulation last week was disgraceful. But you could sense the panic in the Barcelona back-four every time he deigned to actually play.

It wasn’t pretty, not even particularly dignified. But Drogba needed only one chance at Stamford Bridge. Barcelona might have 90 per cent possession tomorrow night but whether it is by a Yeoman set-piece or an agricultural hoof up the pitch, the Ivorian is likely to get another chance.

Do you fancy the home team coping convincingly?

That’s the thing about throwing labels around like “the greatest”. They’re snappy, fun and ultimately futile. It would be different if the Barcelona midfield had the AC Milan defence of the late 1980s behind them. Baresi, Costacurta, Tassotti and Maldini were the personification of Catenaccio. Up against them Drogba would fall for real, and the ref would never twig it.

That Milan back-four had the Dutch talents of Gullit, Van Basten and Rijkaard in front of them. They were the artists, but they created on a foundation of granite.

Even if Barcelona get through tomorrow night, the suspicion remains that their fizzing football is balanced precariously on some extremely shaky champagne flutes.

Let’s just hope they don’t break. And let’s hope size really doesn’t matter.