'Superman' Forlán saves Atlético with another single-handed rescue act
He may not be carved out of marble, but to Atlético Madrid fans, Diego Forlán is a goal-scoring god
He ought to be made of marble or sculptured from stone. He ought to be standing on a plinth atop an Olympian hill with a fixed serene gaze, headband and tensing muscles, strangely smooth milky skin, not a blemish in sight, wavy hair immovable on his head. The classic Grecian. Strong and silent. He ought to have an arm missing or a chip out of his nose. And he should definitely have a chip on his shoulder. But he hasn't. He ought to be poised, taut, a discus in his right hand, the model athlete. He ought to be called Discobolos. Instead his name is Diego. Diego Martín Forlán Corazo, to be precise. And right now he is probably the best striker in Spain.
He is, says the cover of El Mundo Deportivo "Superman", knickers on the outside, wellies over his tights, cape flapping behind him; AS calls him "a miracle worker". What he is not is the Diego Forlorn of Old Trafford lore, the man whose best season reaped six goals. Five years of Spanish success later, it shouldn't need saying but let's say it anyway: Diego Forlán is really rather good. "We've run out of words to describe him," sighed one newspaper, forgetting the leche and the hostia. The milk, the consecrated bread. The business.
Few players have been as reliable. Forlán won the European Golden Boot in his first season in La Liga and is just three short of 100 league goals in five years. His average rating, game by game, has seen him among Spain's top five for three of the last four seasons (and he's on course for four in five). He runs and runs and just when you think he's tired, he sets off on another sprint. He battles yet appears indestructible, rarely getting injured or carded: in four seasons he has missed just eight matches and collected 11 yellows. Clever, quick, and genuinely two footed, when he gets a chance he doesn't waste it. This season, he's missed just three games, collected two bookings and, most important of all, scored 27 goals. Thirteen with his left, 13 with his right and one with his head.
But it is not just that Forlán is a solitary goal behind Barcelona's Samuel Eto'o. Or even that he's the highest scoring atlético in 20 years, ahead of Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Christian Vieri. It is that he is single-handedly rescuing Atlético from ruin; that in a season when Sergio Agüero has only occasionally repeated last season's wonderful form, he's the leader – dragging a disastrous side towards the Champions League. It is that El País dubbed the team "Atlético Forlán" and that against Betis last week he scored both in a vital 2–0 win, leaving another newspaper musing: "Forlán and nothing else".
Hardly surprising, really. After all, in the second half of the season, Forlán alone has 50% of Atleti's goals, scoring 15 in the last 14 games. And even when it's not Forlán and nothing else, he's the one that makes nothing else something else. Not only has he scored 27, he's provided ten assists. Off the pitch, he cuts a lone figure, a man whose commitment and seriousness leave him in a state of almost perpetual disappointment with team-"mates". But on it, he drives them on those nights when rojiblancos remember why they support Atleti. "Forlán," says his coach, reaching for the face mask, "is highly contagious."
"With Forlán, anything's possible," says Marca – even success at a club the president and the owner seem to be trying to ruin, one that has no defence and a coach with no authority. When Atlético came back from 2–0 down to defeat Villarreal 3–2, it was Forlán who made it 2–2 on 82 minutes. When they came back from 2–0 down to defeat Barcelona 4–3, he it was that gave them belief with a ludicrous 627-yarder just as everyone was giving up, and then made it 3–3 with 10 minutes to go. And when Atlético found themselves in much the same position against Espanyol last night, it was Forlán yet again who rescued them.
This mission was his hardest yet. Atlético were seeking to reconcile themselves with fans who had seen them fall away pathetically since their latest false dawn. A 5–1 stuffing in Santander saw 20,000 stay away against Sporting Gijón, while those who did go whistled their players, ironically launching chants of "¡Balón de Oro!" at Mariano Pernía, and called for the president's smug head. They were also fighting for a desperately needed Champions League place: with the front four – Forlán, Agüero, Simao and Maxi – accounting for over half the club's wage bill, failure to qualify would mean summer departures. (Although so too will the players' desires).
It wasn't going well. Atlético were 2–0 and a man down. Perea had been sent off for maiming Francisco Chica. Pernía had given away another ridiculous penalty – Atleti's 10th. The dope was swirling and so were the heads. The fans were going for president, players and the ref. That pissed bloke was staggering about pleading with journalists to write what they could see but all they could see, apart from his glazed eyes, bare chest, and T-shirt turned scarf declaring simply: "puta!", was another disaster. A back four playing so high you wondered if they were trying to catch the front four offside and a game in which, but for a flag-happy linesman and a handful of misses, Espanyol could have been five up. Worse, Sevilla, Villarreal, and Valencia had all collected points. Atlético were screwed. With 55 points and just three games to go, they were seventh, eight points behind Sevilla, four behind Valencia and one behind Villarreal. Hell, they were even a point behind Deportivo.
So much had happened that Marca's match report was on its third par when the writer paused: "You know what," he said, "it's an utter disgrace that we haven't mentioned Forlán yet." So he did. How could he not? After all, it was then that Forlán took control, launching a missile from somewhere on the M30 that screeched past Carlos Kameni. Atleti were reborn, the fans revived. Agüero made it 2–2. And in the 93rd minute, Forlán completed another epic comeback of his own making. Whipping off his top, he dived into the crowd as the Calderón launched into a chant of "¡Uruguayo! ¡Uruguayo! ¡Uruguayo!", all that anger momentarily forgotten. Their season had looked all but over; suddenly, thanks to their very own Olympian, they were a solitary point off fourth-placed Valencia, who they play at the Calderón next week. Diego Forlán may not be able to throw a discus very far but he may, just, have carried an entire football team back into Europe.
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