Edinson Cavani frustrates, but he can fire PSG past Barcelona

As the Champions League returns, let us consider one of elite European football’s most persistent mysteries. More appalling than The Dabgrave Ritual, more controversial than The Salto Vampire. We refer, of course, to the Adventure of the Two Strikers.

Over the last few years, in Paris, two forwards have been playing their trade. One is, frankly, a buffoon. He clanks around up front like a man who grew up believing that football was a game about missing the goal, has only just been informed of his mistake, and is losing the battle against his ingrained instincts. Sometimes the ball goes in, generally out of embarrassment. Mostly, he just looks confused, while his teammates shake their heads, the game slips away, and the word “fraud” gallops around the internet.

The other is pretty much a case study in how to do one’s job. Whether we simply count his goals, or look to the more complex metrics such as xG (R^E, L7, eN variant)*, we find the same results. When played in his right position with decent support, he gets on the end of plenty of chances and he puts an acceptable proportion of them away. In short, he is extremely unfraudulent.

* Expected goals, adjusted for the rotation of the earth, the moon’s presence in the seventh house, and El Niño.

The mystery is that both these players play for Paris Saint-Germain in the same position, at the same time, wearing the same numbered shirt and the same face. And are the same person: Edinson Cavani.

The internet isn’t big enough to get to the bottom of the argument between those people who like to watch football with their eyes, and those people who distrust their lying eyes and like to watch football with their spreadsheets. But there are few footballers for whom the fraud/non-fraud argument is felt quite so sharply. And, as PSG’s owners pursue the Champions League trophy that would validate their entire project, there are few for whom it’s so important.

Last November’s Champions League game against Arsenal provided the perfect illustration of the problem. It is deeply unfortunate that a striker gets remembered for his misses in a game where he scored the opening goal, one that ultimately made the difference between a draw and a defeat. But Cavani missed four clear chances that night and, come the end of the group stage, PSG finished two points behind Arsenal. That’s why they’ve landed Barcelona in the knockout stages; that’s why Cavani will likely have to score plenty over the two legs.

(The fact that Arsenal went on to draw Bayern Munich is irrelevant here, because when it comes to Champions League knockout draws Arsenal are cursed, whereas PSG are simply unlucky.)

What makes the suggestions of fraudulence even sharper is the fact that Cavani, for a given value of perfect, looks perfect. Long hair, broad shoulders, cheekbones that should probably be illegal: He looks like an attempt to construct a footballing superhero from the ground up. “Give me a brilliant, charismatic, intimidating striker who could also kill an elephant if he absolutely had to.” So when this vision of footballing perfection misses a chance? It looks unshakably wrong.

Perhaps this is where we can find the solution to our mystery. Cavani’s heroic aspect comes with certain responsibilities. Strikers in his mold should express themselves through their shoulders, their sinews, and their sweat. They should howitzer their goals into the net from about 20 yards out, then whip their hair around and scream for the replays. Not all footballers can be Gabriel Batistuta; even the great man himself resorted to the occasional toe poke. But those that have the look simply must give it a go.

The fraud committed by Cavani isn’t the usual combination of being (a) famous, (b) expensive, and (c) extremely well-paid while also being (d) secretly rubbish. Instead, it’s one of presentation, of expectations. Though he has his spectacular moments, he spends most of his time playing a game antithetical to his bearing. He gets into clever positions, he moves intelligently off the ball, he peels away from defenders. All good stuff, all admirable. But all somehow inappropriate, from a man whose bearing promises to take on and overcome the laws of physics.

Sometimes he tucks away his chances, sometimes he doesn’t. Either way, we the viewers are largely left bereft. Yet ultimately, he’s the real victim here, the butt of some great cosmic joke. They took a striker who looks like the lovechild of Batistuta and Conan The Barbarian, and they made him play like Andy Cole. No wonder people get so angry.