Cristiano Ronaldo finds a way to dominate Champions League even as he slows down

Connoisseurs of awkward sporting adverts will recently have enjoyed Cristiano Ronaldo shilling for the SIXPAD, a slim, butterfly-like abdomen-hugger that aggressively vibrates its victims into a higher state of muscular definition. The adverts are fairly predictable things: sweaty close-ups of twitching biceps, our hero standing like a statue with his nipples out, the whole thing shot inside a futuristic isolation chamber. But it’s worth dwelling on the moments when Ronaldo shows his teeth to the camera.

That might be a smile. Equally, it might be the grimace of a man who isn’t sure he’s enjoying himself, despite his contractual obligations. But either way, it’s a man who has decided he’s doing something good and useful to his body, which means that nothing else matters. And as such, it’s not just an advert for a sleeker, better, more beautiful you. It’s also an advert for Ronaldo.

Last summer, as a one-legged Cristiano hobbled around Portugal’s technical area, exhorting his countrymen to victory in Euro 2016, we might have assumed that we were seeing some kind of enforced transition into an elder statesman. He had an airport, a museum, and letters after his name. He was 31, with over 800 professional games on his legs, which were starting to creak at the knees. Surely he’d also want a rest?

Apparently not. The Guardian’s Rob Smyth once memorably described Ronaldo as a “freak of nurture,” and the process of restless self-improvement has showed no sign of slowing down. Ronaldo returned to Real Madrid determined to continue at the highest level. Some reports in Spain even claim that he slimmed his frame down — not always a strength of the over-30s.

We’ve written before about the indecency of all this. Whether aging footballers stop dead, stumble, or glide gracefully down from their peaks, they’re all supposed to get old in some tangible way or another. Ronaldo, by contrast, is staying as useful as ever by refining himself down, ditching everything unnecessary that might get in the way of goalscoring — like a ship running before a storm, its crew throwing everything overboard that might slow them down.

“Dribbling? Over it goes. Movement outside the box? Get rid. Body hair? Gone. Tracking back? Oh, we lost that ages ago.”

With the help of a little careful, delicate, diplomatic rotation from his manager, it’s working: As the season gets to the sharp end, he’s in monstrous form. He scored five goals over two legs in the Champions League quarterfinal against Bayern Munich and then a hat trick in the semifinal against Atlético Madrid. He also picked up five goals in the last three games of the La Liga season, as Madrid held off Barcelona to pick up their first title for five years. And on Saturday, he’ll start his fifth Champions League final as the competition’s all-time leading scorer, with 103 goals.

Late-period Ronaldo’s on-pitch presence is, by now, a familiar sight. Where once he sought out the ball, now he seeks out space and opportunity: a half-yard here, a jump on an opponent there. He noses around, and he waits. This, perhaps, is a sign of aging that mere mortals can cling to: Young, impetuous men go chasing, but wiser heads wait. But given that the goals still arrive at roughly one per game, the utility remains.

This all gives the final an extra dimension. Juventus’ defense is a gnarled, hard-bitten thing: a three-man mission to restore the good old, bad old name of Italian defending. There is perhaps no better defense in all world football to test Ronaldo’s latest incarnation, to anticipate and intercept his movements, to snuff out his service, to keep him tied down and frustrated. With the exception, perhaps, of Atletico Madrid. And we all saw how that went.

A victory for Madrid will surely lead, in the fullness of time, to another Ballon d’Or, which is the specific object against which Ronaldo has chosen to measure himself. And another goal for Ronaldo will surely lead to his trademark celebration, echoed in that advert above and in his free-kick stance. Shoulders and feet squared, everything still, a man doing an impression of a statue of himself. Few people have taken the old saying so literally: His body is a temple, and he is his own graven image. Sometimes he even takes his shirt off.

He’s also his own high priest, choir, and evangelical congregation, which is aggravating to some and amusing to others. But ultimately, it is his continued devotion to himself that fuels his reinventions, his refinement, and the goals that keep arriving game after game. Not bad going for a 32-year-old with dodgy knees. SIXPADs all round.