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After my prediction for Wednesday night's Champions League final, I think it might be wise to lay off the futurology for a while.

Rarely can anyone have misread a sporting occasion as badly as I did that one. Manchester United win a war of grind and attrition 2-1? Sorry. That I wasn't alone in my faith in Sir Alex Ferguson's men is about my only excuse. Or at least that is what I'm telling myself: nobody predicted quite such a hammering as United took at the feet of a brilliant Barcelona.

It reminded me of Ricky Hatton's fight with Floyd Mayweather in Las Vegas two years ago. That was another Mancunian sporting expedition full of misplaced confidence and ill-directed certainties. Before that fight, to a man the Manc crowd and most of the pundits had convinced themselves that Hatton had too much for his American opponent. Too hard, too fast, too strong, too brave was the consensus. In the event Hatton was rapidly put on his arse by someone far better than anyone, in their blinkered admiration for their own hero, accounted for.

So it was on Wednesday. The whole idea that United would first smother Barcelona then kill them with speedy counter attacks was over-turned by as close an expression of perfection as you will ever see on a football pitch.

As a tactic, Ferguson's 4-5-1 may have worked in the semi-final against Arsenal. But Arsenal could not call upon the midfield services of Lionel Messi, Xavi and above all Andres Inesta, a man who could find acres of room on a rush hour Circle Line train. You could put five men on Iniesta, and somehow he would wriggle free to find space to work.

There was one moment late in the game which exemplified the contribution of the man Wayne Rooney rightly identified as the finest midfielder in the world. Four United players formed a tight rectangle blocking the advance of Sylvinho on the Barcelona left. Suddenly Iniesta appeared as if from nowhere bang in the middle of the foursome to receive a pass from his full back. He then threaded the ball through to Xavi inside him. With one sprint and swivel he took out four opponents, making them look about as mobile and effective as training ground cones.

It was extraordinary to watch, a masterclass of skill, as breathtakingly entertaining as anything I have seen all season. It just made you think: how on earth did he do that? And more to the point: how on earth do you counter that? No wonder poor old Ferguson spent much of the game slumped and silent on his dug-out seat. He knew when he was beaten.

So, given that hopeless bit of speculation, I am not going to make any wild claim about who will win tomorrow's Cup final. There will be no banking on Everton morale or Chelsea physical strength from this quarter. The only thing that can be said without fear of events contradicting it is this: tomorrow marks the last occasion on which Guus Hiddink will lead out a Chelsea team and boy will they miss him.

Hiddink has proved to be an exemplary boss for the blues in his four months in charge. How those associated with the club must wish he were prepared to hang on rather than return to Moscow. He has a dignity that would have transformed the public image of a club widely derided for its venality.

Plus, he knows how to get the best out of players. He turned Nicholas Anelka into the Premier League's leading scorer, he restored Frank Lampard's equilibrium, he helped Alex at last to look the centre back he always threatened to be in his youth. Tactically astute, brilliant with a substitute, wry in a press conference, in contrast to his immediate predecessors in the Chelsea locker room, Hiddink is a man who makes it all look rather easy.

If he signs off with a victory tomorrow it will be a fitting farewell to the English game for a man who should have come earlier and ought to have stayed longer. Not, of course, that I am predicting it will happen.

Jim White / Eurosport