Had you ever noticed the way old black-and-white newsreels about the Second World War showed maps of Europe whose shading gradually changed from white to black to illustrate the Germans’ advance as they gobbled up vast tracts of European territory? Fans outside the Fatherland right now will have a similar mental vision of the current power-balance in European football.

We are on the countdown to an all-German Champions League Final, which Foul Play is seriously thinking about attending. The phenomenon is hardly unprecedented: thus far, the 21st century has brought us all-Spanish, all-Italian and all-English finals, and all three of the leagues just mentioned have had prolonged spells when they were, indisputably, the place to be. But the blood-curdling extent of Bayern Munich’s total 7-0 obliteration of Barcelona over two legs has triggered all sorts of speculation about a New World Order.
If it comes to pass, it’s likely to be a Munich-centred rather than a German reign of terror. The architect of Barca’s golden age, Pep Guardiola, is about to take over at Bayern. There’s a ridiculously talented generation of players in their teens and early 20s apparently growing on trees all over Germany, and Bayern are in a financial position to help themselves to the cream of other clubs’ talent as they see fit. 
Their opponents in the big one, Borussia Dortmund, are well aware that even if they beat Bayern to the ultimate prize on May 25, their team will be largely dismantled this summer by the ruthless Bavarian monolith, with Mario Gotze already pledged to jump ship and Robert Lewandowski in all likelihood about to follow him. Despite their spectacular recent renaissance, Jurgen Klopp’s lovingly-assembled and wonderfully watchable side are set to be broken up as surely as the Ajax of the mid-’90s: having almost gone bankrupt about a decade ago, the club remains in debt, and can’t realistically aspire to hanging onto their heavy weaponry. The Munich machine, meanwhile, has steamrollered relentlessly over all domestic opposition all season, and currently stand 20 points clear of their nearest rivals (Dortmund, of course) – a gap that can only be expected to widen next season if they carry on at this rate. 
It may be utterly pointless lamenting it now, but the accursed Bosman Ruling has a lot to answer for, having essentially provided a charter for rich mega-clubs with superior wage-paying power to mercilessly strangle the life out of slightly smaller ones, a process which is then repeated all the way down the footballing food chain in a dog-eat-dog process, giving rise to a viciously lopsided imbalance in almost every league in Europe and a constant, inexorable decline in standards in leagues that used to be well-worth following including the Dutch, Scots and Belgian, along with virtually every single nation in Eastern Europe. 
Barcelona and, to a lesser extent, Real Madrid have been a treat to watch for the last ten years, but it shouldn’t be overlooked that their pre-eminence has gone hand-in-hand with a major decline among their Primera Liga rivals. A top-flight that was mouth-watering around the turn of the millennium, with the likes of Deportivo, Celta, Valencia, Atletico Madrid etc all emerging as major players, transformed almost overnight into a Scottish Premier-style ‘wake-me-up-when-the-big-two-finally-meet’ duopoly, with Real and Barca routinely dozens of points clear of the rest by Christmas. This stranglehold is, of course, based entirely on finance, with the big two negotiating their own TV deals and wholly disinclined to spread the wealth around. 
None of this grumbling negates the magnificence of the manner in which Barca re-defined the sport during the Guardiola years. The only club side in my lifetime to bear comparison was early-’90s AC Milan, whose success was based on an impenetrable back four, and who won 1-0 most weeks, rarely seeing fit to risk going for a second or third. Brilliant, yes; lovable, no. By contrast, Barca at their best were an utterly mesmerising sight, a wonderful adornment to the sporting universe. On the pitch, they were a bewitching vision of beauty. 
You may have noticed that I’m already speaking in the past tense, as if the empire has collapsed. Certainly, a 7-0 thumping over two legs has a fairly emphatic ring to it, but rumours of Barca’s implosion may be exaggerated. They won this year’s Spanish title by a country mile; Lionel Messi, barring injury, will continue to be an electrifying sight for years to come, and the ageing process in the squad is not as advanced as people are making out. Puyol is 35 and should be replaced this summer; Xavi is 33 but surely good to go at the top level for a little while longer; and the rest of them are still a collection of footballers other clubs would kill for. There is, in other words, every prospect of the Spanish giants bouncing back next year with a vengeance.
It would probably do Foul Play some good to desist from contemplation of the upcoming Final for the next couple of weeks: I may have mentioned that I plunged on Dortmund at 33/1 back in September, about three minutes before kick-off on opening night. Win-only, of course, and I am starting to wonder (not for the first time) whether at a price like that, each-way might have been a wiser strategy. I have already mentally braced myself to accept defeat as gracefully as possible. The current German table isn’t encouraging, with Bayern on a streak of about 500 consecutive wins, and they appeared to have no weaknesses whatsoever over the course of two legs against Barca. For their part, Dortmund are known to have defensive frailties. Nonetheless, they have the almost-universal backing of romantics and neutrals heading into this one, and win or lose, I can only thank them for the colossal pleasure they have provided this season.
All of which barely leaves me space to wish Joe Schmidt the best as he takes the reins of the Ireland rugby team. All the evidence from his two seasons at Leinster indicates that we have a winner here: he wasn’t exactly taking over a broken machine, but the manner in which he transformed a damn good Leinster team into an absolutely brilliant one was still astonishing. Their comeback in 2011’s Heineken Cup final from 22-6 down at half-time against Northampton remains indisputably the single most exhilarating 40 minutes of rugby witnessed since France did something similar in 1999’s World Cup semi against the Kiwis.
Items one, two and three on Schmidt’s agenda should be to get down on his hands and knees and plead with Brian O’Driscoll to hang on for (at least) one more year. The Clontarf man, at 34, can’t continue forever, has just become a daddy, owes nobody anything etc — but there’s very little sign of his powers waning just yet, as the Aussies may well be about to find out. Despite a generally underwhelming Six Nations, Schmidt inherits a squad of considerable quality, as borne out by a look at this week’s Lions squad. In all likelihood, the Lions team that takes the field in Brisbane for the first Test will be an entirely Irish/Welsh hybrid, with perhaps one Englishman (Tom Croft) nudging his way into the starting 15. Things had gotten a little stale in the final days of the Kidney regime, but there’s a wealth of weaponry for the affable Kiwi to unleash and every prospect of a very bright future for Ireland. There will be days to savour ahead. Onwards and upwards...