Oda a Cantona

One touch. Then turn. Then open the defense. Then, gliding down your private corridor arriving as the backs go screaming out, you slide into slow motion as you score, again, in the heroic present tense. As Trevor says, that’s what it’s all about. Like boxing and the blues it’s poor man’s art. It’s where the millions possess a gift as vital as it looks vicarious. While Fergie chews and struts like Bonaparte, we see the pride of London getting stiffed and victory falls on the Republic, us.

But Eric, what about that Monsieur Hyde? Your second half who grows like fleurs de mal, who shows his studs, his fangs and his disdain? Who gets sent off then nearly sent inside? The thumping jobsworths [?] at the Mondiale?

Leave thuggery to thugs and use your brain.

Now choose the spot before the ball arrives. Now chest it, tee it, volley from the D. Now Wimbledon, like extras, simply look. And even Hansen [?] feels he must agree: this luxury is why the game survives: this poetry that steps outside the book.

Sean O'Brien