Layth Yousif
Why do we play sport? Why do we play football? Enjoyment, love and passion.
But is it also for the ceaseless uncertainty? The never-ending shifts in narrative? The beauty of a movement conducted in a moment which lasts a lifetime?
Is it for the chance to demonstrate bravery against all odds? When all hope is lost, when fear is no longer a crippling succubus but a conduit towards the final whistle and the blessed relief of mere critics.
When the only possible option for the brave in such circumstances is to bare their soul and say: “I did my best, I can do no more. “ When your best may not have been enough - but more than enough to look your muddy teammates in the eye for even one second across a cramped changing room and have that gaze returned with utter respect.
For the truly heroic - those whose long-gone but never-to-forgotten deeds for your club and our sport are passed down from fathers to sons in hushed tones with an utter reverence – live forever through their actions.
Actions which make heroes of people.
Why do we watch sport? Why do watch football? We watch because of heroes.
***
The man was frustrated. He left the club he loved, to play for the club he wanted to love. But it didn’t love him. He was unfulfilled at a time, and in a team, when perfection was attainable. So he left the city by the sea. To carve a new life for himself across the ocean. But the lure of the old continent drew him back.
When cowardice is the far easier option, when stasis and decay look appealing because you’re tired, unwilling, or unable to look for a new challenge - or simply scared of the unknown – what do you do?
When the time comes when you feel you have nothing to prove to anyone - what do you do? (And by god his deeds meant he had nothing to prove to anyone.)
(Except himself.)
What he did was come home. To his real home.
Not the banlieues of Paris’s tough and unforgiving immigrant suburbs which he was of but never truly from. But to London. To North London. To Arsenal.
His pony-tailed red and white friend and compatriot with whom he shared mondiale gold - and made the far right feel ashamed one joyous summer’s evening on the Champs S’Elysee – said he was vilified in L’Irlande, misunderstood in Francais, but so loved in a postcode called N5 they built a bronze statue of him.
In London. In North London. At Arsenal. He cried when he unveiled the statue of himself. Yet his tears weren’t for his ego. It wasn’t about his ego. It never was. It was always about the team.
And he cried - and we cried - because of the memories his statue prompted. And from the realisation those memories of his younger, faster, fearless – invincible – self would never again occur. He had carved himself into history.
Through his audaciousness of spirt, of technique, of pace, of power, of bravery, of skill, of achievement, of finishing ability, of selfishness maximised in a team environment, of selflessness utilised in a single-minded group effort. He bared his character - and was loved for it.
His impossible goals, his euphoric goals, his cheeky, his daring, his fantastic goals - his life enhancing, lip trembling, hip-whirring, top-swirling, fast-feet-daring-goals.
It was a trophy-laded time, one we thought would never end (but secretly knew it would). Bitter despair borne from dashed hopes, then the removal of hope altogether entered instead. We were no different to anyone else. We weren’t invincible.
