OH NEYMAR!
Despite Neymar’s flaws, the diving, that excruciating Mister Potato advert, the questionable clothes, the holidays to Ibiza during Covid, the knack (and subsequent 7-1 defeats), the shallow decline from Barcelona to PSG to Saudi Arabia, it was impossible not to have a modicum of sympathy for Brazil’s No 10 on Wednesday. Neymar was left writhing around in pain after the anterior cruciate ligament and meniscus in his left knee decided to part company during Brazil’s 2-0 World Cup qualifying defeat to Uruguay, meaning the 31-year-old now faces surgery and at least eight months on the sidelines. Is this the end? With the help of modern medicine, maybe not. Perhaps a year from now, Neymar 3.0 will still be hobbling around a pitch in Riyadh, scoring penalties in a bid to justify his £138m salary. But this might be the end of Elite Neymar, a player who last month surpassed Pelé as Brazil’s record male goalscorer. And it was not a pretty way to go out, leaving the field in tears after landing awkwardly in Montevideo. “It’s a very sad time, the worst,” he sighed. “I know I’m strong, but this time I’m going to need my family and friends even more.”
A good job, then, that Al-Hilal agreed to fund Neymar’s 30-strong entourage when he signed for the Saudi club in August, a deal that also included non-negotiable demands of (not a joke, deep breath) … a house with three saunas, a pool “at least 40 metres long”, seven full-time workers, including a sous chef to work with his own head chef, a guaranteed supply of açaí juice and Guaraná drinks in his fridge, a private plane, three dedicated supercars (Bentley, Aston Martin, Lamborghini) plus four Mercedes G-Wagons and a luxury chauffeured van to be kept “available at all times”. Obscene really, but doubtless all things that Neymar would trade for a new knee in a heartbeat.
| The frightening pace of his early years – along with that mullet thing he had going on – has sadly disappeared, but there is little doubt that in terms of pure talent in the world game, few can match the Brazilian, who burst on to the scene at Santos, a blur of pulled-up socks and nutmegs. Some of those early clips – “Neymar Jr King of Dribbling 2011 | HD” – verge on a joke. He was a cheat code, a teenage freak who would lead his side to Copa Libertadores glory. There was a wonderful arrogance, and it was this fearlessness of youth combined with the humility of playing alongside Lionel Messi that spawned maybe his most potent version, forming one third of arguably the best forward line there has ever been: Lionel Messi, Luis Suárez, Neymar. MSN. |
There have been showboaters from Brazil, from seal-dribbler Kerlon to Ronaldinho. Neymar was always firmly in the latter camp – joyful, spontaneous football but with a purpose. Neymar’s style now feels almost extinct. How many true dribblers exist in today’s game? Jack Grealish has been coached into forgetting the swagger which earned him that £100m move, but who is going to argue with Pep Guardiola and Manchester City’s treble? Keep the width, retain possession, pass it back to Rodri. In a stats-driven age of counter-pressing and xP (expected pass completions), there simply isn’t much room for a guy that wants to have fun. And football is poorer for that.
QUOTE OF THE DAY
“This isn’t the first time my name has been in the press … It doesn’t help that my dad does it but he was on a golf trip in Spain with 19 other lads from the local pub. To be honest, I wasn’t too mad at him. He didn’t say anything out of turn. It just wasn’t helpful for the situation, he knew that. He obviously just had a few too many on the golf course” – Aaron Ramsdale opens up about “suffering and hurting” at the loss of his Arsenal No 1 spot to David Raya, as well as dealing with a Tin-infused parent calling out Jamie Carragher on Social Media Abomination TwiXer.
Don’t start us on Tin-infused relatives. Photograph: Mark Leech/Offside/Getty Images
Oh, the ‘Wembley Trophy’ size 5 football (yesterday’s Football Daily letters). Aged 11. The schoolyard of an inner-city Leeds primary in 1972. Slade, snot and tarmac. The usual game before the start of the school day. In anger and frustration at a 7-6 defeat, I picked up the wondrous orange-and-black sphere and volleyed it hard and true (Lorimer style; ‘90 miles an hour’). The dinner lady copped it full in the face from about five yards. Her spectacles flew into the air – along with an explosion of fresh bright blood. The poor woman was led away with a face like Joe Bugner. An ageing caretaker appeared with a metal bucket of water and Dettol in a bid to wash the evidence off the hopscotch squares … then settled instead for the obligatory pile of school sawdust. Like a Bengal tiger, the Wembley Trophy ball had left its indelible mark” – Tony Harte.
Maybe I’m showing my age, but playing with a Mitre was like heaven compared to the leather, sponge-like balls we used to play with at school. After a good rain-shower – of which there were plenty in Ireland – it felt like we were kicking cannonballs. If not a near-broken toe when kicking, then a dull thudding slap off the thigh on impact would leave a mark for days” – Gerry Rickard.
I was put off playing footie after being blootered with such force by a wet and gritty Mitre ball that one side of my face was numb for a week. But who knew what joys (ciggies, Tin, bongo mags) I’d been missing at the other end of the playground. Thanks, Mitre” – Ben Carrdus.
Send your letters to [email protected]. Today’s winner of our prizeless letter o’ the day is … Tony Harte.
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