Pavlov’s Dog
Pavlov’s Dog
It has been a very interesting week in football. A disappointing home defeat, victory in a pointless cup and, by all accounts, one of the away performances of the past few years. Add to that a predictable, almost unwatchable, England home victory and here at uptheline, we are pretty content with our lot.
Monday also saw a brush with fame. In a quiet departure lounge for a knob o’ clock flight to Germany and there was that strange feeling of semi-recognition. The first clue was perhaps the worst hair cut ever to make it through customs (think Side Show Bob with a hangover) which was quickly followed by the most extravagant white hand luggage and Gucci trainers. This could mean one of two things: it is either Pride week in Dusseldorf or I am about to share a flight with Grade A international footballers.
There was a time that uptheline could easily pick out most of the world's most talented players in a police line-up. A combination of blind hero worship, Panini sticker albums and a nine-year old’s sponge-like brain used to mean that only the rarest of players would have escaped from notice. Now, the opposite is true. A growing antipathy towards Premier and Champions League football and imperial squad sizes meant that it took a good ten minutes of google image searching to identify the Brazilian trio of David Luiz, Oscar and Ramires sat quite literally within touching distance. Further on-line investigations explained their flight to be for a midweek friendly against Iraq.
The feeling this brought about was mixed. There was at once a Pavlov's Dog instinctive urge to be excited: sitting next to £400,000 per week of footballer is not something that happens every day. But this was balanced with an equally, if not more powerful, disinterest. After all, fame should slap you in the face not require access to free wifi, a phone and frustration and continually dropped connection. This complex emotional tug of war was summed up in the tweet at the time: “wish it was Neil Illman #pafc”.
No one else seemed to have paid the least attention. So uptheline asked for a photo, boarded the flight and was asleep before take-off. Job done.
But there is a but. The predictably punctual Lufthansa flight taxied to its gate in Germany and uptheline was again up close and personal. As the three players split, two breezed through passport control but Oscar was due a more thorough check. As he ran through the usual details for entering a country, uptheline remembered what it was like collecting silver badges for Mexico 86 and, for a split second, was nine-years old again. He gave his full name, followed by:
Occupation? 'Professional footballer'.
Visiting a large German chemical company now made me feel like a life had been wasted.
Team? 'Brazil. National team'.
There was a pause for a quick check of the immigration screen (or a message to Bayern Munich fans in customs to prepare the rubber gloves?) and the day returned to normal. But for 20 seconds, it was life affirming to remember what it felt like when footballers were, to a nine-year old at least, untouchable Gods.
Next stop, a trip to Home Park for @uptheline v @upthedale. Hoping this time, that feeling can be resurrected for a full ninety minutes.
Monday, 15 October 2012