There once was a time, a young naive boy existed, filled of hope and the foolishness to believe that the possibility of something miraculous happening was never beyond doubt. This young boy would go through his life ordinarily, enduring his first-world hardships and thinking to himself, "It's not all that bad". No matter how much pain he suffered, albeit only existing in the form of guilt he put unto his own shoulders, at the end of the day, he'd still sleep with an easy conscience. No matter how grotesquely horrible he'd form judgements of himself at what a bad job he did at living life, when the cows came home, everything was erased and forgiven. No matter what he had to go through, good or bad, it was always replaced by something almost magnificent.
Having gone through the eventful day of being at school and behaving like normal kids should, he'd come home during the weekend and thank God for what lay ahead. For every weekend this young boy would gaze at the tele, in awe and respect for this man, not much older than himself. I say man for the way the latter has lived up to his billing, silenced his critics and made a name for himself amongst the big guns themselves.
I'd live through the week and survive purely on the knowledge that when the time comes, and the ball is rolled for kick-off, I could savor the moment and breath in the colors of red and white. Never have I been prouder than when I don that kit. There's no way to express how much goodness was pumping through my veins just by watching them play. Those flashes of brilliance and touches of sheer quality fill me up with so much adrenaline and hype that I'd have to grab something, be it a rolled up pair of socks, a cushion or even the football itself and start running circles in my living room reenacting what spectacular feat I had just witnessed on the tele. I'd tell myself, "One day, that'll be me". Who cares about the haters, if there was anything I wanted more in this world was to be able to have the opportunity to do what they were doing, to live how they lived, to express myself how they did. It would be the grandest gift from God.
Although many have graced the field, many have had their names echoed within households across the globe, there is only one out there that can inspire me beyond all else.
I still remember the night I first saw him play. My family and I went to London for a week after my dad had to attend a seminar in France for a month. Everyone else was asleep in the apartment, except me of course. I heard there was an Arsenal game on that night so I switched on the television to see if any of the channels were broadcasting. It was a Carling Cup match with Manchester City. It was 2004 back then. Arsene would use the CC as an outlet for blooding the younger players. That night he went with Manuel Almunia in goal, a back four consisting of Emmanuel Eboue, Johan Djourou, Phillipe Senderos and Gael Clichy. In the midfield there was Jermaine Pennant, Francesc Fabregas, Mathieu Flamini and Robin Van Persie. Finally, spearheading the attack were Danny Karbassiyoon and Quincy Owusu-Abeyie. It was the first time I ever laid eyes on that young team and watching them dominate the match against seasoned pros made me fall in love.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enE5CF1zckg
That pass from Fabregas in an instant made me a fan of his. I wanted to play just like him, selfless. How he'd create the opportunities for others to finish. Not until later in his career did he begin taking some chances for his own. There was those spur of goals against Spurs and Man City, a couple of long range piledrivers, that last minute equalizer against Liverpool, the brace against Everton on the opening day of the season, that cracker in the San Siro, his cool finish into the bottom corner against Juventus that penalty against Barcelona to level the score at 2-2. The list goes on and on. Not to forget the countless assists he managed to rack up over the years.Those moments forever imprinted into my memory as moments of joy and triumph. Almost my entire footballing life I've been looking up to Fabregas. The image of him donning the Arsenal red and white always will be a chapter in my childhood. It's so coincidental the year I turn 18 that Fabregas moves on from Arsenal. No longer will I be able to watch him in awe as he picks out that master class pass to split open defenses for a fellow gooner.
For the past 8 years I have grown up following you, supporting you, wanting to play exactly like you and now, you move on, no longer in the image of what my childhood once pictured you as. All the best at your new club. Thank you so much for giving me these priceless memories that symbolize the amazing football I have witnessed as a young boy that kept me dreaming constantly. Thank you, Cesc.
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