c'est la vie, avec ca je ne sais quoi

how come it happens in life that things we've wanted more than anything are the things most impossible for us to grasp? why must we struggle with such insurmountable odds in order to possess just an inkling of a feeling? why was i not born in south london, or the east midlands or south yorkshire?

i've wanted to be a professional footballer ever since i can remember. i used to watch matches on t.v. back when pallister and mcgrath and mcclair used to play with the blistering pace that allowed them to reach the unclenchable number of modern title's they've had. i used to watch a young giggs, and a young andy cole, idolizing each touch, waiting for the moment when they'd find one another for a finish. i remember watching Cantona, Ooh Ahh Cantona! shred oppostion defence's like foie gras. immediate, mercurial, consummate. he'd make a break that henry would love to have. such deliberate touches on the ball, such knowledge of his job. i'd sit in amazement.

but the man that amazed me was the great dane, the eternal manchester united number one (sorry fab, leighton and ray wood). green shirt, of course. arrogance, yeah, that too. no matter what opposition strikers through at him, he was there. he was the man who made it ok to dream to be a manchester united player. he made it ok to believe that it's possible, oh it's possible.

i've had a lot of dreams once, and some of them came true to quote the grateful dead song, but i've never had a more intense feeling than i do when i think about my possible exploits in the world's first league. yeah, maybe not at old trafford, i thought once. maybe i'll step out to "you'll never walk alone" at anfield. or sprint on to the turf at highbury with the crowd on top of you, or maybe side-step against downing up at the riverside, or play with shearer at st. james park, or roker park, although now there is no roker park, no baseball ground as well. stamford bridge, i could settle for, or the dell, but there's no dell anymore. the city ground, sure, why not, or maybe make my exploits north of the border, in Paradise, celtic park. a lot of choices i had once. and i was 9. totally idealistic. there's nothing to me like the feeling of the ball in my hand, looking out across the vast pitch of earth, looking for somebody to find, and give them hope.

footballers used to give their community and their fans hope. sadly, the game i once knew not so long ago, is being suffocated by big money players and new stadiums lacking the atmosphere as the stretford end once had, back when it was an all seater, or the holte end, or the shed end, all those famous stands where thousands poured their hearts out for victory. i'd love to play below them.

its a possibility i once thought was insane and foolish, borderline dangerous. i now realize, it's still the same. but there is this one chance that i have to take it or leave it, to take all the potential i once thought was just waiting in myself to leave all i know and love behind and play for 8 months in switzerland for Grasshopper FC. they want me. but do i want them? what do i do?