This is a picture of Robbie Keane after he scored against 'boro. Tottenham won 4-0, and it was a big, big win for a club that's fighting against relegation. It's also the first goal for the Totts after six months playing for Liverpool.
In the photo, Keane's got the arms outstretched and I imagine he's about to jump up and punch the air, or turn around and hug his teammates, or something suitably celebratory. Maybe even do that "cowboy roll and shooting Indians" celebration that was his trademark as a younger man. Something suitably ecstatic, because scoring in the 9th minute does give your team a substantial advantage.
But whatever he does next, Robbie Keane doesn't look happy.
He looks contemplative as he's wheeling away. He's staring with unseeing eyes as he's running down the byline. He's in his own little world and no one can touch him. The Spuds at Shite Hart Lane are probably howling at the moon and wagging their tails with joy, but Robbie Keane is a million miles away.
It makes you wonder what he's thinking.
Maybe he's thinking about the fickleness of fate. It's been an eventful year for Robbie. He was bought by Liverpool in the summer, and had a chance to partner Torres. He was with Liverpool during their title run. He probably dared to hope that he'd win a Premiership medal, something that would've been beyond him at Tottenham. Things would've been looking up for him. And then the January window came and went, and now he's back with the Spuds, in a relegation battle with a dysfunctional team.
Maybe he's thinking about how, odds on, he'll finish his career playing for the Spuds. At 29, he's captain of the second-biggest team in North London, and unless the Spuds sack another manager, there's not much chance that they'll sell him again. And anyway, Liverpool were probably the only Top 4 club who were willing to spend on him. It would be quite daunting to picture the rest of his career slipping past him as Tottenham shoot themselves in the foot over and over again.
Maybe he's thinking about dinner. There's certainly a hungry look around the jaw. Maybe he's silently debating between curry and pasta. I'd go for curry if I was him. A nice vindaloo and a Cobra is a very English meal in the dead of winter. Pasta's fine as a food staple, but it's shit if you're supposed to be celebrating.
Or maybe he's wondering if lasagna's still on the menu at Spuds.
I just realised I've a giant picture of Robbie Keane plastered on my blog. It's no longer the prettiest Arsenal blog in the world. In fact, it's probably the ugliest, even uglier than the one with the picture of Eboue, Song, Denilson and Diaby hold hands and dancing the mambo.
In the photo, Keane's got the arms outstretched and I imagine he's about to jump up and punch the air, or turn around and hug his teammates, or something suitably celebratory. Maybe even do that "cowboy roll and shooting Indians" celebration that was his trademark as a younger man. Something suitably ecstatic, because scoring in the 9th minute does give your team a substantial advantage.
But whatever he does next, Robbie Keane doesn't look happy.
He looks contemplative as he's wheeling away. He's staring with unseeing eyes as he's running down the byline. He's in his own little world and no one can touch him. The Spuds at Shite Hart Lane are probably howling at the moon and wagging their tails with joy, but Robbie Keane is a million miles away.
It makes you wonder what he's thinking.
Maybe he's thinking about the fickleness of fate. It's been an eventful year for Robbie. He was bought by Liverpool in the summer, and had a chance to partner Torres. He was with Liverpool during their title run. He probably dared to hope that he'd win a Premiership medal, something that would've been beyond him at Tottenham. Things would've been looking up for him. And then the January window came and went, and now he's back with the Spuds, in a relegation battle with a dysfunctional team.
Maybe he's thinking about how, odds on, he'll finish his career playing for the Spuds. At 29, he's captain of the second-biggest team in North London, and unless the Spuds sack another manager, there's not much chance that they'll sell him again. And anyway, Liverpool were probably the only Top 4 club who were willing to spend on him. It would be quite daunting to picture the rest of his career slipping past him as Tottenham shoot themselves in the foot over and over again.
Maybe he's thinking about dinner. There's certainly a hungry look around the jaw. Maybe he's silently debating between curry and pasta. I'd go for curry if I was him. A nice vindaloo and a Cobra is a very English meal in the dead of winter. Pasta's fine as a food staple, but it's shit if you're supposed to be celebrating.
Or maybe he's wondering if lasagna's still on the menu at Spuds.
I just realised I've a giant picture of Robbie Keane plastered on my blog. It's no longer the prettiest Arsenal blog in the world. In fact, it's probably the ugliest, even uglier than the one with the picture of Eboue, Song, Denilson and Diaby hold hands and dancing the mambo.
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