- my brother, telling me that my nephew likes me
It’s nice to know that my nephew likes me. It’s hard to tell sometimes because he’s only one, and can’t talk beyond words like “Ma”, “Ba” and “car”. He smiles sometimes when I hold him, and he laughs occasionally when I try to make him laugh. Beyond that, there’s not a lot else to go on. I’m glad he likes me, though, because I love him to bits.
I think Wenger should sign my nephew. He kind of did a Cryuff turn today. His mother was holding him up, and he was kicking a plush football. He stepped on the ball with his left foot, rolled it forward, and rolled it back, and then flicked it to me - with the outside of his foot. Now, I realise that he’ll have to improve before he’s good enough to play for the Arsenal (I doubt he could displace Denilson this season), but he’s a very talented baby. Sign him now, bring him over to the Colney creche, and in 19 years’ time he’ll be in the Arsenal first team, a naturalised POM, and agonising between playing for the awesome Socceroos and the inept Ingerlanders.
So on the 268th last day of my 20s, I gave my nephew George a bright green Brazil futsal ball for his 1st birthday. I hope the shiny green paint is neither drool-soluble nor toxic, because he likes to chew his footballs. And I hope he uses it when he’s older and able to walk.
I suppose I’m projecting a great deal with this gift. I want him to be a sporty, co-ordinated kind of kid. I want him to be as freely expressive as the Brazilians of the 1970 and 1982 World Cups. I want him to be successful, and articulate, and able to create and appreciates things of great beauty. I want him to be able to wear loud, canary-yellow tops and be able to pull it off with aplomb. I guess I just want him to express the philosophy of jogo bonito through all the days of his life.
Happy birthday, George.