Sunday
morning is, according to the Velvet Underground, just a restless
feeling by my side. Lou Reed declined to offer up specific reasons
for why – like “because I'm hungover” – but essentially I
can't help but agree. Sundays have certainly been restless for as
long as I can remember them (and hungover for as long as I can
forget) but that itchy, vaguely existential seventh day discomfort,
those serene early dawning blues, always seems to take hold, whether
you're a shower-defying, football obsessed teenager (as I was), a
leather-clad, junk-guzzling drone rock pioneer (as I was not) or a
late twenty-something adult with facial hair, neuroses and an
overdraft (as I am).
Back
in the day I had Channel 4's excellent Football
Italia programming to keep the
demons at bay. Fronted by the pun-addled
James Richardson, their
equally informative and irreverent magazine show, Gazetta,
was all the motivation required for my adolescent self to be up by
10:00am on a Saturday, whilst Sunday's guaranteed live helping
provided a rich portal into the long-hair-and-possession milieu that
was '90s Italian football.
Two
Sundays ago I awoke to contemplate the day's footballing menu. Stoke
v Norwich? No ta. Sunderland v Liverpool? Maybe – Luis Suarez was
back from self-inflicted exile (and a bit of potential tea time
cannibalism should never be dismissed out of, er, hand), but with
Paulo Di Canio goose-stepping his way back to Rome some of the
intrigue was gone. It tasted like flavourless fare, and left me
pining for the good old days of free-to-air Italian coverage. I
remember it well: the thick, rain-sodden pitches, the flare-lit
ultras stashed away behind thick safety netting, the Lotto
boots – a glorious, dangerous, alien spectacle which cemented my
love for football beyond our shores. As I contemplated this bygone
age, I was reminded of one of my favourite ever sporting moments: the
unlikely, unpredictable entrance onto the grander sporting stage of
an extraordinarily talented but largely forgotten and
under-appreciated footballing talent. The story begins thusly...
The
year was 1997, and as late summer began to fade the UK was in a
moment of upheaval: the New Labour honeymoon period, the arse end of
Britpop, the public anguish at Princess Diana's passing, some other
stuff too probably. Over in Italy, meanwhile, Serie A's biggest ever
close season recruitment drive was in full swing, as F. C.
Internazionale Milano looked to mount their first serious title
challenge for several years, having not held aloft lo scudetto
since 1989. Despite weathering periods of up to nine seasons without
a title triumph in the past, Inter had still topped the league at
least once in each of the preceding eight decades. With only a couple
of years of the '90s remaining, and having spent the recent past in
the shadow of their all-conquering city rivals AC, their chances of
maintaining that impressive record were swiftly diminishing.
To
this end Inter president Massimo Moratti was busy taking a scythe to
the club, removing manager Roy Hodgson after one full season in
charge and overhauling the first team squad, dispensing with talents
like England's Paul Ince, the imposing French right-back Jocelyn
Angloma and Swiss playmaker Ciriaco Sforza, having already shipped
off Benito Carbone, Gianluca Festa and ageing journeyman Andreas Seno
during the previous season. In their places came ten new faces,
including veteran Portuguese schemer Paolo Sousa, “21-year old”
defender Taribo West, Levekusen's Brazilian holding talent Zé Elias,
rough and ready, soon-to-be-friend-of-the-English Diego Simeone,
Roma's talented, tricky but inconsistent Francesco Moriero and Paris
St-Germain midfielder Benoît Cauet.
The
cherry on top of Moratti's restyled torta
was of course Ronaldo Luís Nazário de Lima: The Original Ronaldo,
recruited from Barcelona for a then-world record £19m fee from,
following a stellar return of 47 goals in 49 appearances for Bobby
Robson's Barcelona. His arrival had Serie A fans, not to mention a
global audience, on the edge of their seats. His debut came on the
season's opening day – August 31st
1997 to be exact, and a home tie with newly promoted Brescia covered
live by Richardson and co. Events, however, were not going exactly
according to script. Deep into the second half, Inter found
themselves trailing to a Dario Hubner goal, Moratti's grand plan
seemingly crumbling in his hands. Ronaldo had cut a frustrated figure
– a couple of half chances gone begging, glimpses of his ridiculous
touch-and-turn free running, but with various new additions bedding
in alongside him, Inter struggled to gel into a functioning,
convincing whole. The club's big statement to the footballing world
was veering dangerously off message, but no one had reckoned on the
what was about to transpire.
Moments
before the hosts fell behind, newly-installed coach Luigi Simoni
withdrew
striker Maurizio Ganz,
summoning in his place from his bench Inter's tenth and least
heralded signing of the summer, a floppy-locked, baby-faced Benicio
Del Toro-a-like Uruguayan forward in an oversized jersey, named
Álvaro Recoba.
With
ten minutes remaining Recoba, a mere few touches into his top-flight
career, found himself in space midway inside the visitors half. As
fellow substitute Cauet rolled the ball square, what followed next
was a
spontaneous masterclass in touch, vision and execution.
Head already raised, sizing up the battlefield ahead, Recoba's deft
first touch repositioned the ball onto his left side, one perfect,
teasing stride ahead. With no opponent rushing to close him down,
Recoba, arm extended for poise, unleashed in one fluid, seamless
motion a punishing strike. The technique was simply something else:
an elastic, ecstatic swing of the left leg; a Catherine wheel
snapback of limbs, a missile-locked simulacrum of perfection.
Recoba's shot didn't so much travel through the air as tear the
atmosphere around it apart, moving, meteorite-steady, towards the
Brescia goal. The ball was around thirty-five yards out when it left
Recoba's boot. It passed Brescia keeper Giovanni Cervone with a
velocity that near straightened his magnificent perm in the process;
by the time he had hit the deck in vain, Recoba's team mates were
already rushing to embrace him. The Uruguayan reeled away in
celebration, his face a picture of pure joy, but also betraying a
flicker of self-consciousness. Perhaps he was, on some basic,
humanist level, embarrassed at what he had just done – “did I
really make it look that easy?”
That
one moment alone should have been enough to cement his name in
nerazzurri legend, but Recoba wasn't finished yet. Moments
later Inter won a free kick thirty yards from goal, right of centre
this time. Recoba stepped forward and deigned, impossibly, to repeat
the trick, this time launching the kind of strike which appeared to
defy common physics, its ludicrous up-down trajectory – looping
like a skimmed pebble or a pitcher's favourite changeup – claiming
its own dynamic orbit; a sweeping, arching, dipping grand statement
of a shot which passed Cervone in little over an instant, kissing the
crossbar for luck as it found its way home. For a second time the
Inter faithful surged as one towards the stand's guardrail: an
amassed, gleeful force of nature, flocking as disciples to be within
reach of their new hero. Teammate Moriero's gesture of worship was
simply to kneel before Recoba, offer him his knee, and mime the
polishing of his left boot. Again Recoba looked bashful. He shouldn't
have – it was perfectly fitting.
As
the final whistle sounded and the home supporters danced their
relieved dance – their championship campaign somehow off and
running – footage shows the amassed TV cameras swarming not around
Ronaldo but Recoba, eager to claim a close-up of this odd sorcerer,
at once noble-looking and endearingly dishevelled, who had dared to
use Ronaldo – Ronaldo! – as his own personal Trojan horse onto
the world stage. It was an entrance not of pomp and circumstance but
of streetsmarts and close magic, a manifestation born of pure
audacity and sleight of hand. It was his big moment in the spotlight.
It was, ruefully, to be his biggest.
As
Ronaldo found his feet and Inter's season pushed on, Recoba, despite
his heroics, found himself curiously overlooked – this
outrageous halfway line equaliser several
months later was, amazingly, his first league strike since that
opening day salvo. The wheels eventually fell off of Inter's
challenge and their decade was to ultimately
end scudetto-less.
The following season's winter break saw Recoba depart for a six month
loan at relegation-threatened Venezia, and while his 12 goals in 18
appearances ensured their survival, he returned to a San Siro which
had moved on in his absence, and now boasted, amongst others,
Christian Vieri and Roberto Baggio ahead of him in the pecking order.
As
Recoba's career arc plateaued post-Venezia, he found himself
embroiled in controversy, namely a fake passport scandal which
resulted in his Italian citizenship being revoked. He received a
twelve month ban (reduced to four months on appeal) and, although he
inked a new contract during this time, his career never really
recovered. Despite clocking up almost 250 games over eleven years,
Recoba didn't ever manage to become the man around which teams were
built: he was – cliché alert! – a scorer of great goals rather
than a great goal scorer, a double-edged sword of a gift which left
him marginalised by more consistent teammates. Recoba's time at the
San Siro ended in bittersweet fashion too. He departed with a Serie A
title to his name when Juventus' demotion for their part in the
calciopoli scandal allowed
Inter to walk the 2006/07 scudetto
(they were eventually awarded Juve's
crown from the previous season too, the fall-out from which still
rumbles on today), but by
this time he was little more than a bit-part player. Recoba had hung
around long enough to see the project started a decade previously in
that heady summer of '97 finally come to fruition, contributing
intermittently but memorably, and yet never quite playing the
starring role he should have.
His
Inter career over Recoba drifted, initially turning up at Torino,
moving onto a spell in the Greek leagues before eventually finding
his way home to his first two professional clubs in Montevideo, a
pleasing completion of his career circle. Despite his failure to
stake a claim as a true great, Recoba is still something of a
national treasure in Uruguay. Capped 67 times, a cursory glance at
any one of his myriad
You Tube compilations will
show you what a rare, rugged (some might even say
Maradona-esque)
talent Recoba was considered to be .
In
one of those curious, synchronistic quirks of life, the fates decided
to drop a fitting postscript to this blog into my lap in the form of
Adnan Januzaj, the Manchester United winger with more international
suitors than James Bond, who last weekend essentially replicated
Recoba's feat, using his full Manchester United debut to produce a
brace of fine, momentum-shifting strikes and turn a one goal deficit
into a much-needed victory. His two clinical, composed finishes could
signal the start of a special career. Sadly, Recoba ultimately became
a nearly man: a could've-been, an almost-was. He won caps, trophies,
a title eventually, played at World Cups, and yet couldn't elevate
himself to level of the greats. To this day he remains more of a cult
hero; an exceptional talent who inhabited the rough fringes of true
glory's fairway. He also stands as my own personal by-word for
Italian football's late century glamour period.
Recoba's
peak years are now close behind; Januzaj's are still, hopefully, way
ahead of him. And even if his talents never amount to anything more
than that one whirlwind debut, I'd like him to know that, if nothing
else, he made last Sunday morning feel just a little less restless
than usual.
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