For one so handsome, Olivier Giroud hasn’t had it all his own way. At the age of 21, when many of his contemporaries were playing Champions’ League football, the Frenchman signed his first contract. He played mostly that year in the fifth tier of French football, alongside amateurs and semi-professionals.
Or take Harry Kane, whose breakthrough season for Tottenham Hotspur came at the age of 22, following unsuccessful loan spells at Leyton Orient, Millwall, Norwich and Leicester City. Whatever happened to him?
Well, since 2014-15, Kane has never scored fewer than 24 goals in a season and is on course to become the Premier League’s all-time leading scorer.
Yet it took years and perhaps as many as 100 goals for the England captain to dispel the scepticism that seemed to surround him, as if there were something suspect about becoming great a few years later than normal. There is a schedule for greatness, you see, and those running late have to work double time to catch up. Somehow, bursting onto the scene in your twenties is deemed too late to be narratively satisfying. It’s all a bit weird.
It’s far better, if only cinematically, to be a Michael Owen — the schoolboy superstar with pace to burn and ultimately burnout. Kane already has 45 more Premier League goals than Owen, in fewer games. The only difference is Owen did it as a teenager (and, in fairness, scored that goal against Argentina.)
Of course, the all-time greats — from Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo to Pele and Diego Maradona — appear destined from the start. It is difficult to mask that level of ability. But for everyone else, it can take time.
Would it not be tedious if everyone followed the Owen path, like airplanes checking in with waypoints as they traverse the vast sky? What fun would it be if all footballers broke through at 17 and peaked at 23 before quietly falling away? Not least in a low-scoring sport such as football, where randomness is sort of the point.
Peaking early is no vice, but the pitfalls are many. For every Phil Foden there are several Michael Johnsons. Even early achievers like Wayne Rooney and Cesc Fabregas — hardly failures by any metric — began to fade away by their late-twenties, leaving some melancholy behind.
Given how short sporting careers are compared with most other professions, it may appear sensible to make snap judgments at an early age. But a goal is a goal, worth no more or no less depending on the age or profile of the scorer.
In a bid for order in a chaotic world, we have decided that our heroes ought to burst onto the scene young, overcome obstacles (for relatability purposes and book sales) before retiring on top, having won the World Cup or league title with their final kick. Of course, it rarely works out that way.
Wonderkids are all well and good, but they are best left to Football Manager regens. Giroud, at 36 and with a top speed of coastal erosion, is an inspiration to slow starters (and even slower runners) everywhere.
I fully embrace Christmas now
I was yesterday years old when I learned that Advent calendars are not arranged in chronological order. Londoner’s Diary editor Robbie Griffiths patiently explained the logic to me, something to do with it being more fun this way.
Having grown up in a Jewish household — no tree but total reverence for the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Specials — I never had an Advent calendar.
I should point out that my childhood was not lacking in chocolate. Or presents. Or school recitals of the Lord’s Prayer. But this was clearly an oversight.
These days, I have the whole shebang. Not only the tree but monogrammed stockings and a brass Rudolph structure on which I absolutely did not sign off. But I guess I was tickled by the fact that I still have some assimilating to go.
Anyway, merry Christmas and happy Hanukkah.
