Author: Herzog’s Child

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At the risk of provoking society’s selective wrath – and, under one particular constable’s belief, imprisonment – the correct term, if one is to be believed, is batshit. I write that with clear understanding that no lenses are being trained on my words; it’s a dull, just recently-appointed exercise, but a necessity, nonetheless. Derogative though it may now be, it’s a label that, whilst not strictly an accepted word, is best suited to the stylistics of certain endeavours. Say, to the manic expressiveness of Diego Armando Maradona; the aloof ramblings of our dearly missed, demented French genius; or – for instance – the everyday movements and rumblings of a man named Royston who once led our battalions. Provided it’s supplanted with a wealth of talent, the trait, unlike the name suggests, is a refined quality. It’s an attitude, if little else, and its addition to a player can provide the modicum needed to ensure greatness on the field, when quality is simply not enough, as is often the case. It instils fearlessness, a hunger. Distinctly uncommon in most players, it’s an inherent quality, impossible to coach, or nurture. To have one player at your disposal that purveys it clearly is a rarefied bit of fortune. To have two, who not only encompass a certain madness, but also an immense swarm of skill, borders on preposterous. The fact they are twins – and identical, no less – is beyond surreal. But, hey-ho, Rafabio are ours, luckily, and are on route to alight the future.