Author: Herzog’s Child

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Paul Scholes, as cliché imbues, spoke not with words, but with his feet. In a game too often rendered turgid by sloppiness and hoof-ball merchants, the shyster from Middleton reversed the trend, splaying balls far and wide with the ferocious precision of a sharking torpedo. He beautified and devastated, and – with recent news – saddened all who were enraptured by his 17 years of pure class. Distinctly un-English in style, the scale of loss born out of Scholes’ departure can be measured by the eulogies which followed. It evidenced, perhaps, the man as much as the player; unassuming, reserved. Zidane, one of the very few who edged past the standards set by the ginger-prince, marked him down as the greatest midfielder of his generation. He was – and still is – revered beyond adulation in Spain. Garnered respect has transcended beyond anything that rivalry can impede; in a week where F.I.F.A. continued to putrefy a game that is on its knees in too many places, those who ensure it can never die united to eulogise a small, ginger, asthmatic with a soft spot for lowly Oldham Athletic. Roy Keane, in a rarefied moment, spoke of an unaffected human. Alex Ferguson entitled his star pupil incredible. Scholes, almost reclusive in his introversion, would unquestionably grimace in return, but naked truth refuses concealment. Perhaps the greatest midfielder to have ever worn red, Bobby Charlton has more than once stated Scholes is his favourite player to have ever done so. It is Scholes’ character, he has said, and ability to churn out illimitable moments of beauty that marks him as a player he ‘loves’.