Teen Phenom Fears Ghosts of Greats…
Once upon a time, in a land where grass was greener on the pitches of the Premier League, young Michael Owen burst forth like a footballing Hercules. Yet, even this teenage thunderbolt, scoring goals like they were going out of style, found himself trembling like a jelly at the sight of Brazil’s football wizard, Ronaldo Nazario. “Blimey, if that’s the benchmark, I might as well be playing in flip-flops,” Owen confessed, feeling like a fish in a sea full of sharks.
With a career that pirouetted into the orbit of Real Madrid, Owen hobnobbed with his football idol, the one-man samba parade himself, Ronaldo. Choosing him for his speed in a make-your-own-frankenstein-player quiz, Owen said, “He was like a cheetah on roller skates!” Meanwhile, among the Mersey gladiators, Robbie Fowler kicked up a storm with a left foot that could juice an orange and Emile Heskey, the mighty bull of Anfield, showcased strength as if made from titanium football boots. “Emile could move mountains and score goals with biceps alone,” Owen laughed.
Still, among the knaves and knights of the pitch, arched over them Thierry Henry, the French maestro who played soccer like he was writing poetry with his feet. Owen exhaled a sigh of resignation watching Henry, a titan with a bag of goals and assists as wide as the English Channel, thinking, “Oh Thierry, with you here, I might as well play the harp rather than the ball!” Even the Golden Boot couldn’t keep up!
