Gone With The Wind

Torres jokes are about as old as LK Advani, so there isn’t much of a point in rehashing the old, unless you’re Salman Khan making 100 crores by selling misogyny to India packaged as ‘Dabangg 2’. This is about the legacy and adroitness of the baby-faced assassin (which is what his uncle called when he bit him during …uh..umm… a game of chess), who has stolen the hearts (and health insurance) of a million Spaniards. Seeing a flamboyant display against the Govt. Sr. Sec. boys school, sector-29 Noida is a massive slap on the face of anyone who thought the 50 million was a waste (so what if groundsmen across the world didn’t get a snickers each).

El Nino’s open goals scored to missed ratio is par excellence, given that the travesty with United was out of compassion for fellow Spaniard De Gea. It took him a long time to get out of the down-trodden beat-up horrible neighbourhood where he had to overcome bullies and greyness of the city to get to training. But enough about his time at Liverpool. He made the brave decision (with no bearing on the wages) to move to SW6 and play with the real men of London (yeah, you can frown, but I don’t see any other club winning trophies), whilst  being overtly generous to the wives and children to humour columnists across the globe. With grace he played on his return to Anfield, showing great respect to the home crowd by whimpering along the box in an uncharacteristic manner,  which took him years of partnering Maxi Rodrguez, Alberto Aquilani, and any other fisherman look alike Rafa Benitez could find on the streets of Malaga. The majestic first goal in blue, with that delightful assist from the puddle led to ecstasy and bar room brawl at Upton Park. Oh, the power he wields.

   

His hat-tricks and braces against Wigan, West Brom, Wolves and any other club from the midlands (read:Ludhiana) were crucial to Liverpool coming 7^th consistently. His self-harm to allow the academy players a first team go was a graceful touch to his footballing genius. Playing under a flurry of Chelsea managers that shuffled like the UPA cabinet didn’t for once affect his consistency drought (I mean ‘run of signature form’). It all culminated, like it should have on the grand stage, where he showed how much his country means to him and outscored Villa. Critics cry, but it doesn’t Mata! (bleep!, excuse the pun, the everlasting awe of ‘Nando has rendered my neurons dysfunctional).