We are gathered here today to talk about joy. We are gathered here to talk about involuntary grinning and gasping, about the unfathomable, ineffable beauty of short, sharp lateral movements, about whether talent can ever be truly natural.
We are gathered here today to talk about Eden Hazard, the premier exponent and bringer of joy of his footballing era. Without a club since leaving Real Madrid in the summer, his early retirement became a tragic inevitability.
He confirmed it on Tuesday aged 32, saying: “You must listen to yourself and say stop at the right time. I was able to realise my dream, I have played and had fun on many pitches around the world.”
Of course, the pitch on which Hazard had the most fun, brought the most joy, was Stamford Bridge, that Garden of Eden. It’s easy to reel off the facts and figures – 110 Chelsea goals, 92 assists, two Premier Leagues, two Europa Leagues, one of each domestic cup trophy.
He earned 126 Belgium caps, 33 international goals, and one World Cup Silver Ball. He led Lille to their first French title since 1954 and won Ligue 1 player of the season twice. The numbers are indomitably impressive, yet still do this gluteally-gifted house of fun a gross disservice.
At his best, Hazard toyed with your conception of the possible. He ran with the ball as if he had a mental switch which allowed him to manipulate time at will, accelerate it for himself and halt it for others, as though he could flick through a flipbook of potential outcomes quicker than anyone else on earth, and invariably choose the right one.
He joined a Roberto Di Matteo side that had just won the Champions League and was simply, instantly, better than everyone else. He would go on to prove himself the most talented footballer ever to represent Chelsea. He was also perhaps the last truly great yet truly unprofessional professional.
Chelsea teammate John Obi Mikel called Hazard the laziest footballer he had ever encountered, and said “he never trained”. He called Chelsea’s training ground the “Cobham Cabana”. Filipe Luis said he “didn’t run to defend much, didn’t train well and five minutes before games he’d be playing Mario Kart in the dressing room”. Jose Mourinho, his coach from 2013-15, said “He is not from these times. He’s from the old times.”
There’s this lingering regret that had Hazard trained harder, wanted it more, not enjoyed hamburgers and holidays and happiness quite so much, he would have been a superior player. Yet you couldn’t have the freedom, the grand spontaneity, the unbearable lightness of being Eden Hazard, if you suddenly transformed him into a Cristiano Ronaldo-esque mentality monster. He was utterly unique exactly because he was so unashamedly himself.
Despite his non-conformist tendencies, he was no bad boy. He wasn’t a diver on the pitch, which could have been excused for the most-fouled player during his time in the Premier League, nor was he was an agitator off it.
Maurizio Sarri, under whom Hazard played some of his best football, said: “It is easy to stimulate him, as long as you let him have fun. He doesn’t get influenced by the media and what happens around him.”
Time under a tactical autocrat like Pep Guardiola may well have quashed his spirit, as his four-year Real Madrid stint did.
As he said upon signing, he wasn’t a Galactico, he was just a very good footballer. If you wanted Hazard to be anything other than what he was, if you loved the idea more than the man, flaws and all, you couldn’t truly benefit from the positives.
And what positives they were. No-one stopped quite like Hazard, spring-load started quite so cleanly and abruptly, simply thought and functioned quite as quickly and quirkily. His greatest goals, greatest moments, jinking past whole teams or rocket-launching from 30 yards, are all connected by a mutual brilliance.
He excelled when he could bend the boundaries of the extraordinary, when the lights were brightest and the opponents toughest. Watching Hazard at his best made you breathe faster, then forget to breathe altogether. With his feet, his mind and his ample bum, he could induce eerie silence or euphoric pandemonium.
Hazard’s career wasn’t about money, but neither was it about glory. He played football with the sole aim of maximising both his potential joy and the joy of others, and has retired for the same reason.
As elite football becomes increasingly homogenised towards professionalism and perfection, there may never be another quite like Hazard, the on-pitch heir of Ronaldinho, of Maradona, of Mane Garrincha.
Mourinho once called him better than Ronaldo but inferior to Messi. Yet really, he was just Eden, an accessible god, a relatable deity, both human and superhuman. He played football just because it was fun. Now the fun’s stopped, he’s stopped with it. He’ll find it somewhere else.
from Football - inews.co.uk https://ift.tt/qYrs960
Post a Comment