Thierry Henry has been my favorite footballer for as long as I can remember.
He plays the game with such beauty and it is always a treat to watch him perform his craft. He also has used his notoriety and fame to try and make a societal change in regards to football and outside it.
I respected him for being an athlete and a spokesman.
My favorite goal of his was the one he scored at Highbury against Tottenham. You know the one, he brings the ball up the right side of the pitch, makes every Spur that comes near him miss and then fires the ball into the net – and then runs down the left side, heading straight to the away supporters – and slides on his knees, putting his chest out towards the crowd that is showering him with curse words, middle fingers and so much more. Defiant, confident and mine.
Yes, Tottenham fans probably don’t care for him, but I did.
I wanted to name my son after him, but after losing that battle, we decided on Ferris. (Which is still a cool name in my opinion). He eventually left for Spain, making the naming decision a little more intelligent in retrospect, but he remained my favorite player.
Which gets me to yesterday. Watching Celtic take on Barcelona at Pride Park, a Hoops kit on while I hold young Ferris. Twice the SPL champs take the lead, only to have Messi bring it level the first time.
And Henry the second.
It was a classic Henry goal too. The kind you can’t stop watching and wondering just how he put it there. It was the Henry I’ve watched for years. Only this time, he was doing it to me.
There was no slide on the pitch in front of me.
But suddenly I knew how it felt.
Celtic would go on to lose the match when Messi showed again why he’s one of the world’s best right now. But for a moment, Henry reminded me of who was the world’s best for so many years.
And for once, I was glad my kid was not named Thierry.