A little over an hour had gone by when the substitution board went up. On it, was a 7. In red. As Wembley stood up and erupted into applause, Jack Peter Grealish could be seen walking slowly, steeped in a sudden fug of melancholy, towards the far touchline. It was a walk with a touch of theatre, flounce and authority. An aura of genius in the air around him. He had made the only goal of the game thus far. A work of art in itself. Saka’s cross was deep. He nodded it in the Wembley air and subsequently brought it down with a certain degree of elegance which the country had by then, become accustomed to. What came next was a slight drop of the shoulder and a chipped ball with his weaker foot which just about missed the defender and landed on Sterling’s head. As Wembley exploded and Sterling raced away in celebration, many inside Wembley and among the television audience must’ve had a smile which wasn’t because England were ahead and away but because Jack had arrived in the biggest stage. The whole nation was watching, the media hadn’t stopped speaking about him. He needed to live up to it. And he did. But this isn’t where the Jack Grealish story starts. And before you wonder, it doesn’t start at Villa Park with the Holt End cheering on either. It actually goes way back to a cloudy December evening of 2013. Meadow Lane. Nottingham.
Nobody inside Meadow Lane that afternoon will ever forget his first goal for Notts County when English football was treated to their first glimpse of his extraordinary talent.
Each stroke of the ball was like watching an artist in the last phase of a masterpiece. A slight touch here. A little flick there. Then came the glorious finale. He shimmied past the first challenge, drove past the second and danced past the third.
Gillingham’s defenders scrambled to stop him, but once aboard the Jack Grealish carousel, the outcome was inevitable. The net bulged. The Kop roared. And the boy who arrived on loan from Aston Villa with his socks rolled low and ambitions sky high, screamed off to celebrate with his father Kevin.
County fans might’ve thought, fair enough, he’s too good for this level. What they hadn’t realized then was, that was true for any level. On he went to Villa Park, number 40 on his back and magic at his feet, experiencing the heartbreak of relegation which only toughened him up, mentally and physically. Fast forward 4 years. Back among the big boys with number 10 on his back. He was bloody good by now. But he had had his fair share of memorable moments in the Championship. The assault by the Birmingham City fan followed by the winner in the Second City derby, the volley against Derby, the run against Rotherham, he was on a world of his own. So when the ball fell to him at the edge of United’s penalty area, time stopped. 75,000 looked on as the boy himself looked up, shifted the ball ever so slightly and bent it far corner beyond the outstretched David De Gea. The Stretford End stood up to applaud that moment of genius as he whizzed away in celebration. Reminiscent of a certain Paul Gascoigne who had evaded Fergie’s grasp by a hair, years ago. These are the types of players who you’d think are born to don the Red of Manchester. But as fate would have it, it wasn’t to be.
Villa cannot possibly hold it against Grealish. A player of his charisma and ability deserves to win trophies. Needs to play in Europe’s top competition. He’ll forever be a Villa fan above everything else. And he’s done his share for the club. Took them up, kept them up almost singlehandedly, committed to a long-term contract so his value would multiply manifold. They can now use that money and make a Leicester-esque jump. As for the team that’s getting him, a certain team from Stockport I hear, congratulations. You’ve landed a superstar.
And that’s the thing about ‘Super Jacky’ is, he’s a superstar. He walks like one. A little prim, chest puffed, ready to take on the world. He plays like one. When he’s running with the ball, it’s giddy, it’s fun. The game just falls into shape around him. He wants the ball. He uses it well, he keeps it well and every touch on it is like a flow of a paintbrush. Delicate. In no hurry whatsoever. That’s what makes him so good. Every once in a while, such players tend to come around for England. Poster boys, media starlets. They have an aura about them that’s difficult to articulate. Reminds me so much about Ted Beckham’s lad. There is something illusory about the idea of Grealish as some kind of saviour, a stifled genius. In reality, he is an incredible player yet to reach his own limits. I hope he does fulfill his destiny.
Wish you well, Jack.
Into Added Time 