To Stewart, Nick and Amy Contents PREFACE 1. IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER 2. ONE OF THE CHOSEN FEW 3. THE MAN WHO BROKE THE RANKS AT MONTE CARLO 4. THE BETRAYAL 5. THE MIRACLE OF 12 JULY 6. A SEASON IN HELL 7. THE METAMORPHOSIS 8. THE BLOSSOMING 9. THE HENRY PARADOX I 10. THE HENRY PARADOX II 11. FROM TEAM-MAN TO ONE-MAN TEAM 12. THE DIMMING OF THE LIGHT 13. BARCELONA: THE PARENTHESIS 14. THE HAND OF GAUL 15. THE SHATTERED MIRROR OF KNYSNA POSTSCRIPT: A CHILD AGAIN I’ve been around the world Had my pick of any girl You’d think I’d be happy But I’m not Ev’rybody knows my name But it’s just a crazy game Oh, it’s lonely at the top (Randy Newman, ‘Lonely at the Top’, 1970, 1975) ‘When you look at his record, the greatest striker ever. The Michael Jordan of football. He took the ball in the middle of the park, passed everybody and scored a goal when he wanted. The biggest talent ever, maybe, in football. He had everything you dream to have in a football player. Highly intelligent, analyses very quickly, great pace, great power, great jump. He only used 50 per cent of his jumping power. He could have been a tremendous header of the ball. He didn’t fancy it too much. Still, he managed to be the best goalscorer ever [for Arsenal]. In the modern game, what he did is just . . . amazing.’ (Arsène Wenger, 2007) Preface It was late in the summer of 2005. I was waiting for George Best, somewhat anxiously, in the office of his agent, Phil Hughes, just off the North End Road, a short walk away from the pubs where the 1968 European Footballer of the Year had spent the best part of the last twenty years downing pints of neat vodka and umpteen bottles of Pinot Grigio. Best was to be a guest of honour at my magazine France Football’s forthcoming celebration of the Ballon d’Or’s fiftieth anniversary. His own trophy had long been sold to a collector, and the cash raised by the sale frittered away on booze, birds and failed business ventures. My task was not to prise anecdotes from him, tragi-comic stories which hundreds of others had already been told and which were at some points in his life the only things he could sell to survive. On 2 December, I was to accompany the footballer whose photograph had been pinned above my boarding-school bed to Paris, where a replica of the golden ball would be presented to him in the presence of most of its other recipients. I had been granted the privilege of arranging the details of that trip. The man who finally stepped out of the taxi (late, naturally) looked frail but still exuded the charm that had seduced so many, men and women alike. He was also chatty, witty, engaging in a way that came as a wonderful surprise to someone accustomed to the aloofness of today’s ‘star’ footballers. There was no way one could have known that the interview he granted me – for free – would be his very last. You may have seen some of the pictures we took that day: Best, unshaven, his greying hair unkempt, clad in a black leather jacket, his back resting against a rust-coloured brick wall. They’re not easily forgotten. A couple of weeks later, Best’s exhausted body finally broke down, and a heart-rending death vigil began in front of of the Cromwell Hospital. George would never make it to Paris. The replica of his Ballon d’Or was passed on to Manchester United FC instead, where it is now exhibited in the club’s museum. The engraved invitation I was to pass on to him lies unread in a sealed envelope, a mournful memento of the most poignant afternoon in my career as a journalist. Thierry Henry’s life followed a course that is so markedly different from George Best’s that you might wonder why I choose to begin a book about Henry there, on that afternoon in West London. I do so because of what Best said as we were about to part: ‘I don’t recognize myself in the players I see today,’ he told me (I’m quoting from memory, as my tape-machine had been switched off already). ‘There’s only one who excites me, and that is Thierry Henry. He’s not already). ‘There’s only one who excites me, and that is Thierry Henry. He’s not just a great footballer, he’s a showman, an entertainer.’ These words have come back to me time and again over the past couple of years. It should have been easy to write about a footballer whom I had seen and spoken to regularly throughout his stay at Arsenal – the club I’ve supported since 1979 – a footballer who had contributed so much to the Gunners and to my national team. But I found that the more I learnt about Henry, the more I talked to people who had known him far better than I had, the less I felt drawn to him in the way I had been drawn to George Best – or Liam Brady. My awe at the scale of Henry’s accomplishments hadn’t waned, but I soon realized that I was falling out of love with the prodigious striker who had made me forget all press- box etiquette and leap out of my seat, screaming, when he scored that goal against Real Madrid at the Bernabéu in 2006. What was happening was the exact opposite of what I had experienced whilst researching my biography of Éric Cantona, when I had fallen under the spell of a player whose outbursts of violence and pompous pronouncements had often repelled me previously. It had been clear then that, despite his sulphurous reputation, which he had done everything in his power to cultivate, Cantona was ultimately a man who had been truly loved, and had been – in his own bizarre, paradoxical and sometimes unjustifiable way – worthy of being loved that much. That much was clear: writing this book would be a much more arduous task than recounting Éric’s life and career had been. In that case, I had started from the assumption (a modus operandi, if not an absolute truth) that a biographer should assume the role of an explorer whose duty was to question the maps that have been drawn before him. These maps – profiles, interviews, essays, earlier biographies – presented a tormented, even chaotic, landscape in Cantona’s case, full of accidental breaks and faultlines placed there almost at random. It certainly made for an interesting journey. But Thierry? If you’ll forgive the image, whilst previous accounts of Éric’s life could be compared to a messy (but tasty) millefeuille of contradictory opinions, there was very little to bite into as far as Henry was concerned, even if his collated interviews ran to thousands of pages. Only one account of his career has been published so far, in 2005: Oliver Derbyshire’s optimistically subtitled Thierry Henry: The Amazing Life of the Greatest Footballer on Earth. In an age when footballers who’ve yet to reach their twenty-first birthday put their names to ghosted autobiographies, this absence of books about Henry struck me as very odd indeed – and revelatory, too, of his puzzling image and status within the game. If he were indeed ‘the greatest footballer on earth’, why had no one bothered to scratch the veneer of the glossy picture he had presented to us for so long? And why were men who had routinely been described as his ‘friends’ proving so reluctant to praise him unequivocally when I spoke to them? Why was there always an element of reserve in their appreciation? I had fond memories of the man myself, but the further I delved into his past, the more these memories appeared to lose their relevance. It’s not that I dug up previously unknown scandals in his quasi-perfect ascent to the top of his profession. Up to the infamous ‘Hand of Gaul’ incident that might well, in the longer term, define him in the collective psyche – far more than the titles and honours he’s coveted and collected so assiduously – Henry’s career had been almost devoid of public controversy. I wrote the following piece shortly before France faced Ireland in Paris to decide which of these two teams would play in the 2010 World Cup: Footballers often live on in the game’s folk history through the iconisation of a single moment in their careers, regardless of how much or how little that moment captures of their individual brilliance. Marco Tardelli is better remembered for his celebration of Italy’s second goal in the 1982 World Cup final than for the goal itself. Éric Cantona will forever launch himself in the crowd at Selhurst Park, and Ferenc Puskas juggle the ball like a cheeky schoolboy in the centre circle of Wembley, whilst Diego Maradona punches the ball past Peter Shilton ad infinitum, his mesmerising run through the English defence – almost – reduced to a sideshow in that particular melodrama. Charlie George still lies on his back on the Highbury pitch. Pelé has already offered the ball to Carlos Alberto and strolls on, casting a casual glance to his right: the slowness of his pace tells us more about his art, and his mastery of it, than any of the 1,281 goals he scored himself. Of Thierry Henry, however, there is no such image. He may have been called ‘the greatest striker in the world’ by his mentor Arsène Wenger, beaten all manner of records – and records which carry genuine significance – collected every single major trophy that domestic and international football has to offer, ravished huge crowds with a game that is simultaneously spectacular, explosive and graceful – but the truth is that the ‘icon’ of Arsenal FC and ‘legend’ of Les Bleus has yet to provide one of these ‘moments’ which, for some obscure but compelling reason, elevate a great player beyond simply how ‘good’ he was. Like many devotees of Arsenal, I was surprised that the club’s fans had voted Henry their ‘greatest of all time’. My vote would have gone to Dennis Bergkamp, who had the unique gift of slowing down time on the field of play, and, one night at St James’ Park, fashioned a goal of such bewildering beauty that, no matter how often you saw it, it lost none of its miraculous quality – just like the closing stanza of Larkin’s ‘Whitsun Weddings’ never fails to hit its target, whether it is the first time you read it, or the hundredth. Even Thierry’s astonishing pick-up, pivot and volley against Manchester United appeared locked in the two dimensions of TV replays, when lesser footballers had taken us beyond these bounds. Then Thierry used his left hand, twice. His moment had finally arrived.1 And I had to start this foreword all over again. It was a moment of injustice: injustice towards a fine, superbly organized and combative Irish side for whom qualification would have been a fair reward, but injustice, too, towards a magnificent player whose previous on-field behaviour had been almost blameless, and who was vilified to such an extravagant degree that he found himself turned into a figure of hate, even in his own country, for a ‘crime’ he had the courage to confess almost immediately after he had committed it. I devote a whole chapter to this ‘defining moment’ in Thierry’s career and, anyway, this is not the place to dwell upon it. I’ll just say that on that evening I had been invited to take part in a discussion of the ‘scandal’ on a popular radio programme, and that I was surprised by how difficult I found it to control my anger. It had been the most shameful night in the history of French football, I said. Not you, Thierry, please, not you. The next morning, Henry Winter opened his Daily Telegraph column using almost exactly the same words. ‘Say it ain’t so, Joe.’ But it was. I then realized that there was no contradiction between these events and what I had written before they happened. My own reluctance to elevate Henry to a status comparable to that of Bergkamp told its own story: Thierry was not an easy footballer to feel genuine affection for, regardless of how much you admired, even revered him. He was not an artist in Éric Cantona’s mould. He had shown touches of genius, but seemed impervious to the inner torment that defined his countryman, for better or for worse. There was something unremittingly efficient about his prowess. He was a record-breaker who felt a genuine passion for his craft, and an admirable ambition to write (or rather, kick) himself into the history books. A Roger Federer rather than an Ilie Nastase, a Don Bradman rather than an Archie Jackson, except that the summits which Federer and Bradman ascended ultimately receded before him: Thierry never truly reached the horizon, which, for us spectators, is the same thing as going beyond it. He never scored in a World Cup, a Champions League, a Euro or even an FA Cup final. He still won all these trophies, but he didn’t seem to ‘own’ them, somehow. There was his demeanour, too, which he himself has called ‘arrogance’, familiar to anyone who’s ever heard NBA stars being interviewed, or who has