I felt the pressure as soon as I arrived for training. Hey Big Man, what was it like scoring in a Champions League final? Did you get laid that night even though you lost? What does Thierry Henry look like naked?
Fine enough, but you know that song by the Band, The Weight? It was running through my head while I was drilling with the fullbacks—can you call people who can't run fullbacks? I don't know really—and that's when I started getting the looks inside the ground, likely from the same fans who'd already sent me weird emails of their kids.
And Sven coming to see me in front of the rest of the team, asking me why Crouchie wouldn't respond to his Facebook friend requests. "I don't talk to Crouch anymore." I'd love to though. Who I'd kill to be with him back in the Lane.
Then there was that game, 2-1 to Morecambe. The fucking cheerleaders were the limit, and the Morecambe strikers asking me for spare change. The goals. I won the FA Cup last year. These people would be grateful to touch the Johnstone Paints Trophy. And yet I was letting them in, and I knew they were going to put it on me all season, all year long.
The Weight...I mouthed the last verse on the way down the tunnel.
Catch a Cannonball, now take me down the line.
My bag is sinking low, and I do believe it's time.
I called Sky. I'm sorry, but even money has its limits in this world.
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