So Long, Dele
Saying goodbye to my favorite player
People often wonder why I latch on to players. Over the last 15 years Spurs best three players have arguably been Luka Modric, Gareth Bale, and Harry Kane. However, if you ask me my three favorites it would be Ledley King, Benoit Assou-Ekotto, and Dele Alli. I appreciate technical brilliance as much as the next person, and those players were awesome to watch; however, I simply never connected with them in the same way.
Ledley was a player robbed of fitness that could still rise to considerable heights until he called it quits. Benny was a mercenary, completely honest about the business of football, who still embraced Spurs while exuding rock-star coolness on the pitch—whether with his hair or those brazen turns under pressure. These were people I could relate to, albeit for very different reasons, and not just as footballers. By the way they carried themselves and spoke, I felt like I knew who they were.
Dele was something different for me, though. One of the first times we saw him in our shirt he nutmegged Luka Modric, who by this time was a standout for Real Madrid. While so many young players are overwhelmed by the moment, Dele showed up on day one with the same attitude we would at the park for a five-a-side or kick about. Everything about him exuded confidence and the twinkle in his eye felt as if he always knew something we didn’t.
People will talk about the goals, the assists—the star—really, that he was on the pitch. And do not misunderstand me, he was all of that. But that’s not why he’s always been my favorite. He felt like the club, and by extension my, little brother. I am about 15 years older than Dele and, like him in those early days, I often found my emotions getting the best of me. For Dele it was a kick or punch that drew the media or referees whistle. For me it was strained relationships and a hand-to-mouth existence born out of my own decisions and mistakes. Unlike Dele, though, my constant stream of mistakes filled me with doubt and uncertainty, something I still struggle with from time to time to be honest, while Dele, at 19 and 20 years old and the whole nation watching, seemed to keep his head up while continuing to play his game.
I cannot tell you how much I admired that. It made me feel protective of him. As someone who struggled with impulse control, it felt personal. Him succeeding, proving all those pundits and booing opponents wrong, was a victory for him but also all of us who do lash out, who do ride the wave of our emotions, who wear our hearts on our sleeves. And with all that aggression, attitude, and talent he almost came to define those years Mauricio Pochettino managed our club. We were coming at you, no matter who you were, and we weren’t going to apologize for a thing. While it was happening, that era felt like it would last forever. How could it not? We finally got the recipe for success correct. But, of course, we all know that was not to be.
I will not chronicle the decline; that’s not what my relationship to Dele is all about. However, the way he is spoken of often makes it seem like this is a person who is at a crossroads in life. Maybe as a footballer, sure, but in reality he’s still an incredibly young man. And young people are allowed to find themselves after trying times. In many ways it is the rite of passage into adulthood. It definitely was for me and I’m sure many of you.
So in saying goodbye to him as a Spurs player, I wish he knew how much I still support him and hope he finds that spark that made him great. As a person in my early 40s, and as happy as I’ve ever been, I know it is possible. So I’m rooting for him—as a footballer and a human. How could I not? Because rooting for him is like rooting for myself and so many others like us. And if you do not get why that bond will follow him even as he leaves White Hart Lane, well, I just don’t think you understand.