Colin Sheridan: Why I have finally forgiven Jack Grealish

In reality, we were lucky the courtship between us and Grealish lasted as long as it did

Mon, 04 Jan, 2021 - 07:00

In Spike Lee’s underrated love letter to Coney Island and basketball, He Got Game, Ray Allen’s character, the high school prodigy Jesus Shuttlesworth, tells the world why he loves the game so much: “Basketball is like poetry in motion,” he says, ”cross the guy to the left, take him back to the right, he’s fallin’ back. Then you look at him and say, ‘What?’”.

Watching Jack Grealish play football these last four months, the sentiment endures. For all the lateral passing, the hoofing up the line, the tippy tappy, and the ‘how is he ref’, there are few kicking a ball in England who play with the poetry Grealish does. Oh, how we wished it were different. He broke up with us, after all. We can always say we knew him once.

We Irish can sure hold a grudge. We rail against condescension, yet gave Tom Cruise an actual certificate of Irishness at a ceremony hosted by our Tánaiste. We desperately want to be wanted. When Grealish dumped us, it hurt. Like any separation, you wish them well publicly, but you secretly hope they don’t fulfil their potential.

The post-breakup was going according to plan when, first, he never got the England call up he seemed destined for, then Villa got relegated, and finally (cruelly!), nobody bought him. The holy trinity of humiliations. Ha! We showed him. How dare this Englishman, born and bred in the midlands to English parents, eschew the advances of Éire and a broke football association who were smart enough to pay Mike Ashley €100,000 a month, and not even get a pair of Puma Kings out of it. What was the insolent pup thinking?

In reality, we were lucky the courtship between us and Grealish lasted as long as it did. His choosing to play for Ireland from U17 to U21, in the chaotic state we were in, was a sign there must have been some love there. Whether it was the comfort of playing with his Irish Villa mates, or a soft fidelity for the old country, Grealish obviously liked it here. He was hardly coming for the prestige. He didn’t need the attention. This kid was being talked about in his home town Birmingham as a prodigy since he was in senior infants. He signed for Villa when he was six.

Now, almost two decades later, he is the outstanding homegrown talent in the Premier League. You can keep your Harry Kanes and Jamie Vardys, Grealish is box office, and is doing it every week, skippering his boyhood club. The Holte End may be empty, but their adoration for their favourite son is real; he is truly beloved.

Want to know the difference between Grealish and his fellow defector, Declan Rice? Well, just watch them play. Rice, excellent footballer that he is, would remind you of, well, the grain, rice. Rice is fine. It’s good. It’s nutritious and it sustains you. You could live off rice. But, you don’t dream of rice. You don’t want rice. You want Grealish.

Declan Rice is the boring, steady brother who keeps the family together in A River Runs Through It. Jack Grealish is Brad Pitt. He floats over the turf, ghostlike, as if he’s the fly at the end of a fishing line, being cast over some great water, jinking and twisting, tempting defenders to make fools of themselves.

He’s hardy, too. He can take a kicking. For Villa, he is no indulgence. He is the metronome by which they tick. His goal saved them from relegation on the last day of last season. Now, led by him, they are serious challengers for a top four spot.

Which brings us to business. Five months ago, Grealish signed a contract “keeping” him in Birmingham until 2025, and earning him a reputed £140,000 a week. Local boy done good. While that contract does not guarantee Grealish will stay, it does guarantee whoever lures him away will pay a pretty penny for the privilege.

Grealish could’ve taken the proverbial knee on his last contract negotiations, making himself a much more desirable signing for suitors who are increasingly stymied by the shackles of financial fair play, and would much rather pay big money on wages than transfer fees. Not signing would have screwed Aston Villa, however.

So, here’s the rub; should Grealish move to say, United or City, he will make more money. He will almost certainly not be the focal point of either team. He will likely have more chances of Champions League football, but even then, you’d expect his creative genius to be afflicted by the curse conflicting interests.

Crucially, any club other than Villa may not be as forgiving of his extracurricular foibles. Some of the tabloid entries on his private life would make a Rolling Stone blush. No matter how good he’s been this season, the fear nags that he might one day leave the field after a demoralising display against West Brom, and collapse into himself, like a dying star. His on field performances this season have assuaged that fear, for now.

The contract he signed last September is far from just an insurance policy for the club, however.

Current Aston Villa owners, Egyptian billionaire Nassef Sawiris and the American billionaire Wes Edens, represent a new departure in a long line of difficult custodians for Villa. Edens, in particular, has form when it comes to an aspirational club spending money on keeping a star player, rather than looking to cash in on them; he co-owns NBA team the Milwaukee Bucks, who recently tied their talismanic forward Giannis Antetokounmpo, the leagues reigning two-time MVP, to a five-year contract. The Bucks, like Villa, are a coming team.

Milwaukee could be called the Brummie of the American midwest. There are prettier cities, more profitable markets, but Antetokounmpo said upon signing “This is my home, this is my city”.

That’s what they all say, right? Just before they break your heart. Maybe, but sometimes they mean it. Jack Grealish will soon find out. Choosing between Ireland and England may well have been a doddle when it comes to what’s next.

May he lose none of his mischief and majesty whatever comes to pass. For me at least, he is forgiven.