Martinelli And The Subconscious Bliss
Arsenal's mutating DNA
The dog and I were meandering along a desire trail formed by the small caramel-coloured Roe deer that kept us company, like shy spirits, always folding themselves into nothingness, or occasionally staring at us from the wild side, their black eyes pooling with curiosity and hankering. The blueberries were fattening in the dense undergrowth and the flowering fruit of the mycorrhisal fungi were popping across the forest floor like a serene firework display exploding with colour in these humid and warm temperatures.
Then, I found myself in the air, floating, my legs pulling up below my torso of their own accord, as I vacated the space I had but a moment before filled. The dog, a good twenty meters ahead turned and stared with his doggish expression of inquisitiveness. Time suddenly took its time, like a river on the flatlands, and in the air I had a moment of peace to consider what was happening.
And it was then my mind was finally let into the secret my body had already known. There, in the path, but a meter ahead of me, was a large uncoiled viper slithering toward where I had been walking. The ancient knowledge in my body took over before the chattering nonsense in my mind noticed. As I floated through the air, I realised I’d leapt perfectly to escape the oncoming viper, and I smiled at the evolutionary force that protected me without my inattentive mind even knowing.
I landed, scooted away and thanked the dog for waiting. Then, when I got home, I thought about the unconscious and the conscious and I wrote this for you. Enjoy.
Well, after last night’s excruciating game, where a ridiculous sending off, an Ødegaard penalty and an extraordinary display of tenacious defending were the only things to shout about, let’s instead focus on some beautiful thoughts…
There’s something about players like Tomáš Rosický, Santi Cazorla and Leandro Trossard. There’s something about these jump-scare creative and technically immaculate players, how they mind-meld with the ball, how they dance through defenses at full speed and how they weave passes that don’t make any sense until they land on the feet of a runner. There’s something about watching them that’s just fascinating and bewildering at the same time. But the stand-out feeling is joy. Infectious pure joy. They play with a bliss that spreads through the stadium, through the screen, through your bones. They play with a bliss that first bubbled-up when they were kids in the streets and parks and cages and never stopped fizzing on their journey to the biggest stadiums in the world.
It’s impossible not to love them, to love football a little more because of them. They remind we fans that football is only a game, in the best possible sense. They remind us that sport is really just play, organised. That it’s supposed to be spontaneous and pleasurable and diverting, and that it’s about imagination and learning and being a human. Footballers like Santi and Tomas and Leandro shine with the love of the game. They shine like there’s a kid in them that’s never grown up. They shine like footballing innocence personified, whizzing all over the pitch.
Watching players like Rosický and Cazorla and Trossard is to get lost in their world, to share their single-minded time-bending singularity of thought, or, to be more accurate, their astounding absence of thought, their naturalness, their spontaneity. I love these kind of players and I love that Arsenal has always been abundant with them.
Then there are other players, like Dennis Bergkamp and Mezut Özil and Martin Ødegaard who are exquisite masters of the ball, extraordinary footballing magicians that bend the world to their will. Players that magic up new geometric angles in real time, bamboozling the opposition by deftly devising new unimaginable shapes as they drive toward their goal with sheer determination. These players are the culmination of a million hours on the pitch, incredible natural skill and a dedication to realising a vision of how to play the game. These guys play with a selflessness that brings out the best in those around them, assist-kings and scorers of sensational goals.
Watching Dennis, Mezut and Martin is like learning secrets, it’s like being handed instant insight into how the game could be played at master level on day one of the footballing course. Whilst Rosický, Cazorla and Trossard brought me to fits of incredulous giggles at the sheer playful beauty of it all, Bergkamp, Özil and Ødegaard induced a cold-sober open-mouthed astonishment. Some players seem to be creating brilliant new footballing blockbusters, page-turners that drive you through the story with the sheer audacity of what you’re seeing. Others seem to be writing history with every kick of the ball, chiseling their legacy in stone with every pass. Don’t turn away, you’ll miss the changing of an epoch.
In football, just as in life, there are all kinds of people expressing themselves in all kinds of ways. They come from all walks of life, from all corners of the world, from the unfairly over-privileged to the unfairly exploited and challenged. But somehow there’s a sort of footballing DNA that expresses itself through them. Whether they’re from a dusty favela in Rio or a leafy suburb in Amsterdam they seem to cling to either side of the same double helix.
And sometimes you get players that feel like a mutation of the footballing DNA. Players that catch your attention in a slightly different way, players that blow a freshness through the whole footballing world. I remember the first time I saw Ronaldinho. Just ridiculous. Like he was cheating by just being himself. Music in human form. The balance, the toying with the opposition for the sheer fun of it, the terrifying mixture of imperiousness and impishness. The elemental cockiness that seemed to emanate from his very bones.
I could write all day about these kinds of players, but instead, I want to add another to the list. A player that inspires joy, a player that demands attention, a player that, as he crosses the white line, transforms from a shy kid to a ridiculously determined single-minded predator. I‘m talking about Gabriel Martinelli. There’s something about Martinelli, like all the players I’ve mentioned, that defies description, that changes football a little bit. An electric player that’s dragged futebol from the salão onto the outdoor pitch.
Head down, arms pumping, heart beating, streaming toward the goal like matter toward a black hole, brilliant feet, spurts of speed, feints, shoulder drops, full-on helter-skelter, a force of nature. Once the ball comes under his control you can’t take your eyes off him, like watching a skittish wild stallion unpredictably storming through motorway traffic.
It’s the way he shuffles the ball between his feet, from one to the other, drawing in the defender and perpetually creating potential new angles of attack or retreat. It’s the way he pirouettes and changes direction. It’s the way he traps the ball and tantalises his adversary, inviting them to lunge, to commit, because his escape route is mapped in his bones. Athletes like Martinelli, with their infinite hours of honing skills, have a flowing pomp that surprises even them as they swish away or drive through a gap. We fans often imagine that there’s some kind of decision making process, which on occasion there is, but most often, elite athletes are experiencing a kind of unconscious flow where they act independently of conscious prompting as we stare goggle-eyed, astounded at the world unfolding before them.
I love the way he runs. His head down, his eyes on the ball, his shoulders slightly hunched, his quick feet taking a million short steps as he speeds-up and his gait slowly widening toward full stretch, full roadrunner. Gabby is Arsenal’s Hermes, a trickster, a ball-thief and troublemaker embroiling himself in mischief and mystery as he flys across the pitch with his winged feet. I love the way he seems to always be getting better, season after season, under the tutelage of Arteta, Martinelli just seems to rise to every occasion, constantly honing his immense potential.
A while back I wrote an article called “The Unbearable Lightness Of Being A Football Fan” where I describe the various joys of fandom, and I’m going to refer to a paragraph here, because it perfectly encapsulates the experience of watching Gabby Martinelli in full flow: It's a deep and ancient pleasure to see players renew their membership of Mother Nature on a weekly basis. The enviable form of these balanced super athletes is a reminder of what beauty and skill the human body is capable of. Sometimes, like an unexpected punchline, a player will perform a move, a jink, a drawback or a turn that floors you, baffles you, provoking nothing but wordless infantile exclamations of amazement as they advance with growing hope, increasing tension, tantalising anticipation, the ball, pinging around like it’s got mind of its own, making it’s way toward the goal, the roller-coaster reaching the pinnacle, their goalie flying through the air like a pointless wall of mist, when, as if from nowhere the net begins rippling and the inevitable knee-sliding chest beating glorious release, this shared petit mort, where a million souls explode with united abandon, this is the goal, literally the goal. These are the moment’s when finally, in a flash, in the midst of a delirious roar, the world is finally at peace.
Maybe that’s Martinelli, the rambunctious peacemaker, a Tasmanian Devil of serenity. A mass of joyful contradictions that form a single harmony. Whatever it is, I love his contribution to Arsenal’s ever mutating DNA.
So there you go dear reader, the world is at peace, I momentarily experienced the power of the subconscious as I escaped the viper and I realised what joy it must be for footballers to express themselves with the pure abandon of subconscious bliss.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this week’s Arsenal Wonderland, if so please share it far and wide. Until next week, follow a few desire paths and listen to your subconscious mind for a while.