We are all Zico. The artist formerly known as Arthur has once more been trudging down memory lane, all the way back to the scene of the terrible accident: Brazil's elimination from the 1982 World Cup at the hands of Italy.
The most exciting point in a football match comes when it dawns on you that neither team is in control of it, when both teams hit the sweet spot of incompetence: just about bad enough that every attack on them is potentially fatal; just about good enough that each can exploit the other's dozing immune system. When it's your own team, though, it's a lot more unsettling.
Something strange happened to the English League Cup last week. You could even say it was spooked. No, this isn't just a bad attempt to make an otherwise matter-of-fact teaser appear more intriguing by making altogether too much of the chance simultaneity of the recently-played fourth round of the competition and Halloween. How dare you. No, there were odd things going on, alright: goals. Lots and lots of goals.
Sometimes we watch sports in order to appreciate that we share the same basic species with those among us who can dunk, shoot an under-par round or dismount from the rings without breaking their ankles. And sometimes we watch fairly sure that whatever that poor sap is doing, we could probably do it too, if we ever cared to. Those saps are called kickers.