With the Gods
I am too young to have seen the elegance and grace of Jimmy Greaves but I know my history. I have my grandfather and uncle to thank for the stories of Jimmy's brilliance and an assortment of books that chronicled his journey at Spurs.
One that comes instantly to mind is a first edition of Glory Glory Nights. I can still remember reading about the European Cup and those disallowed goals against Benfica and then his brace in the 1963 European Cup Winners cup thrashing of Atletico Madrid.
As a young lad, I immersed myself in forging a connection with icons of the club, the legends. The very essence of what it meant to be a Tottenham supporter, for me, was appreciating and celebrating the games and goals and players that made up our rich tapestry of cup kings glory.
Greaves was and still is, arguably our greatest ever player. His goals alone, have stood the test of time and it's taken an absolute glitch in the Matrix for the Portuguese Ronaldo to top him across Europe in the goal-scoring charts. But comparisons are not important. Much like modern fans attempt to devalue the worth of what Harry Kane has achieved in a Lilywhite shirt, players that belong to our history are for us to cherish. Be it with silverware or not.
Football is and has always been about the moment. The way a player can glide past a defender or pass the ball into the back of the net. That electric acceleration of pace. When the hairs on the back of your neck stand and you can sense a moment of magic is about to spark the game. You know what you're about to experience is going to be special even if it's exactly what you were expecting to witness.
This was Greaves. He was a glitch in the Matrix type of player. A generational talent, tormented off the pitch, troubled, but on it; a giant amongst men. A goal scorer with the capacity to score every type of goal and to do so with a beauty that personified Tottenham Hotspur style and identity.
Much like Blanchflower was our poetry and Mackay was our leader, Greaves was a a force of nature, a off-worldly assassin. He would end you, one hundred different ways, but you'll be gone all the same.
His goals, those records - still unequalled in England. This is a testament to just how great he was. My grandfather, uncle; their memories became mine. Gilzean to Greaves is often the roleplay I'd kick around with in the back garden or down the park, through those vivid descriptions I would listen to as a young lad from my elders. He felt mythical. Unreal. Yet he was exactly that for those that were lucky enough to watch him play.
Perhaps when I'm older than I am, I too will speak of modern day players in the same way. But then I struggle to believe I will.
In my teens, I knew of Greaves from lunch time telly. Saint and Greavsie on a Saturday, back when football content was two television channels and the back pages of the tabloids. Before the hedonistic days of Teletext and Ceefax.
Jimmy was hilarious, quick witted and often genius with his anecdotes. A DML reader, way back, asked him a few questions on my behalf - in of all places - the Burger King in Leicester Square. Jimmy was still riding out the awkward relationship he was having with Spurs at the time but I'm thankful - we all are - that he was given the respect he deserved. A hall of fame inductee that might never be beaten.
Football is a different animal these days. I think it's less romanticised than it was in the 60s and 70s and even 80s. We have often been blessed with flair and creative genius at Spurs. For all the ongoing mishaps and the lack of trophies, we still produce players worthy to be compared to ones of yesteryear.
Kane is often compared to Greaves. The fact he's the first in my lifetime to be honoured with such a comparison tells you just how aloft to the heavens Jimmy was. And now he's in the heavens, with the Gods where he belongs.
RIP Greavsie, the greatest