Arsenal America

I really don’t know what to make of this. One of our members, Geoff, wrote this original piece of fiction. We here at the ArseAm HQ like to promote member contributions, so here you go…

Meeting Thierry Henry at a small, neighborhood bar in Lyons wasn?t at the top of my list of things I

expected from this short trip abroad, but once I got a chance to bask in his aura, his presence, and how it seemed to clash with the surroundings, it took only a moment to find a stool and draw close. He was saddled up to the bar at a small caf? unusually busy for this time of year. After a rain storm let up a few minutes earlier, I had hoped to be among the first out on the streets after so many had undoubtedly changed their plans due to the bad French weather. I had hoped that the melancholy of the empty, clean smelling streets would remind me of Seattle, my inspirational home, to help me meet a deadline I so desperately needed to make.

His slim, chiseled athlete?s body provided hard edges for his white fleece, dark jeans and white trainers to cover. No one at the bar is within earshot of him and I, praising my incredible luck, make an introduction. He smiles, like he must with most fans when he is trying to enjoy himself silently, but I stay, hoping that I can get a moment with the prodigal striker. ?Being here, in Lyons, is much like a refueling, a stop over for me,? says Henry; his eyes sparkling like the green waters of the river outside. ?I need to come here, you know, whenever the streaks start to slow down for me.? Puzzled, I ask him why here, why now in the off-season when there is nothing to play for.

?You see,? he says as he turns to me, his short-cropped hair like a skullcap, ?We need to refuel, you know, like a truck. We are in it for the long haul, my friend, a short trip each season that makes up a long journey.? He leans closer, the faint smell of expensive after-shave, and the glint off of his tennis bracelet both real and some how otherworldly.

?We, you know, footballers, we are not like most other people. We are not a breed, like a separate breed of people, but a group of trained mechanisms that need to work as one to succeed. When the grease, or the fuel inside the machine dries up, we must move forward, keep forward all the time, you know. The fuel we get from here, it is what keeps us going.?

He leans back and I find my mouth open, gaping like the mouths of those on the terraces who have witnessed the ridiculous talent of this man. His drink is sparkling and cold and he drinks slowly, a slight smile creeping up on his rather stoic, hard lined face.

I had imagined Henry, like most fans do, outside the stadium, as a consummate cell phone junkie, trading

calls to his agent, his girlfriend or his bookie. During so many brief TV spots, he is always on the phone: from the van, to the door, from the door to the press conference. Maybe, I thought, a cell phone was somehow a loosener of the tongue, like wine, to help him vocalize at press events. In vino veritas, I thought, but somehow regarding cell phones.

His ethereal visage carried with it a greatness that can only be understood by people who have met such stirring, imposing figures, like the late Gregory Peck, or even Paul Newman. Their presence itself seemed to suggest something of greatness without even a word. But here, with less than a foot between us I understood without having ever seen him in person, how he could be so splendid on the field.

Henry exuded it, breathed it, breathed confidence. His brand of confidence is the stuff that champions are made of. Mere mortal? His 2001 goal against United, a deft flick up with his back turned turning into the corner of the net with such perfect ferocity that I couldn?t help but believe the man as the second coming.

Then, from beside me, ?Mate, you?re in my seat.? I turned and in front of me, standing right in front of me was Robert Pires. He slid a small wisp of hair back behind his ear, the small black game-only headband still holding back his hair. It seemed strange to me that he would call me mate, clashing with a French accent, but I didn?t question it. Only a second later did I realize that these two weren?t the only Gunners to be found within earshot. Luzny, Wiltord, Campbell and Tony Adams all sat in one sun lit corner drinking the same sparkling clear drinks,

dressed in street clothes, though Lee Dixon, sitting down the bar a ways, was having a glass of wine with his.

In fact, the bar was full of Arsenal, old and new, some drinking with others, some sitting alone, reading day old newspapers or small paperback books by any variety of best-selling authors. A small fortuned was collected here, a small fortune in players: the old and the new, the young and the old. Even Igor Stepanovs and Jermaine Pennant were sipping drinks quietly outside in the slight chill of the misty and overcast French afternoon.

Not having had a chance to order a drink yet and wanting to shut my mouth from perpetual openness, I ordered a pint of bitter from the bartender.

?No bitter here,? came the quick reply. His portly stature and too white apron took up most of the space behind the bar, but I could just make out bottles of the clear liquid so favored by the players that I instantly decided to forgo the regular bloating beer and go from the brown to the clear, a sure sign that I was off my game, though only recognizable to my friends.

The bottle was cold, even after coming off the shelf. I turned it around in my hands and found a small series of words at the bottom:

?Inspiration, Charisma, Athleticism?

I was afraid to try it; just like the bidet in my bathroom a few miles down the road. My curiosity was beginning to peak and I needed to know what they were drinking. A magical solution perhaps? Something like Red Bull with fairy dust in it? Or maybe it was distilled waters of the Euphrates River. I watched the barkeep disappear through a small door behind him, so small that he had to stoop to get through. Without seeming too conspicuous, I straddled the bar between Francis Jeffers and Pascal Cygan, who happened to be drinking a Pepsi instead of the clear liquid, and in one quick motion, I bolted through the tiny door.

Almost immediately, two large and foul smelling gentlemen grabbed me. In front of me was a huge vat of slightly carbonated liquid; its waters were as flat and transparent as glass. Only the overhead fluorescent lights made any sound in the small room. I knew by the increasingly strong grip on my arms that this would be as close as I would get to finding out the truth. Why is the team so good, so respected? Why are the ego?s almost always in check as compared with Manchester United or Liverpool? Why did the players have the uncanny ability to find open players on the field in the thickest of crowded pitches? What was in that water?

I knew my moment had arrived; I was a trespasser, an interloper in a den for the football greats, Arsenal, past and present. Time didn?t exist. I didn?t exist. Only the question remained. The barkeep was filling bottles that lay in a crate beside him. Then he shot a short glance in my direction, nodding for my captors to drag me away, I asked quickly, blurting out before I was whisked away, ?What the HELL is that stuff??

The barkeep?s bald pate shining under the fluorescent lights smiled deviously, as I thought only Telly Savalas could in ?On Her Majesties Secret Service?. I was being dragged towards the door, my trainers squealing on the floor, arms trying to break free against a despairingly tight grip, head cocked to try and get a look over the lip of the great vat.

Suddenly, the waters broke, the calm was shattered, the icy fluid breaking over the side and I heard only a few words before I was escorted out of the strangest of strange places. The face was unmistakable, the dark curly locks matted against his skull, the accent, so telling, a voice I knew instantly to belong to the one and only, Martin

Keown. A man who, for so many years was one of the hearts of the great team, now older and slower, his hollow cheeks somehow reflecting the inner struggle to be as good as he once was. Strained, he spoke to me quickly, his words running together, but still slow, ?They are sucking me dry, mate! Get Adams in here, quick!?

A minute later, I was on my way home, traipsing down a quiet French country lane, all traces of the encounter lost, except for the bottle in my pocket, still cool and still unopened.