Unbeknownst to most, somewhere along the moneyed piece of land to the north of the river Thames, there is a billion dollar experiment being conducted by a team of Europeans, the aim -as always- being, to decode something invisible, by finding better explanations of the visible. Every now and then one hears whispers of a breakthrough; the promised elusive particle that justifies a theoretically well defined model; and as is the case with most models, in the face of long and boring data, the whispers remain Chinese, and the theory Greek. And the whole Sisyphean iteration repeats; another candidate, another set of data, the proven pointlessness of the point that apparently awaits proof.
Here is one way of looking at Fernando Torres: When he runs, dodges, re-runs, re-dodges and scores in that special way he can, he seems to be a great ship on a calm, green ocean; for he doesn't really run, he sails. The ugly notion of terrestrial locomotion is replaced by something much more subtle and beautiful; less popliteus, more magicus. The ball at his feet assumes a life of its own, and together, master and slave stroll the length of the field, searching for common goals.
Here is another way of looking at Fernando Torres: When this beautiful ship hits metaphorical icebergs, it sinks - plangently - to unfathomable depths of pure misery. The only thing worse than watching him trudge is the fact that you once saw him sail, and the disparity between your memory and your eyesight, that enforced schizophrenia creates a thousand nails scratching on a thousand chalkboards inside your head. Absolute unbearableness. Being born blind is better than losing your eyesight after visiting just a part of the Louvre. The acute feeling of loss mainly derives from the surety of there being either most of it or absolutely nothing else left to see.
Then there is a third way of looking at Fernando Torres: And it has less to do with Torres, and more with another great ship that sunk deep - Nicolas Anelka, which in turn a lot to do with the mother of all sunken ships - Andriy Shevchenko. And it is at this precise moment that we realize the tragically learnt truths of the billion dollar experiment - that human beings are different from elementary particles and cannot be modelled thus; that ace strikers do not complete, they merely complement; that attaching a large sum of money to somebody's name takes away the prized feeling of pricelessness; that after a certain amount of fame, players seem to evolve to a point of ultra-detachment where fan-feelings become one long yawn; that two bosons of the same energy can occupy the same space but two strikers of similar egos cannot; that sometimes, life can only be understood as a martingale; that sometimes, football can only be understood as vanilla life with its vanilla truths; that big, ultra-luminous, starry, awesome, invincible-seeming mega superstars fail and that that is O.K. That this causes heartbreak of a particularly wicked kind and that that is O.K. too.
Because the prices of oil and gas may still go up which would mean better funding for the experiment. So we must keep trying, for I've heard - and these might just be rumours - that the God particle resides in Spain.