Pace with grace

IMAGINE footballers in the form of water (and why not? It's the one element that flows through our daily lives) and what do you see? Kenny Dalglish as a river, perhaps, a majestic, teeming river, like the Rhine, sweeping past the Lorelei; Eric Cantona as a lake, sparkling like a million diamonds when the sun dances upon the waves but also reflecting the darker moods of a troubled sky. Denis Law was a waterfall, Jimmy Greaves a geyser.

Among current players Paul Scholes may be a secret spring.

Emile 'where's the goal?' Heskey, alas, is no more than a puddle.

Thierry Henry is an ocean. So vast is his repertoire, so convincing is the intimate welding of his head, heart and feet, that he can now do pretty much as he pleases - and it pleases him much. He is not carrying this Arsenal side, because there is one other great player in it, two others of exceptional quality and a handful of very good ones, but he is the one who provides its unique flavour.

He makes goals and he scores goals - and memorable goals, too. He adorns games and he changes games - as Cantona did, though not always in Europe.

Perhaps it is better simply to say that he adorns the game. With the possible exception of Zinedine Zidane - and even that caveat shows how far Henry has progressed - he must now be considered the finest player in the world.

Football supporters who fail to respond to Henry's brilliance - and by extension Arsenal's transformation under Arsene Wenger - are no true supporters at all. They have changed English football irrevocably, but to leave a permanent mark upon the game they must first win the Champions League, which Liverpool made their private property when it was known as the European Cup and entry was restricted to genuine champions.

No team 'deserves' to win the world's premier club competition, for such titles have to be won the hard way, but only Chelsea fans are hoping that Arsenal are not England's representatives in the semi- finals.

It has been said before, but it needs to be stated firmly once more. The Gunners are playing football of such refinement, beauty indeed, that one can scarce forbear to cheer.

Watching them spin a golden thread across Highbury last Saturday, in the face of a ferocious wind that made the practice of handsome football a distant prospect, it was hard not to recall with a mirthless chuckle that this was the club that gave the world the unlovely Double-winning side of Peter Storey and Peter Simpson, from which the world did not withhold its defiance.

This was the club, even when Liam Brady was at his height, commonly associated with the dour victory and the grim draw, offered as a blood sacrifice to those high priests of anal retentiveness, Don Howe and George Graham. Such were the joys!

So the superb football that the Highbury crowd now takes for granted takes some getting used to.

As a grateful member of that crowd, no doubt as astonished as the rest of the country, said last Saturday: "No opportunity to watch this side must be wasted." Certainly no opportunity to watch Henry in his coat of many colours should be overlooked. He has reached the stage, like George Best before him, or like Vivian Richards, to use a handy comparison with another sport, when his technical mastery, married to the confidence that comes with knowledge and the sheer thrill of being alive, is giving spectators the most enriching experience of their sporting lives.

It is reflected most clearly in the way he holds himself. Has any footballer ever looked more graceful than Henry? Not in an attention- seeking, what-a-dandy-I-am sort of way.

He simply looks more at home on a football field than the other 21 players who happen to be sharing it with him, although Patrick Vieira doesn't exactly resemble a duffer. The other thing, of course, is his lacerating pace, which may well make some England defenders look old when France begin their defence of the European Championship in June.

When a striker combines that poise and pace with the skill that Henry has on the ball, wherever he accepts possession, with the way he keeps the ball moving, with either foot, for the benefit of the side, and when he scores the kind of goals that Henry has made a habit of scoring, then he is entitled to be judged by the highest standards.

So how good is he?

DALGLISH, most decent judges agree, was the last truly great player (as opposed to good, or very good) in English football. It is now clear that Henry is his heir, not in style - they could hardly be more different - but in his contribution to the wealth of the team and the discomfort of opponents.

The breathtaking second goal he scored against Internazionale in that celebrated 5-1 victory at San Siro, when he turned Javier Zanetti inside out before scoring left-footed, making an utter fool of an experienced international defender, has come to represent all Henry's formidable strengths in a single burst of inspiration. He may never score a finer goal, though he is having a jolly good go.

Arsenal are not perfect. Wenger's memory is selective, Ashley Cole is a petulant young cuss and Robert Pires goes to ground far too easily. But these are minor quibbles. Almost single-handledly, it seems, they are bringing the game into repute by daring to play football of a generosity and grace that puts a spring in the step of every spectator going to watch them.

It takes talent of a high order to do that. It also takes moral courage, because it means risking failure. The Leeds United side that Don Revie managed, who did not lack talent, did lack courage and, as a result, failed to transform their potential into glory. Arsenal, glory be, have opted to take the high road - and what a giddy adventure it is proving to be.

You don't have to look far to see what is wrong with English football and if you harboured any doubts then those nice chaps from West Ham will have banished them with their decorous behaviour at Millwall, although the crowd disturbance could just as easily have been t'other way round. It's too often a slum sport, with players, managers, chairmen and supporters all intent on claiming a piece of infamy they can call their own.

Yet at Highbury the air smells of lavender.

Thierry Henry has received the ball 40 yards out and all that separates him from the goal is a garden of primroses.

(c)2004. Associated Newspapers Ltd.. Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved.