Thierry Henry and I

From what the email sent to me by the NYC Barcelona fan group said, it seemed like it would be a great time. It always does seem like it would be a great time, now that I think about it. The writers of these types of emails tend to be very good. I couldn’t do that job; I know too much. “Barcelona Legends,” the email had said, before naming a bunch of players for whom the word legend is perhaps a bit generous. But then I reached the final name on the sheet: “Thierry Henry,” it said. Now that is an interesting name, I thought. That is actually a legend. “Free drinks,” it also said. How easy you know I am, sender of emails.

Do I like Barcelona? No. I find their false sense of pious sanctimony tiresome, and their style of play has consistently put me to sleep for over a decade. That said, I’m not busy, and Thierry Henry is a god. Meanwhile, I work for a soccer magazine that could do with some publicity, and I’m the New York guy in the office, so this seem like the kind of no-brainer I’d struggle to explain myself out of. And, I guess, it could be fun? Probably more awkward than fun… but maybe? Fuck it, what else are you going to do on a Wednesday, Nathaniel? I agreed to go. “So excited! Thanks for the invite!” I responded, or something similarly nauseating. I can’t remember the literal words but I’m not ashamed of the faux enthusiasm, at this point I’ll throw far more than an exclamation mark or two at someone if it’ll get me an open bar. Everyone has to play their part in this dance, I know that much.

After considering several ways to play this, I came up with a plan to bring a magazine, with the goal of giving it away to a stranger in an attempt to make a new friend/find a potential new subscriber. That seemed like a reasonable goal, and I could build from there. However, I arrived just as Henry began giving some sort of speech, making it hard to meet someone organically, and when I saw a corner-table that was clearly set up for a signing opportunity, I had a brain wave. I thought to myself, “Nathaniel, you are in possession of a copy of Howler magazine, a soccer periodical that you work for, and one of the most famous soccer players in the world is in the room with you. I imagine this is what some would call a ‘marketing opportunity.’ What’s the best way to take advantage of this? What would your boss do?”

After careful consideration, I decided that I needed to get a picture of Thierry Henry holding the magazine. Probably without me in the picture because my face would not improve that picture. I know this because I see my face every day, and as a brutal sort of confirmation my boss has ruthlessly cut me out of several team Howler photos, which is a little hurtful. I mean, look man… I didn’t ask for this? Whatever. Maybe I could get a second picture that did include my face that I could keep for myself, maybe send it to my parents so they would think that I sometimes do cool things and don’t spend all my evenings alone and sad in my room watching youtube videos or whatever. But that was a secondary issue. for the main course I definitely needed just him as far as the magazine’s publicity requirements would go.

Alright, so what else should I try to do here? I’ve never been in this situation before, so I haven’t ever really thought about it. Maybe get his signature? Historically I’ve been able to do without people who care about having memorabilia with the signatures of random famous people, but maybe I could make an exception. I guess it would be cool to have a magazine signed by Thierry Henry? Like, I don’t know what I would do with it but surely some opportunity might present itself someday? Alright, I’m doing it. Let’s signature this bitch.

Ok great plan. I need a picture of him with the magazine, without me in it. And maybe another picture of him and me, which definitely would have my face and maybe could have a magazine in it or not, doesn’t matter, not important, and maybe then I could get his signature on a magazine, so that I can have a magazine with his signature on it, which I imagine will somehow be useful to me at some point? I mean, how could it not? Ok. Got it.

I continued to stand at the bar, waiting for a line to form so I could follow through on my excellent plan, when it happened. As I watched someone guide him to the signing table, Thierry glanced in my direction and our eyes met. That’s right. Thierry Henry, supremely elegant Frenchman, Gillette spokesman and owner of one of the finest jawlines in all the land, looked me right in the face.

And when I looked into those eyes, I knew I couldn’t do it, because I saw a prisoner. Yes, yes, yes, he was smiling, surrounded by adoring fans and former colleagues and friends, and he certainly appeared to be happy. But come on, man. Instead of dining at an opulent Michelin starred restaurant or watching highlight videos of his exploits in the comfort of his own home (in my head those are the two default activities sports icons do on Friday nights for fun), one of the most successful soccer players in history was being trotted out as a prop, thrown to a mob of Barcelona fans like a gaudy lure. How could he possibly want to be here?

We looked at each other for just a second, but it was long enough for me to know I couldn’t be party to this. I maintained eye contact and tried to convey my sorrow at his plight to him, tried to show him with my eyes that he had at least one true friend in this dark corner of the world, but I’ve always been shit at telepathy and I imagine he instead was just wondering why a stranger was staring at him with such intensity.

When he took his seat, the attendees surged around his table. Most of them were holding a classic Barcelona jersey, clamoring for a moment of his company. Random person after random person of every age and ethnicity stepped forward to touch him and thank him for the joy he brought them, to take a picture with their arm around his side, perhaps shake the hand that broke Irish hearts.

I continued to sit by the bar, trying to figure out what to do. I couldn’t bring myself to join the line, I didn’t want to be yet another in a band of merry jerkoffs reveling in their seconds with a legend. Especially not after we had shared that very real and not at all entirely in my head moment of eye contact several minutes ago. That was real, I knew that as much as I’ve ever known anything. I couldn’t possibly think of getting to the front of the line only to see his face drop as he recognized me, to then hand my magazine over mutely for him to sign, and have to hear him whisper, “et tu, Nathaniel?” as I slunk away with my prize. I won’t do you like that, Thierry. I promise.

So, what are my options? Maybe when the line dies down, I could just sort of float over to that part of the room, not even really looking at him, just sort of ass-myself backwards until I randomly turn around to find… “what a surprise! Thierry Henry!” right in front of me. And I would just so happen to have my magazine, but obviously not a pen, because no one happens to carry a pen around, that’s how he’d know it was planned…

No, Nathaniel, I said to myself. That is dumb. All of this is so very dumb. How about you just walk over there and ask? Especially at an event where his entire reason for being there is literally to do the thing you would be going over there to ask him to do? Maybe that could work. That would make sense. That’s what everyone else is doing. Why not me? But for whatever reason I couldn’t get up and walk over. After several more minutes of wrestling with myself, I saw that the line had dwindled and Henry was just sitting there at the table, fiddling on his phone, doing nothing. This was my chance!

OK, what am I going to say to him? Do I try to speak French? I was very mediocre at that in high school, so probably no. Do I mention Arsenal? Barcelona? The two assists I saw him make live at a Redbulls playoff game? Could I say something simple, like “Enjoyed watching you play so much, thanks for the memories. Would you mind signing my magazine for me? And maybe could you also hold it so I could get a picture?” And then I could ask a stranger to get another picture, with the two of us in it. But then what would happen if the stranger accidentally shut off my phone, and I had to unlock it? Or they had trouble with the flash? And then I’m sitting there trying to help someone with my shitty phone while Thierry Henry grimaces and wishes he was far away from this buffoon with his demands for pictures and signatures and his useless phone?

Even worse – what if it goes well? What if he actually wants the magazine?  Then I’d have to explain that I only have the one, and I very much would like his signature on it so that I could keep it for myself, you understand of course Mr. Henry? Obviously, I would then tell him that if he would like one, I could send him one. In fact, I could drop it off at his apartment if he has one in New York? And then he would say, “That would be great!” and he gives me his address and his phone number?

Then, what if next week, at some agreed time, I wander over to Thierry Henry’s house to drop off this magazine, and we chat for a minute or two, and it turns out we actually have a lot in common, and we end up hanging out all day? Maybe we become friends, and meet up once a month or so, nothing too crazy, just a regular once a month friendship, like people have. He’ll bring me along to various fancy events and I’ll hobnob with his friends, maybe make Puyol giggle at some witty joke, or tear Iniesta down to size with some pithy comment – “you might have won the World Cup but you’re not getting a drink in this establishment waving your arm like that son,” or something like that… Look, I know I can do better. I’m working on it. I have time. I will zing the fuck out of that Muppet.

Of course I would return the favor, I’d bring Thierry out to some of my favorite haunts so that he can see what it’s like to be poor and hang out at shitty bars in lower Manhattan and Brooklyn, and we can drink crappy whiskey while I tell him about that time I scored from half field in high school and let him know that maybe I could have been a player if I had gotten better coaching when I was 8, or had any kind of drive or willpower. Maybe we’d end up playing FIFA on my friend’s couch in Brooklyn, fighting over who gets to play as Barcelona… I know, I know. I am getting carried away. He can have Barcelona. I’m a Leeds man.

As I agonized over my options, I could feel the time slipping away. The event was dying down and he surely wasn’t going to be there for too much longer, but… I still couldn’t do it. Several times I slapped the bar as if about to push myself up to go over there and demand an audience, but each time I was unable to bring myself to move and just kept sitting there.

I wanted to tell myself that it was because I could never be just another asshole looking for a signature, either in my eyes or in his. Except really, I knew that was exactly what I was. I was nothing more than just another asshole looking for a signature, but I was too self-conscious to actually be the thing that I am, because I am a coward too, above all. I’m sure there’s a short story somewhere in there.

He left shortly after that, after I had given up trying to muster the courage to do what everyone else in the bar had already done. I watched him walk out the length of the bar and sat there alone thinking about how much better I could have handled this.

You’re useless, Nathaniel, I said to myself, and I knew it. I ordered a beer, and it came out and I kept sitting at the bar and I drank it while I stared at the ceiling thinking about where I went wrong. As a waitress passed by, I plucked from her tray one of the delightful little lamb bites being offered to party guests and munched on it contentedly. No realization has ever been so painful that I have been unable to enjoy some sort of hors-d’oeuvre.