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I won’t name him, but there was one lad in my school who was the thickest little dope I’ve ever come across. Academically, he could hold his own. Flipping between top and second set like the secondary school Dwight Gayle, he was never quite smart enough to hang with us nerds, but not quite docile enough to be in with the pen-chewers. Take him out of the classroom, remove him from a position where his seating plan and breathing plan were controlled for him, and this fella was fucked. Absolute jaw-swinger. So fucked, in fact, that we once told him the forfeit of losing hide and seek was that he had to eat some tree bark, which he did, despite never being involved in any game of hide and seek. So fucked, in fact, that, when discussing Moby Dick in Year 11, he truly believed he could headbutt a whale to death. The boy had been dealt a duff hand in the brain department, but if the dunce could do anything, it was bloody kick a football. Because footballers aren’t meant to be smart.
History teaches us that the biggest of football icons are, often through their own admission, a little bit stupid. The obvious example, in David Beckham, set the industry standard for the dopey London footballer, a mantle proudly inherited by Chelsea’s Cole Palmer. That lad is as thick as two planks. Two planks, strapped together with some cable ties and chewing gum, wrapped in a mattress. Two planks, chewing gum, the mattress, and probably one of Cole Palmer’s fingers, trapped when he was trying to put all of that together. The issue lies, though, in the undeniable fact that he’s excellent at kicking a ball.
Ao Tanaka, however, is too intelligent. Ao Tanaka is a good footballer, too. Some days, at some times, Ao Tanaka is a brilliant footballer. The problem is, though, that Ao Tanaka is aware of that. Japan’s World Cup team played their matches like a club side; sophisticated, organised patterns of play and a resolute pressing structure set up to smother any opposition plans of settling in the heat. They had moments of deftness and poise, with wingers Daizen Maeda and Ritsu Doan doing their best Jackie-and-Helder impressions. Their defenders, channelled by the presence of goalkeeper Zion Suzuki, were measured and calm on the ball. They had Carlo Ancelloti’s Brazil nestled in the centre of the crosshairs, ready to snipe them out of the competition in the round of 32, when the ball landed at the feet of Ao Tanaka.
It’s the 95th minute, Japan clinging on to the 1-1, with the Brazilian attack reloading. Danilo carries the ball forward on the right-hand side of the box, stuttering into trouble and laying it to Endrick on the edge of the area. Brain box Tanaka steps in, nipping the ball away from him and scooting his body between it and the Brazilian. Tanaka takes another touch, back towards the touchline, and Danilo closes him down. Now, this is where the problems begin. Any standard gump would send it long, clear their lines and place the blame elsewhere. Anyone, even those of reasonable intelligence, would slide the ball back to any available defender and let them deal with it. Tanaka, in all of his mighty wisdom, understands that neither of these options are ideal. So, instead, he waits, ponders on the next best move, and lets some stone-cold brazenness scare the ball off of him. I don’t know how many GCSEs Danilo has got. I don’t even know if they do GCSEs in Brazil. Sometimes, though, the intelligent thing to do is to not think at all. The right-back steps away and slides it into Bruno Guimarães on the edge of Japan’s box. The Newcastle man slots it into Martinelli, whose simple finish kicks millions of Japanese bollocks.
The pain caused by ending your country’s best chance at a World Cup run is justifiably enough to make a grown man cry. Everyone cries: me included. We’ve all seen that bit in Shark Tale where the Will Smith fish finally confesses his love to the Angelina Jolie fish and they make fish love on fish camera. But that doesn’t stop me. It’s a shame, then, that Ao Tanaka’s tears seem to. His emotional instability, if that’s not too harsh, impacts his footballing ability at too strong of a correlation. After snapping Abu Francis’ leg on international duty, our Leeds version struggled to command areas of the pitch in quite the same way, being subbed on and then off in a 1-2 loss to Aston Villa. When dropped from Farke’s XI, Tanaka told Sports Hachi that it was “incredibly tough”, and that he felt like his “life was over”. Now, personally, I’ve never died before. But I reckon it’s much worse than being told to sit down by a long-haired German.
That’s what we see on the pitch, when thousands of screaming yobs are telling him to grow up. When Tanaka’s alone, though, we get a little insight into his mind. As is the dystopian hell we’re living in, let’s analyse some emotions through millionaires’ Instagram captions. After scoring the last-minute equaliser against Liverpool back in December, Tanaka captioned his post with, ‘Everything in life is always up to me. Frustration can only be transformed into energy.’ Fair enough, though not applicable to death, taxes or simply popping for an office wank. Frustration transforms into sadness and shame.
When Leeds had a lovely day out for the champions parade, Tanaka’s Instagram told us that he hasn’t achieved anything yet, but had ‘simply earned the right to stand at the starting line’. Google translate says he plans to ‘confront [himself] more deeply than ever, and strive to turn what once seemed impossible into reality’. Jesus, Ao. We’re only here for a piss up.
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There are two sides to this, however, as it’s important to acknowledge that football is becoming ever more depersonalised and corporate. Football players have their boots, haircuts and shower gels decided by brand and marketing strategists, with ChatGPT social media posts that inspire little more than a rethink of your screentime. Allowing Tanaka the freedom to be who he truly is, experiencing the game as a person, rather than a footballer, gives fans a sliver of humanity to cling on to. It proves that the man behind the footwork is no more of a robot than any of us normies, going to work and crying about it when we get home. It’s nice, I suppose, to finally see someone give a shit.
Not everyone, though. Tanaka’s palaver brought a huddle around the midfielder, support and kindness piling on from his loving teammates, when, among the lot, smiled a Scum bastard. Matheus Cunha, the Manchester United striker, lifted up Tanaka’s beautiful face, consoled him and pressed his forehead against him, in the best display of football’s ability to heal since Christmas Day in World War I. Tanaka should’ve dived on the floor and got Cunha sent off for headbutting him, the Scum cunt.
The best footballers have an innate, instinctual understanding of the game. Tanaka possesses this too. Other footballers, though, don’t have quite the same understanding of anything else, even themselves. This means they play freely, not pinned down by the dutiful responsibility of 36,000, but allow their feet to bypass their tiny minds to the decision making. With a brain too big for his boots, it seems, perhaps, that Ao Tanaka might be too smart for his own good. ⬢
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