“Yes...
!?” The shout is loud and hopeful; a short, sharp bark that cuts through the pub’s Wednesday night burble and causes at least one person on a neighbouring table to clutch their chest in a pantomime coronary. On the misaligned projector showing this evening’s match, the free-kick that had swirled into the area and onto Kai Havertz ’s head is nodded harmlessly into Manuel Neuer’s arms, and Ian Wright lowers himself back into his seat. “This is good possession away from home,” he says, collecting himself.
“We just need to take the chance.” It’s feasible that someone in here could not know that it is him: a universe where a culturally oblivious drinker might think that this is merely another excitable fan spilling out his anguish and joy at the altar of a midweek Champions League game. But the vast majority instantly register the gravelly cackle and south London delivery; the statement frames, docker cap and glinting, gold-toothed grin.
Watching football – in this case, Arsenal’s ultimately doomed Champions League quarter final at Bayern Munich – alongside Ian Wright is proof, as if there were any doubt, that none of it is an act. That when it comes to emotion, and football, Wright doesn’t really know how to hold back or tuck it in. Once, he was the one haring across the pitch with raised, battle-ram fists, celebrating a slotted, left-foot finish.
These days, he’s the grandparent of eight, whooping on Instagram like a Prime-addled 12-year-ol.
