Gone In A Flash

I suppose it was inevitable, but tragic all the same. The gradual demise of Michael Owen was as obvious as it was unheralded, perhaps only stinking in its seeming oblivion to the public eye. I can still remember the moment back in 1996, when I had just hit adult-hood at the wild-eyed, tempestuous age of 21. There was a new name to look out for in the Barclays Premier League (was it even Barclays back then?); it was the opening weekend of the 1996-97 season, and Liverpool were away to Wimbledon. Then one of the genuine Premiership contenders, Liverpool had in their ranks a new hotshot, a 16-year-old prodigy by the name of Michael Owen, a striker with pace to burn and electrifying tendency to find the back of the net. I can still remember that Liverpool won 2-1 and Owen got amongst the goals.

Fast forward 17 years - Michael Owen is the last name on the lips of global football fans, a name to be ridiculed by all and sundry; a slow, bothersome and oft-ignored striker rotting in the reserves of Stoke City behind established forwards like Peter Crouch and the hardworking Jonathan Walters. How time changes fortunes eh? With a legacy languishing into deep mediocrity, Owen will be retiring at the end of this season at the age of 33 years old. Does anyone even bother? Hasn't he ALREADY retired? Hahaha. And is 33 years of age old? Not at all. David Beckham is ready to ignite the UEFA Champions League at age 37, with a potential champion in high-flying PSG. Frank Lampard is looking forward to a new career in Major League Soccer (MLS) with Los Angeles Galaxy at age 34. Heck, Ryan Giggs is playing well at age 38.

The truth is: Owen has been forgotten years ago, perhaps 8 years ago. After bursting into the world scene by scoring that wonderful goal against Argentina for England at the 1998 World Cup (when I was at NUS playing hard), his career has gone downhill. With his career at Liverpool mirroring his disappointing problems with injuries and form, Owen made the progressive descent from feared striker into a forgotten has-been. Often labelled a one-trick pony, Owen found out that his greatest asset - pace - also became his greatest drawback, an asset telegraphed to be dealt with by the opposition, who learnt quickly how to give him space in order not to be left 'burnt' by his scorching acceleration.

Without the advantage of that initial burst of speed, Owen became figured out by opposition managers and lost vital space to manoeuvre when fronted by defenders. By the time he moved to Real Madrid, Newcastle and Manchester United, nobody feared him any more. He became a bit-part player who could occasionally come off the bench to give you a sucker-punch goal. As his boyish face grew older, so did his legs. And perhaps worse, so did his knack and instinct for goal. To prevent any wastage of time, we shall not even discuss his move to Stoke City which probably no-one knew about, anyway. His time is well and truly up.