Glenn Hoddle was a man and a magician not of his time.
Displaced by fate, that had him born on this day in 1957, he was a master craftsman in an era when passes were cobbled together.
He was a thoroughly modern playmaker during a period when skill was usually entrusted only to wingers, stationed far away from the muddy quagmires meant as centre-circles.
In location too, as well as decades, he was misorientated, destiny misreading the order form and placing him in Harlow, Essex.
He should have been Spanish, or French, or Italian at a push, his cosmopolitan elan and heightened technical ability looking distinct and out of kilter on an English football field.
Had he been born a quarter of a century later he would have undoubtedly been one of the best Premier League midfielders of all time.
Had he been born with a couple of acute accents above his name, he would have been venerated still, with huge walls in Madrid or Marseilles given over to cool, sacred murals.
As it was, he was truly treasured by Tottenham fans, who marvelled at weekly masterclasses each and every week and couldn’t believe their luck.
And he was greatly admired by others, who watched his best bits on Match of the Day and recognised stylish brilliance when they saw it.
Elsewhere though, by and large and most pertinently on the international scene, he was distrusted, viewed as somewhat of an oddity.
He was Bowie in make-up on Top of the Pops. He was Marty McFly, in a bright red windcheater and Nikes, transported back to Fifites smalltown America. He was the future in the past.
That’s because, years before English football experienced its awakening, very few others played like Glenn Hoddle, and very few others could.
Blessed with an exquisite touch, with his boots seemingly cushioned, he could receive the ball from any angle and at any pace, choosing to either deftly flick it on first time or bring it under his spell, locating his target before pinging a pinpoint crossfield ball to feet.
His passing range was broad and imaginative. For his passing alone he’d be worth £100m today.
There were tricks too, of course there were, but rarely of the stepover ilk. Clever and with an innate understanding of movement, Hoddle knew a shift of his body was often enough, a pretence at deceit deceiving in itself.
Nowhere was this better illustrated than against Oxford in 1987, when the midfielder strode through the U’s defence as if it wasn’t there before facing an isolated keeper, a goal of the season afoot.
A simple slot into the far corner looked on, but crucially Hoddle knew the keeper knew this too. A feigned lift of his foot was enough to send him sprawled to the floor in a puddle of confusion.
England’s most gifted player of his generation chose not to walk the ball into the net for fear of overkill.
There were plenty of other sumptuous goals, from spectacular volleys to floated chips inch-perfect and picturesque, and there were plenty of moments too that defied the sports betting in North London derbies, along with spins and back-heels for Monaco, his playground.
Can there be any debate that Glenn Hoddle was the maestro of maestros? A YouTubing of his highlights reel amounts to a gallery of pure genius.
As for being a man not of his time, that’s not strictly true. More accurately, he was timeless.
*Credit for all of the photos in this article belongs to Alamy*
