Ernest Hemingway on Nicolas Anelka

Paris, 2001. At the football.

"Have you ever seen this kid play, Nicolas Anelka?" Jake said.

"No, what of him?" I said.

"He's very fast. Scores lots of goals. You'd like him," Jake said.

Anelka. I liked the name. It was a strong name. I liked Anelka.

"He's not doing much," I said. "Damn him."

"That's the thing," Jake said, "his attitude. It's his Achilles heel."

I liked Achilles. I liked heels.

"If you wait for one of his attitude problems, you could buy him cheaply. At cost price."

Anelka scored. He celebrated. Alone.

"How much would he cost?" I said.

"£5m, if he's unhappy," Jake said.

"Damn him," I said.

"Damn you," Jake said.

"Damn fool," I said.

We watched. Paris were leading. The people were happy. It was ecstatic. I liked ecstasy. It made me happy.

"Why the hell would you want him?" I said.

"He's a great goalscorer," Jake said. "People like goals."

I liked goals. Goals were good. I liked Anelka. He scored goals. Lots of them.

"But he's got attitude," Jake said. "You need to treat him carefully. Otherwise he turns."

"Like milk," I said.

"Damn right," Jake said.

"Damn fool," I said.

"Damn you," Jake said.

"Damn you," I said.

"Damn fool," Jake said.

"Damn you times ten," I said.

"Damn you times infinity," Jake said.

"Damn," I said.

We watched on. Somewhere, across the black Parisian rooftops, a baby started crying. Won't someone shut that damn baby up?