It was different from the start. The things he said. The way he said them. The way the players moved with the ball. The way they moved without it. This man born on an island off the west coast of Africa had come to save us. We all knew that. Nuno Espírito Santo had a dream, and so we sang about him having a dream.
Wolverhampton is framed as a grey place. Poor. Pessimistic. People like to laugh about the streets lined with closed shops and the train journey to Birmingham and the guttural accent. But Nuno painted the walls. Opened up the curtains. Let an old gold sun in. Molineux felt like how I think I remembered it feeling when I was a kid. Massive. Loud. Mouths full of booze, pie, love.
We played in a way that is painted on the inside of my eyelids. Coady deep. To Boly, wider. To Neves, tucking back in. To Coady. And then we’ve sucked you in. Coady shouts something loud and meaningful. The wingbacks go tonto. The forwards go like velociraptors. There was something graphical to it. I could draw it for you.
After bad results, horrific injuries, poor runs, his post-match interviews were like popping a chunky Valium in turbulence. Wait. Calm. A fizz that started in the feet. And then we’d pass through the storm and stick three past Manchester City. In-flight service, another three small beers, please.
Nuno got my dad back into ringing the radio to say nice things. He donated £250,000 of his own money to tackle food poverty in the city. He gave us that night in the FA Cup against Manchester United—Steve Bull in the Royal Oak handing out pints, the pissing rain, a collage of Goodyear jackets and Doritos shirts; a night that only a man who dreams can bring. He took us to Wembley. Europe. He made my mom speak about him in the voice she uses to talk to the cats. It’s the voice she uses when she likes people.
So, stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, silence the pianos and with muffled drum, bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. I don’t care about the score on Sunday. I just want to see him once more. Hand stroking beard. Eyes wise and electric. Everything different to how it was before.
