Wilshere

Is it too late to believe in Jack Wilshere?

- Will Frears

When that question was posed to me by the editor of this magazine, I wrote back to say it was impossible to know before the end of the Euros. I had visions, you see, of Jack leading England to Glory, taking his place alongside Xavi and Makélélé as unusually short midfield geniuses. It wasn’t to be. Not for Jack, and not for England, two shameful Brexits within a week. During the Iceland debacle I got a text from a friend in London who said, “The only way I want England to come back is if Jack scores a hat trick.”

Jack Wilshere occupies the same place in the Arsenal supporter’s imagination as Syd Barrett does for your average Pink Floyd fan— just substitute chronically weak ankles for the effects of industrial amounts of LSD on an already troubled mind. Jack is, by some distance, the most naturally talented midfielder England has produced since Paul Gascoigne. He can pass, dribble, and tackle, and is naturally neat and tidy with the ball. Also, like Gazza, he likes to make an effort. Not for him the languid elegance of Hoddle or Le Tissier, so often confused with a vanishing act. The more Herculean the task, the more Jack works. It’s no accident that his best performance in an Arsenal shirt came against Barcelona.