Playing like Dr. Seuss reads, Luis Suarez’s paucity of terms, presented in an economy of rhyme, with the effortless rhythm of ingenious creativity that comes from just beyond sensibility, is both endearing and enduring. He is immediately recognizable and instantly unforgettable.
But this is a different tale. A story about a man and his club that simply refuses to go away, this chapter begins with a perceived open invitation to comely suitors. Whether misinterpreted, misrepresented or purposely twisted, Liverpool Football Club fans will have to steel themselves for the inevitable end to this fable.
Luis Suarez will leave. Perhaps not on the accelerated timetable others have set, but elemental protagonists like the Uruguayan can never hope to be contained indefinitely, only borrowed temporarily. Begrudging that change is like blaming Spring for yielding to Summer.
Misunderstood. A rebel without a chance. Suarez will do the right thing by those that count the most, and almost certainly be derided by those that don’t. His exit will more than likely be respectful and definitely indiscreet.
A bully in a tutu, a half gainer into a belly flop, Luis Suarez is the perfect oxymoron of precision and force. Talented enough to be despised, controversial enough to be hated, honest enough to be loved.
The seeming progeny of Great White shark, Golden Eagle and Bengal Tiger, Suarez has the uncanny ability of adapting to all environments he plays in and has sharpened his lethal predatory instincts into a singularity.
Suarez will be missed. But not mourned. With hearts still sore from a petulant pretty boy, the besieged bad boy will never enjoy the full measure of our love. Not quite as beautiful or as silky, he will be remembered for what he was, not what he could have been.
And wherever he ends up, we simply just won’t ever seemed to have had enough Suarez.
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