As a kid, I was never the tallest. I wouldn’t describe myself as small, but never tall.

As a kid, I was never the tallest. I wouldn’t describe myself as small, but never tall.

I also had what could best be described as a ‘mullet’. When I moved schools in 1996, a classmate genuinely thought I was a girl. My mane was thick, black, and usually held in place by mousse.

At the time it was ok to have that kind of haircut. On a subliminal level I like to think it’s why I fell in love with Gianfranco Zola at Chelsea. I remember the first moment I was exposed to his brilliance. Sat in my parent’s kitchen, glued to Match of the Day, I watched him dance through Manchester United’s defence before beating Peter Schmeichel at the near post. He wasn’t the tallest either.

On Tuesday night I sat at the very back of the stand at the Stadium of Light and saw someone just like him — David Silva.

His hair sits more like a mop; floppy, free from hair product. He also pirouettes, a bit like a dancer, changing direction with the drop of a shoulder. It’s wonderfully elegant to watch, like a butterfly that keeps evading the swinging net.

For a brief moment I was reminded of my childhood, and the first player I ever truly wanted to emulate — Zola. The one who’s moves you would practice in the street, your back garden, in the playground. Chances are you might not pull it off, but the fun is in trying. Nothing that comes easy is ever as fun as a skill that requires the 10,000 hours of craft.

I was fortunate enough to meet Zola once. My hero was everything I expected. Smiling and friendly, he shook my hand and gave an excited fan an autograph before talking about Serie A, and that goal against Man United. I stared at the trading card he signed for the entire train ride home, where it now sits in a plastic casing.

I get the feeling if I ever met David Silva he’d be just as nice as, if only because his play is equally as enchanting as the little Italian man I used to watch.