Football Daily | This might just be the end of Elite Neymar

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Despite Neymar’s flaws, the diving, that excruciating Mister Potato advert, the questionable clothes, the holidays to Ibiza during Covid, the knack (and subsequent 7-1 defeats), the shallow decline from Barcelona to PSG to Saudi Arabia, it was impossible not to have a modicum of sympathy for Brazil’s No 10 on Wednesday. Neymar was left writhing around in pain after the anterior cruciate ligament and meniscus in his left knee decided to part company during Brazil’s 2-0 World Cup qualifying defeat to Uruguay, meaning the 31-year-old now faces surgery and at least eight months on the sidelines. Is this the end? With the help of modern medicine, maybe not. Perhaps a year from now, Neymar 3.0 will still be hobbling around a pitch in Riyadh, scoring penalties in a bid to justify his £138m salary. But this might be the end of Elite Neymar, a player who last month surpassed Pelé as Brazil’s record male goalscorer. And it was not a pretty way to go out, leaving the field in tears after landing awkwardly in Montevideo. “It’s a very sad time, the worst,” he sighed. “I know I’m strong, but this time I’m going to need my family and friends even more.”

Oh, the ‘Wembley Trophy’ size 5 football (yesterday’s Football Daily letters). Aged 11. The schoolyard of an inner-city Leeds primary in 1972. Slade, snot and tarmac. The usual game before the start of the school day. In anger and frustration at a 7-6 defeat, I picked up the wondrous orange-and-black sphere and volleyed it hard and true (Lorimer style; ‘90 miles an hour’). The dinner lady copped it full in the face from about five yards. Her spectacles flew into the air – along with an explosion of fresh bright blood. The poor woman was led away with a face like Joe Bugner. An ageing caretaker appeared with a metal bucket of water and Dettol in a bid to wash the evidence off the hopscotch squares … then settled instead for the obligatory pile of school sawdust. Like a Bengal tiger, the Wembley Trophy ball had left its indelible mark” – Tony Harte.

Maybe I’m showing my age, but playing with a Mitre was like heaven compared to the leather, sponge-like balls we used to play with at school. After a good rain-shower – of which there were plenty in Ireland – it felt like we were kicking cannonballs. If not a near-broken toe when kicking, then a dull thudding slap off the thigh on impact would leave a mark for days” – Gerry Rickard.

I was put off playing footie after being blootered with such force by a wet and gritty Mitre ball that one side of my face was numb for a week. But who knew what joys (ciggies, Tin, bongo mags) I’d been missing at the other end of the playground. Thanks, Mitre” – Ben Carrdus.

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