pretend you’re taking a corner. you look up and see your goon defenders grappling and wrestling people to the ground around the goalkeeper. one of your midfielders has one of the opposition i tears with a vicious chinese burn. the ref looks glances at the opposition captain apologetically and says “what are they like!?” before rolling his eyes and succumbing to the temptation to peel back the cling film on his upper arm and check on the wellbeing of his latest, freshly-inked gunners tattoo.
you draw your foot back and swing with all your might. the ball travels hard and flat. it’s heading slap bang towards the middle of the goal. your strikers have contained the goalkeeper, he is prostrate on the floor, his arms and legs being pinned to the turf. arteta is in the mixer, windmilling his arms around and striking anyone who dares to get close enough to header the ball away. gabriel is halfway up a ladder, whilst rice moves it around to match the ball’s trajectory. var’s finger is hovering over the button, itching to give a penalty. but it is not needed, the ball strikes the now passed out goalkeeper as saka extinguishes the last of his breath with a choke hold to the neck. you go 1-0 up. the linesman climbs on to your back as you both salute your gurning fans, before toppling over in their drool.
but what’s this? 20 years later, your kicks, although the same power, now no longer reach the penalty box. your defenders are rampaging as usual, your manager is playing a banjo and demanding the goalkeeper squeals like a piggy, but all to no avail. your corners have suffered the effects of inflation.