Barring an extraordinary turn of events it’s all over now for Jack Wilshere. The hype. The hope. The hustling, bustling, all-action energy and quick, intelligent feet. The carved passes and midfield marauding. All of that is gone now; resigned to the past.
He will return of course: it would be a ludicrous and irresponsible exaggeration to suggest that last week’s depressingly familiar news that the West Ham star faces yet another operation equates to anything finite like retirement. It simply means in all likelihood he is ruled out for the rest of the season and after that he will return because Wilshere always returns.
But when he does it will be a facsimile of a facsimile of his former self; a shadow of the player we once thought he could be. A reminder that he even exists in fact. At some point in the near future he will create something brilliant from very little – whether it’s for the Hammers or most probably a level below – and it will jolt us into collective nostalgia.
“I forgot he signed for them,” we’ll exclaim next August or September or October as he momentarily excels for a promotion-chasing Championship side. “It’s a shame really isn’t it? He could have been fantastic”. Jack Wilshere is 26 years of age. He is the same age as Mo Salah and Christian Eriksen. He is just eleven months older than Jesse Lingard. He’s a year younger than Kevin de Bruyne.
How did it come to this? We all know how it came to this. Injuries mostly, with a stubborn and persistent streak of delinquency thrown in. Add a large dollop of good old-fashioned expectation burdened onto the young shoulders of a Hertfordshire lad because he had a continental, cultured swagger about him and there you have it: the synopsis of a once highly promising career turned sour.
Really though it was the injuries, fifteen different lay-offs all told inside a decade with undoubtedly the cruellest and most impactful depriving him of fourteen months of development in 2011 just at the point when Wilshere had broken through to prominence as Arsenal and England’s ‘next big thing’. Elsewhere there have been hairline cracks on calf-bones and knee surgeries but usually it was his ankles that undid him. They’re made of glass, that’s what the forums say, with a blunt bankruptcy of sympathy that forums have. On nine occasions they have set him back and this will be his third operation.
It is a litany of absences that have racked up some depressing stats. This is Wilshere’s tenth season as a professional yet he has made 20+ Premier League starts in just three of them. In his last two campaigns in North London – prior to a loan spell at Bournemouth that briefly offered a welcome respite to the tired old narrative – the midfielder made ten starts in total.
Since making his Arsenal bow as a highly prized teen he has been unavailable for selection for 1244 days. That’s 178 weeks. That’s three years and four months. That’s a full third of his career, a tally that doesn’t even include summer breaks and prolonged periods where Wilshere has felt his way back into proceedings, not 100% right. For over 150 games the potentially best player of his type that England has produced for many a year has been on the treatment table rather than the pitch. Again, it’s worth repeating: Jack Wilshere is only 26 years of age.
Let’s skim past the poor attitude, of which the player unquestionably has. Ultimately we’re talking about a few beers and the odd cigarette here and we’re not that puritanical are we? Let’s also all-but-dismiss the expectation that was foisted onto the lad when he strongly hinted at the brightest of futures. Frankly, this is no shrinking violet. Frankly, when we all lined up to proclaim him England’s midfield saviour Wilshere was heading the queue and he’s still there now, pretty much on his own.
No, it was flawed DNA that copped for this once shining star, a physicality that was perfectly ordinary in relation to a talent that towered over his peers. It was a win in instalments for nature over nurture.
It is February 16th 2011 and a nineteen year old Wilshere is bossing a huge tract of turf against Barcelona. He demands the ball. He orchestrates. Under the Emirates lights the home-grown virtuoso astonishes with his confidence and ability. His passing range alone is top shelf and that’s before we get to the artful breaking up of Barca’s exacting possession.
It is a display that stays in the memory and not just to Gooners present. Several years later Xavi declares him to be the future of English football and we all scoff because we know what subsequently became of him. Several years later Pep Guardiola is seriously linked to Wilshere on first taking charge at Manchester City. Again we scoff.
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Through the years understandably and inevitably the multitude of absences took their toll and Wilshere’s performances became peripheral. His playing style changed, becoming contained and inhibited where once everything was silky smooth and instinctive. His legacy when he’s finally done and dusted will only hint at that. His legacy will amount to one big what if.
And the worst part of it is there are no lessons to learn. Not like the others, who burned so bright so early but eventually fell away. The slow and steady decline of a former prodigy was brought about by drawn-out misfortune and for that we can only shake our heads with a degree of sadness and wish him well at another false dawn.
It will be a false dawn without the hype and devoid of much hope.