Nice Life. Shame You Can’t Leave the House.

Being Lamine Yamal sounds brilliant.

Until you imagine trying to buy a sandwich.

He’s nineteen.

Plays for Barcelona.

Made his first-team debut at fifteen.

Fifteen.

What were you doing at fifteen?

Probably not giving interviews about your performance in front of millions of people.

Now imagine everyone telling you you’re a genius.

Every.

Single.

Day.

Then expecting you to grow up completely normal.

Good luck with that.

It’s easy to judge a young footballer.

“Arrogant.”

“Cocky.”

“No manners.”

And yes, being young doesn’t excuse bad behaviour.

But buying a football shirt doesn’t excuse yours either.

Imagine leaving your house.

Someone wants a photo.

Then someone else.

An autograph.

A conversation.

“Just one second, mate.”

Of course.

Except you’re the hundredth person asking for one second.

Say yes, and there’s another phone waiting.

Say no, and suddenly you’ve forgotten where you came from.

Lovely choice.

Then imagine meeting a rival supporter who thinks your shirt gives them permission to insult you.

“It comes with the job.”

Playing football comes with the job.

Being available for strangers to shout at?

Interesting addition to the contract.

And yes, I can hear the answer.

“For that money, I’d put up with it.”

Maybe you would.

I’d like the money too.

I’d also like to go to the supermarket looking terrible without becoming somebody’s content.

Both things can be true.

You can appreciate your fans and still want to eat your lunch.

You can love football and still want a quiet afternoon.

You can have an extraordinary life and still have a bad day.

Without a stranger recording it.

So, would you want that level of fame?

Not just the goals.

Not just the money.

The Tuesday afternoon when you’re tired, hungry and don’t feel like talking.

Someone puts a phone in your face.

“Come on. Give us a smile.”

You wanted a sandwich.

Apparently, you owe everyone a performance.