Phil Jones is special.
There are certain moments in every special footballer’s life that are truly iconic. No matter how much they achieve and regardless of the accolades they collect along the way, we tend to zone in on particular instances in their careers, and these become lodged into our mind’s eye whenever they are mentioned.
With Diego Maradona, we are immediately transported to Estadio Azteca; refer to Johan Cruyff and his famous turn comes to mind. The very utterance of Gordon Banks’ name conjures up that amazing save of a Pele header, whilst Dennis Bergkamp is forever synonimous with plucking a ball from the Marseille sky.
It is not to belittle or dismiss anything else they’ve achieved, like continual demands for a rock star’s biggest hit, rather these moments stick because they are distillations of genius. You can long-play through an entire career and learn little more than you would in a few magical seconds that capture an essence.
Which brings us to this week, and Philip Anthony Jones.
He may not boast Bergkamp’s grace or touch, nor Cruyff’s effortless élan, but to millions around the world Jones is just as much an other worldly enigma. There are things he does on the football field that cause us all to gasp, and simply wonder: how? His actions often defy all known logic.
On Thursday night, the burley defender had his own moment of quintessence. As with so many of these iconic snapshots, it was almost incidental to the outcome of the game, and certainly blink-and-you-miss-it in its brevity. But upon witnessing it again and again in all its glory, few can deny it was pure Phil Jones.
In the eighteen minute of Manchester United’s game at West Ham, a long wayward ball was lofted to the right flank, where Marko Arnautović and Jones both tried in vain to keep it within the bounds. The Austrian forward checked his run, but Jones continued on his journey to immortality.
That’s when it happened. His left boot caught the edge of the faux grass rug at the perimeter of the field, causing him to hurtle to earth like a failed space mission. Arnautović looked around to see where his opposite number had disappeared to, but he had missed this most exemplar of Jones moments.
It had all the hallmarks of the United man’s standard: demented lower limbs desperately flailing for purchase upon the soft ground; numb, lifeless arms swinging like dead convicts on the hangman’s noose; and the thick slab of his ample torso slapping on terra firma like a tranquillised rhino. It was magical.
What makes it even more iconic is what we don’t see – the famous ‘Phil Jones face’.
It is hidden from view, leaving us with no alternative but to create a contorted collage in our heads. We can only imagine the combination of fear, determination, sick joy and panic in the face of a man meeting his fate, like a suicidal salmon leaping towards the sweet release of a jagged riverside rock. Chilling, and yet beautiful.
Phil Jones being Phil Jones, he simply picked himself up and lumbered back to his position as if nothing had happened. But deep down inside he must have known that he’d written himself into history. And no doubt he fashioned those plasticine lips into a grin at the thought of children everywhere recreating his move on hard concrete.
Thank you Phil Jones. For everything, but especially that magical night at whatever West Ham’s ground is called these days. You have transcended sport with your magical grassy faceplant.
