There is something almost 'anti-football' about a true number 9. Whereas the other outfield players must have minds which continually process the events around them, the positioning of 21 other players as well as the movement of the ball, a striker plays with a singularity of thought which functions almost irrespective of events beyond his immediate realm of influence. He need be neither technically superb, nor physically impressive to perform his duties; the above-pictured Gerd Müller was affectionately known as 'kleines, dickes Müller' (short, fat Müller) in his native Germany. He must, however, be different. I would argue that the best pure strikers on earth are so devastating because of their ability to detach themselves from the rhythm of the play, what commentators refer to as "drifting out of a match", while those around them are embroiled in tactical battle. This displacement-of-thought lasts until circumstance, combined with incisiveness of movement and intelligence, provides that crucial moment where instinct and muscle memory dictates that the out-and-out striker ends up with the ball in a position where contemplation becomes obsolete, and he guides the ball into the net...
