I’d never drawn Henrik Larsson. This always felt like a sin for a football artist, particularly one from the Republic of Ireland. When I was growing up every second jersey you saw was a Celtic one with his name adorning the back. These shirts doubled as a loud, vague unspoken shout - ‘I’m Irish, only more so’. (The connection between a large section of Irish football fans and Celtic is a deep and resonant thing.)
With the reverence in which he was held by the Celtic faithful it was obvious he had assumed a type of mystique usually reserved for a religious figure. He was a vessel for their hopes. As time passed that era in Celtic history can be viewed with more clarity; Larsson would appear to be the last truly big hitter to play for the club, a dreadlocked rally against the dying of the light.
Any player that assumes his level of status for a club comes with an inbuilt uneasiness for the fans; the cold hard truth is they are too good to be there. It always felt like he had relented and almost regretfully accepted his rightful level when he had a successful season at Barca and a brief stint at United.
Once when wandering around Glasgow I saw a painting in a thrift shop. It was a collection of icons in a painterly style reminiscent of classical religious work. In what was quite an eclectic grouping, we had Tupac Shakur, Muhammad Ali, Bob Marley and rounding out the foursome, the dreadlocked saviour of Celtic Park, Henrik Larsson. And to be honest, he fit.