As a Liverpool fan, he loomed large in my childhood, rushing outward from his goal, a green armed berserker splayed into ball blocking contortions. He seemed to exist in a state of perpetual bellow, like a braying cow; his entire being boiled down to this generation of noise, his arm pointed, veins throbbing in his neck, always enraged at what met his immediate gaze or strayed into his immediate vicinity. The defenders, his defenders, always needed adjusting.
Imagine Roy Keane screaming at you one side, Peter Schmeichel screaming at you the other and Alex Ferguson screaming at you from the sideline. Success is built on such ravenous and constant correction.
You can watch a 30 second time-lapse of this artwork being created here.