Touching. Honest. Michael Owen opens himself up in a way few footballers ever dare.
Liverpool adored him, Madrid wanted him, Newcastle questioned him, United divided him. And yet, in all these places, in all these colors, he somehow ended up with no home.
His career is both glittering and conflicted. The goals, yes, but also the fractured ties with fans—disloyalty? Spoiled? Or just misunderstood?
Helicopters, horses, goals, injuries, rivalries, shifting loyalties.
The helicopter (and the horse racing as well) becomes a symbol. A machine of escape, of convenience, of distance. It carried him between Newcastle and Liverpool, but also away from the tribal loyalty fans demand. He became both near and far, present and absent. What is loyalty, after all? To a shirt? To a crowd? Or to yourself, your body, your family, your future?
This book is brutally honest—touching, raw, almost painful, ancd certainly unfiltered. It is about the price of being exceptional and the loneliness of being judged for every choice. Fame gives, but fame also corrodes. And when the cheers fade, what remains? Not the goals. Not the medals. Only the human being left to explain himself.
I very much enjoyed this book. It is not just football—it is about identity, distance, and the fragile bond between the one who performs and the many who watch.