Other people can't really help him; they can only oppose him, judge him, or hold him back.
What if the rest of it came down to the same quality?
As he walked past, inevitably wearing the type of cologne-billboard gray suit that makes you look like you've just climbed out of a helicopter, which for all I know he had, the crowd stretched out its hands.
It was as if Christ had returned, wearing Tom Ford.
It was probably the first time up to that point that he'd ever made me feel something like sympathy (as opposed to amusement, or irritation, or occasionally that little gaspy feeling you'd get when he'd pull off an outrageous backheel). It was the happiness of someone to whom something terrible, something unimaginably painful, has almost happened, and then not happened.
He made a mistake and the universe almost ended, but then, miraculously, life continued, and he wept.
Some version of this madness plays out around high-profile soccer transfers, of course.
Santi Cazorla was unveiled at Villarreal this month in an actual magic show. Ronaldo has more Facebook followers (122 million) than anyone else alive.
Think about how he plays: so wound up, so intense, so high-stakes, always, always, always.
It's the maximalism of fear: Do everything or you might miss something.