We spoke one morning in 2019. That was in the August, in London, so two months after the evening in Madrid when everything went wrong against Liverpool.
It had stuck with Son Heung-min, scratching away at his days and nights, and at one point in our chat he made a sound that can best be described as a growl.
‘I couldn't count how many times I have thought about it,' he had said, and kids in Tottenham shirts were all around us on one of those community days that the club do well. When the children approached him, he showed them his happy face. When they turned to go, the face beat them to the door.
'For me the goal was to win the Champions League, not to play the Champions League final. After the game it was real pain. Every day. I went to play for the national team straight away and that was fine, but afterwards, I started dreaming about it every day.’
That was when he did the growl.
'It was pain. Every day and night I would see it in my head. I remember them with the trophy, lifting it, celebrating. I think of that bit with the trophy. We are standing there looking at the floor, and watching that — it is painful.'
I remember that conversation vividly. And I remembered it again on Wednesday night, when Son finally had his bit with the trophy and then flooded that pitch in Bilbao with his tears. Ange Postecoglou’s second season was the narrative, but to my eyes the story was every bit as much about the 10th of Son.
I wouldn’t claim to know him especially well – we have only ever had the occasional exchange since that longer interview. But I can easily imagine Liverpool and 2019 still floating around his mind, waiting for quiet moments to have a quick word. Same goes for the League Cup final against Manchester City two years later.
Letting go? He’s really not the type.
That was the theme of our chat, actually. And it was the usual one about shaping pain into fuel for something better. He was sure he could.
So it was no accident that we also spoke briefly about what made him, or rather whom, and the omnipresent, stern father who once ordered him to do four hours of keepie-uppies in the garden as a 10-year-old after a squabble with his brother.
Success through toil is how he was built. The only way he knew. And where better for toil than Spurs? Before this week, he had played 32,173 minutes in matches for that club and not one second was spent with a trophy. All he got for it was more fuel than anyone could burn in a lifetime.
But then Wednesday happened. Son played barely half an hour off the bench and, in that time, he had just 13 touches, attempted six passes, and four went to someone wearing the wrong shirt. He’s 32 now. His feet used to be as agile as that face, but of late age appears to have caught him.
He was toiling in that final and this was his toil season. By output and injuries, it was his worst. But, like Tottenham, he persevered. Like Tottenham, he finally crawled over the line. Like Tottenham, he was not remotely close to his best and, remarkably, this of all years was the one that it worked out.
And that’s a beautiful thing in sport, when it goes so right after so long and against expectation. Maybe it’s the finest of things.
I thought it about Rory McIlroy and his catharsis at the Masters. And Newcastle United in the League Cup, Crystal Palace in the FA Cup and Harry Kane in Germany. Going back further, Andy Murray at Wimbledon or, further still, Nigel Mansell, aged 39, in 1992.
Their toil made it sweeter. And whatever they demand of style at Spurs, it was through toil that they achieved it. It was through toil that Son, one of their most stylish of all, achieved it, too. And in that way, he has become Tottenham’s face, even more than Kane ever was.
When Son was interviewed by the pitch after the game in Bilbao, he was stood between Gareth Bale and Glenn Hoddle and at one point he was asked if he, too, was a club legend.
He had once said he could not be considered as such until he had a trophy, but now he felt more comfortable: ‘Let’s say I’m a legend. Why not? Only today, only today.’
But it isn’t only today, is it? The journey of Son’s 10 years at Tottenham is the story of punchlines for every promising moment, spread across those 32,173 minutes, going right back to his first season, 2015-16, when they were third in the two-horse race. Some grim days, truly.
But, as of Wednesday, Son’s tale is best summarised through comparison to what others in the past 17 years have tried and failed to do there. Bale, for one. He received a medal for the 2008 League Cup, but he wasn’t in the final squad – he played in the third round of that run and an ankle injury did for the rest. Real Madrid and Wales had the fruits of his gift.
Kane was utterly magnificent and won none, of course. Luka Modric gave the club four years and landed the same number. They are modern greats on a global scale and needed to leave to get their flowers. Son is the man who never left and that makes him unique.
In my view, it also makes him greater in the localised conversation.
I spoke to a club source on Thursday and he was quick to point out that most of Son’s opportunities to leave were just rumours.
But there was real substance to Liverpool’s interest in 2022 when he had just won the Premier League Golden Boot. Jurgen Klopp was serious about it. But Antonio Conte delivered Champions League football and, in Son’s eyes, that was enough.
A year earlier, when Son’s contract was up, it was a similar situation. He had just delivered his most prolific season to date, 22 goals, making 99 across the five since the conclusion of his first campaign.
All he needed to do was put the word out and he could have his pick. With Tottenham having sacked Jose Mourinho and finished seventh, who would have blamed him?
He instead signed for another four years. For more toil, more minutes and an ever-diminishing shot at finals. And then one emerged out of the muck.
He didn’t need a trophy to secure affection at the club - that was already cast in iron. But silver is a nicer coat. Just as toiling to a dream ending can be more satisfying than a blitz.
He might never outrun the other memories, but it is lovely to think he has finally bought himself a few moments of peace.
I admire your gall, Ruben
I used this space last week to query if Ruben Amorim’s honesty was the smartest policy.
I will use it today to reflect on his post-final comment to say he would leave Manchester United without compensation if his bosses felt he wasn’t up to the job.
Given he works for Sir Jim Ratcliffe, whose frugality extends to a war on staff lunches, you cannot fault Amorim’s appetite for risk.
World record? It's just a monstrosity
The Enhanced Games, which promotes the use of performance-enhancing drugs, issued a press release this week to boast one of its athletes has beaten a world record.
Citing the Greek swimmer Kristian Gkolomeev, who was fifth in the 50m freestyle at the Paris Olympics last year, they said he took 0.02sec off the discipline’s 16-year-old record at a time trial in February. He had been doping for a month.
This monstrosity has been branded as a showcase of unharnessed potential; all it really demonstrates are the pathetic and dangerous depths to which some will travel for clicks.
