The Ballad of Susan: A Juventus Tragedy in Three Acts (and Seventy Million Euros)
(A lone, long-suffering football fan stands, gazing mournfully at an empty wallet, a single tear tracing a path through the dust of broken dreams. He clutches a faded Juventus scarf.)
Oh, Susan! My dearest Susan! Remember those halcyon days? Those glorious, delusional weeks when your arrival was heralded as the second coming? "The next Haaland!" they shrieked, their voices echoing through the Allianz like the frantic prayers of a desperate congregation. "The man who will lead us to the Scudetto!" they whispered, eyes wide with the fervent hope only true desperation can conjure. Seventy million euros! Seventy! Plus bonuses! I practically sold my grandmother's prized porcelain collection to help fund that transfer, bless her soul. And for what, Susan? For what?!
I remember the pundits, their faces alight with the glow of unearned confidence, declaring you the final piece of our glorious puzzle. The missing link! The majestic finisher! Turns out, you were more like a jigsaw piece from a different puzzle, forced clumsily into ours, leaving jagged edges and a gaping hole where the picture should be.
Your time here, my dear Susan, has been a masterclass in the art of the nearly-there. The almost-goal. The pass that almost connected. The moment of brilliance that lasted precisely 0.7 seconds before dissolving into... well, into something less than brilliant. I've seen more decisive moments from a particularly confused pigeon trying to cross a busy road.
And let's not forget that exquisite lack of touch! That first touch, my friends, often more a suggestion than a command, sending the ball on its own whimsical journey rather than precisely where it should go. A true artist, you are, Susan, but perhaps for performance art, not football. And the technical ability? Ah, it seems to mysteriously vanish when the opponent dares to defend. When confronted by a defender who isn't a sleepy mannequin, or a defensive organization that isn't a gaping chasm, you, Susan, become a master of the bewildered stare, the frustrated gesture, the slow turn as the ball sails harmlessly away. The sheer frustration emanating from you, as if the concept of being marked is a personal affront, is truly something to behold. It's like watching a child discover that gravity actually applies to them.
And who could forget that truly iconic, utterly legendary "no-look assist" against Atalanta? Oh, it wasn't just an assist, was it? It was a manifesto! A philosophical statement on the very nature of passing, proving that sometimes, when you look absolutely nowhere, the ball will find its way directly to the opposition, who then gleefully score against you. A true moment of collaborative artistry, that. You assisted them in deepening our humiliation, and for that, we're... well, we're certainly talking about it, aren't we?
The excuses! Ah, the symphony of desperate justifications! "She's not getting enough service!" they cry, as if a person of your purported talent needs the ball hand-delivered on a silver platter, with a little bow on top, every single time. "Allegri's system doesn't suit her!" they wail, as if your multi-million euro feet can only operate in a very specific, perfectly calibrated, cosmic alignment of tactical planets. Newsflash, my friend: a world-class striker scores in any system. Even one devised by a particularly sleepy badger.
And then, the piece de resistance: the plummeting market value! Seventy million, remember? Now, they're practically begging clubs to take you for twenty or thirty. It's not a transfer fee; it's a ransom note! A desperate plea to recoup something from the most expensive disappearing act in modern football. You’ve become the financial equivalent of that mystery stain on the carpet – we just want it gone, no matter the cost of the cleaning bill.
So, as the whispers of your departure grow louder, I can only offer a sarcastic cheer. Perhaps you'll find your true calling elsewhere, in a league where the pressure is measured in milligrams, and the goalposts are wider. Or perhaps, you'll simply continue your majestic performance art of the near-miss. Whatever the future holds, Susan, just know that for us, the long-suffering, wallet-emptied faithful, you'll always be remembered. Not for the goals you scored, but for the legend of the value you destroyed. Farewell, you magnificent, underwhelming enigma! May your next club have a very, very deep piggy bank.
