always pacing hard, always trying something different out. “It’s a need,” he explains. “Either you have this need or you don’t. I am lucky enough to have this need. Lucky because of all that it brings me.”
This constant striving might be what separates us supporters and Sunday leaguers from the likes of Eric. But this striving for perfection is not always pleasant. Cantona confesses to looking enviously at “people who don’t give a damn. I look at them and I think, I wonder what it would be like not to care at all. Must be nice sometimes.” The desire to do better each day brings with it a hyper-critical attitude to his own performances. Eric thinks hard about the way he plays, and submits his game to thorough criticism. This leads him, at times, he readily admits, to darker moments of self-questioning, but in the meticulous mental and physical preparation for which he has become so famous, he clearly thrives on doubt and burning ambition.
Although training is crucial to our Eric, he knows that training must never take the place of the match itself. If ever there were a player made for the big occasion, it is Eric Cantona. “We’ve all known players who have been geniuses in training, but when it comes to the match itself they’ve been hopeless. The point is to train and to prepare yourself mentally for the match. It’s the game itself that’s important.” And, of course, Cantona’s magical performances when it has really mattered are even more legendary than his determined attitude in training.
I ask him what it’s like to live with the pressures of the big moment. He is almost surprised at what seems an obvious question. “Once you’ve managed your time, once you’ve managed your training, once you’ve managed your concentration, your preparation, what comes next is a game. When I play I belong to the match itself.
Pressure isn’t a problem. On