When Christian Eriksen steps out onto the pitch to play for Brentford against Crystal Palace this afternoon, he will get a standing ovation. Every ground he visits over the next few months he will be received as the returning hero and given respect, honour and, most uncommonly from opposing fans, love. And all because he’s alive.

You may have noticed that most footballers are alive. Or certainly appear so, other than half the Tottenham team on Wednesday night, obviously. So why don’t we always celebrate the very aliveness of all players?

Because we take it for granted. It is, after all, pretty much a given. You have to be of the living to even think about being alive.

But Christian Eriksen died. In the match for Denmark against Finland last June. On the pitch. For several minutes. More minutes that you’d really want to be dead for. And at that time, the world stopped. The entire ground, filled in a European Championship match, went silent. The fans just stopped. Obviously the pundits jabbered on because silence is not great tv for the 100 million viewers across the globe.

But at that moment there was no-one aware of the situation who was not praying, rooting, sending love, energy, thoughts, karma, chi, vibes, fucking everything within their power, into Christian Eriksen. It’s automatic. And is so much bigger than petty rivalries, even bigger than stupid nationalism (it was a Euro game), because death even trumps tattoos.

And during that horrible period, until he amazingly regained consciousness on the pitch, we invested so much into him, that he became ‘ours’. There is a little piece of every single football-interested person permanently imbedded in Christian Eriksen. Like there was with Fabrice Muamba, but on a lesser stage.

So there is a special place for such people in our hearts. More importantly, there’s a little piece of all of us, plus some equally important techno-medical wizardry, inside their hearts.

Welcome back, Christian, its great to see you back.

A xxxx