Wrapped up in his warm-down jacket, Gabriel Jesus takes to the field. It’s been more than half an hour since he was substituted, but everyone still wants a piece of him. Opponents want to shake his hand. Fans want to sing his name. Club staff want to make eye contact and slap him on the back. As he takes his lap of honour, a lone camera operator follows him around the entire pitch, training his lens on that soft, twinkling face, a face that for some reason always looks as though it’s on the verge of bursting into tears.
And for some reason there has always been this peculiarly spellbinding quality to Jesus. You watch him not because of what he’s doing, but because of what he might do.
