Perhaps when Jack Grealish signed for Manchester City, at the moment that contract was sealed, his elevation to this rarefied air confirmed, he might have imagined himself, just for one brief moment, swaggering, socks down, through his own ticker-tape parade, showered with glory, glitter, noise, screwed up pieces of white paper.
Although perhaps not like this. Maybe if Grealish squinted a little the faces of the middle Yorkshiremen pelting him with litter might have resembled, if you did not listen too hard, an adoring chorus, a Grealish super-fandom event.
