First of all, there's the honour thing. English football fans easily forgave his move away from Arsenal (where he had enjoyed both love and praise since he'd arrived as the wunderkind Spanish princeling barely out of his short pants), forgave him because he was returning home, and a yearning for home is a thing everyone understands. Who cannot look at so Catalan a player and say, "Well, he's been living in the rain for these many years, every night dreaming of the scent of orange blossoms and a place where the sea is warm enough you can swim in it"?
But moving to Manchester? It would be a Cristiano Ronaldo thing, without heart or integrity, one which would leave his former English fans embittered. If he were Ronaldo, he would not care, but he is Cesc, and, for better or worse, what the world thinks of him makes a difference to him. Could he live in such a cold country, knowing that the hearts of its people have iced over against him?
I understand the temptation. How flattering must it be, all that money on the table, and after these last years playing among a squad of footballers so great that he is considered very near to second-string, how glorious must it feel to have the high-powered new manager of the richest and most successful English side in history wanting to build his remodeled team around you?
But here's the rub: London is one thing, and Manchester quite another. How long would Daniella put up with it? Not a full season, I'd put money on it. Sign that piece of paper in Moyes' hand, and within a year your glamour-puss girlfriend will have found herself a Greek tycoon and an island in the sun, and you'll be seeing your daughter for two weeks at a time, every third month.
Stay in the sun, Cesc. Stay in Barcelona. It's a time of transition there. Wait and see.
