Glenn Hoddle often felt like a footballermisplaced by geography. Had he been born elsewhere, perhaps in a different footballing culture, maybe even on a different continent, his career might have been read very differently.

A classic number ten in the most traditional sense, Hoddle played with a distinctly un-English soul. He was elegant, cerebral, sometimes slow, occasionally detached, rarely interested in sacrifice for its own sake. Graceful rather than industrious, inconsistent rather than relentless , in short, the exact opposite of what English football traditionally demanded and celebrated. Unsurprisingly, this put him at odds with sections of the public, the press, and more than a few managers. Admired later, often misunderstood at the time.

And yet, it was at Tottenham that Hoddle reached his true peak. There, his football found just enough freedom to breathe. On the ball, he operated at a different speed , not faster, but smarter. His technique was sublime, almost effortless. His vision was extraordinary, arguably unmatched by any English player before or since. Passing, especially long–range distribution, was delivered with surgical precision. Fully ambidextrous, he could open the game with either foot, bending space rather than simply occupying it.

Hoddle was a master of set pieces, particularly curling free kicks, struck with finesse rather than force. More than a creator, he was a weaver of play, the connective tissue of the attack, the mind behind the movement. In terms of pure playmaking fundamentals, he stands among the finest English football has ever produced, and comfortably holds his place at a European level for his era.

He was never a crowd-pleaser in the traditional sense, never a symbol of effort or grit. But football has room for artists as well as labourers. And Hoddle, whether England fully realised it at the time or not, was unmistakably an artist.