For in returning, Tévez has done something refreshingly out of step with the gait of modern football, which is increasingly moving towards a sort of formalised statelessness: a fluid, geography-free, amniotic universe in which players simply float around the world like diplomatic attachés, hired moths fluttering insensibly towards the brightest flames. Home is a weakness, a sickness, something to be escaped from, an indulgence to be sacrificed at the altar of ambition, which is obviously the most important thing a footballer can possess. Home is something you can pack up and remake wherever you want. Home is where the “project” is.