Even on the sort of gloomy midwinter day when an English football stadium could seem, in the pre-modern era, to be a dark and glowering place, Law shone through the murk, not just for the bright red of his jersey and the white of his shorts. A shock of straw-coloured hair made him stand out in the opponent's penalty area even when he wasn't spontaneously arranging his limbs to execute a spectacular aerial volley.
He drew the attention even when apparently doing nothing more than hanging around in the opposition's half, his jersey untucked—the sign, back then, of a rebellious spirit—and the cuffs on the long sleeves of his jersey bunched in each hand. On another player, the effect might have been one of scruffiness. Not on Law. He was no urchin. Out there on the pitch, he was the epitome of a different and very personal kind of elegance.
Both players would lurk, predators patiently waiting for the chance to strike, each in his own style. Whereas Greaves's killer blows were delivered with a cold-eyed assassin's stiletto, Law flourished a fencing master's foil. If the Englishman's presence was all stealth and surprise, the Scot traded in an extrovert's thrilling flamboyance.
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