One response is that of eternal cult status: to be woven into the tapestry of footballing folklore. Think of Socrates and Zico’s 1982 Brazil team. Think of a Colombia side of Asprilla, Escobar and Higuita, led by Valderrama. Think of Cruyff and Resenbrink’s total football.

‘El Pibe de Oro’ - ‘The Golden Boy’. It was a nickname burdened upon the narrow, scrawny shoulders of a 10-year-old Maradona from the day he signed for Argentinos Juniors. A lot of pressure, no doubt, for a prospect plucked from the slums of Lanus Oeste, a notoriously penurious crevice of Buenos Aires. His poverty-stricken upbringing had bestowed Diego with two core values: the weight and demands of an introduction to such barren destitution, and the sanctuary that he found when a ball united with his blessed left foot.

67 goals, meaningless consolations or last minute winners provoking ecstasy or debate long into the night in the local taverna, cafe, bierhalle or bodega. 10 countries, some familiar, some less so, each with a unique culture, language and quirks to be discovered. These stats are just a snapshot, but this isn’t about my stories and anecdotes, this is an exploration into football's best-kept secret; the Cult of Groundhopping.

‘Football Hypebeasts’. I’m coining this term. The term explains the merging of two subcultures, football and streetwear, and how the two have interlinked to share some similar characteristics. One of those characteristics being ‘The Hypebeast’.

Coca-Cola is to the soft drinks arena, what the World Cup is to football. The pinnacle, the crème de la crème, the pièce de résistance - both are simply a somewhat indescribable, yet definitely undeniable, cut above the competition in their respective fields.

In a stadium plastered with Sports Direct advertising that generates £23.9 million from match day revenue (19th in the world), Newcastle United are something of an anomaly: a one city club with football pulsating through its beating heart that continues to draw legions of fans to games despite the fact that many will tell you that their team “is going nowhere.”

Sócrates enhanced his message by using football as his platform, because, before anything else, the Brazilian was one of the best in the world. He embodied joga bonito as he orchestrated attacks and pulled off his signature no-look, back heel passes.

But beneath the bustling terraces, deep down in the locker rooms, Pelé was greeted by a makeshift crew of migrants, students and semi-professionals, in what was a largely amateurish organisation.