One substitute jogging along the touchline appeared a little less athletic and somewhat rounder than the others. Armed with a laptop, I found the temptation irresistible. "Andy Reid looked more like the winner of a competition to be part of Roy Keane's squad for a day than a professional footballer," I typed.
A slight exaggeration and a bit of a cheap shot perhaps but it was
Sunderland v Wigan and making the match report interesting had turned into a struggle destined to endure until the new £4m signing from Charlton ran on.
Reid's first act revealed a velvet first touch as he expertly dispatched a sumptuous crossfield pass towards Daryl Murphy, whose ensuing 25-yard shot sealed Sunderland's victory.
It was February 2008 and, if Keane's newly promoted side were learner drivers in the Premier League, Reid had begun teaching them clutch control.
Whether deployed wide or, even better, as a central playmaker, his wonderful left foot, gloriously varied passing range, adroit dead-ball ability and occasionally spectacular finishing undeniably helped avert relegation.
More importantly the Dubliner served as an antidote to a sport increasingly dominated by fully ripped, formidably pacey, six-foot-plus athletes choreographed by formulaic coaches harbouring an often blind faith in Prozone statistics and the virtues of high-octane pressing.
Quite apart from an innate ability to put his foot on the ball, slow things down and introduce calibrated passing triangles, Reid possessed imagination. In an era when too many footballers play as if painting by numbers, arguably the best Irish midfielder of his generation much preferred improvisation.
Admittedly the attendant risks sometimes prompted concessions of possession and extravagant indulgence in 'Hollywood' balls. Allied to niggling injuries and less than Usain Bolt-esque acceleration, such vulnerabilities convinced Steve Bruce that even a newly slimline Reid had no place in Sunderland's high-tempo future. There was a sense of inevitability about the headline which late last month declared: "Black Cat turns into Tangerine."
Blackpool have secured a treasure but Ian Holloway's reluctance to accommodate his new No43
and Charlie Adam indicates an uncertainty about displaying it. Let us hope Reid does not do a Gaizka Mendieta and, almost imperceptibly, fade into virtual invisibility.
