Sometimes a world-class player's art lies in knowing how to hide it. In making what is unnatural look natural, what for others is hugely complicated seem simple. Gary Lineker belonged to this category of champions: no superfluous gestures, no concession to aesthetics for their own sake, never over the top. To excel, he needed only a few metres, often only a few seconds, sometimes just a single touch.
His talent lived above all in what happened before the ball reached him. Lineker watched, sensed, moved. While others reacted to the play, he seemed to have already read how it would unfold. He had the secret of the great penalty-box strikers: a sort of inner clock that ran a few seconds ahead of everyone else's. A quality that was hard to measure and even harder to teach.
In ancient times they would have called it "ars celare artem", or "the art of concealing art", a concept dear to Quintilian. Lineker turned it into something close to a football philosophy. He did not have the devastating power of the great centre-forwards or the acrobatic range of the virtuosos, he did not love dribbling past half a team and he rarely chased the impossible goal. He did something that looked far simpler: he arrived where the ball was going to arrive. Before the defender. Before the goalkeeper. Sometimes even before one of his team-mates had decided to pass it.
For his fairness and the style with which he interpreted the role of centre-forward, he earned the nickname "Gentleman of the goal". Rather than battling with defenders, he always looked to get there first.
Then came the goals: at home, in Spain and even in the final, exotic chapter of his career in Japan. He did it in an England shirt, above all when the stage grew bigger and other players' legs began to tire. Six goals at Mexico '86, four at Italy '90: 10 in total at the World Cup, a milestone no Englishman had ever reached before him.

