Harry Kane could be in Munich when August dawns; or he could be in London. He could be combining with Leroy Sane and Thomas Muller; or he could be revving up with his usual chum Son Heung-min. There is a predictable familiarity—a sense of tedium even—about where he could end up and where he eventually ends up.
Every transfer window—an industry of high theatre and undulating drama—for the best part of the last decade winks in with a rumour, speculation or conjecture of Kane bidding farewell to his childhood club, for whom he has played all his life except for brief loan spells in formative years, and ends with the recurring climax of him remaining at the club. Infinite possibilities are spun, like he is building a new house near the training camp of the rivals, or that he was spotted holidaying in Spain, or idling in Paris. The rumours whirl all window along, until the last second of deadline day has passed and Kane appears with his blazing smile from the tunnel.
The Kane-script, thus, has become entirely humdrum, indefinitely di reguer. There have been times when he refused offers; there have been instances when he flirted with switching loyalties but for the tight-fisted hands of David Levy, the Tottenham Hotspur chairman Daniel Levy. Kane thus is torn between the unalloyed love for childhood club and the ambition to win major silverwares, his life made uneasier by the stiff chairman.
To his credit, Kane has been utmost dignified in the episodes that run like the previous episodes. Every season, he has put those distractions aside, continued to evolve and pile on a mountain of goals. Twice in nine full EPL seasons has he netted 30 goals; four times has he converted between 20 and 30 strikes. Even in supposed bad
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