Right. Deep breath.

James Rodríguez. The bloke who scored THAT volley against Uruguay in 2014. The man who wore the number 10 at Real Madrid. Twice. Who made the Bernabéu purr. Who could find a pass like he was threading a needle in a hurricane. That James Rodríguez.

He's in Minnesota. He was in hospital. For dehydration. And now he's "ramping up to game readiness." In April. In a league that started in February.

Don't get me started.

No, actually, do get me started because this is everything that's wrong with modern football in one neat little package. We've got a 34 year old genius who hasn't consistently played football since about 2017, bouncing from club to club like a pinball, and we're all sat here going "Oh lovely, he's rehydrated, shouldn't be long now." Shouldn't be long until WHAT? He plays 12 minutes against Nashville and we all pretend it's a comeback story?

In my day, when a player was done, he was done. He went and managed a pub. He did the after dinner circuit. He coached the local under 14s and screamed at kids for not tracking back. There was dignity in it. Nobody was "ramping up." You either played football or you didn't. There was no ramp. There was a cliff. And you fell off it and you got on with your life.

Now look, I'm not having a go at the lad personally. James Rodríguez at his peak was a footballer from another planet. That left foot was a wand. I watched that 2014 World Cup and I thought he was going to be the best player on earth for a decade. What happened after that is complicated and none of my business. Injuries. Form. Managers who didn't fancy him. Everton. Nobody deserves Everton.

But this is where football has gone completely sideways. We've created a system where players never have to stop. There's always another league. Another continent. Another "project." You get hospitalised for severe dehydration and three days later the club puts out a statement saying you're back in and continuing your ramp up like nothing happened. Like that's normal. Like a trip to hospital is just part of the process.

That's the problem with modern football. Nobody knows when to say enough is enough. The agents don't want to say it because the commission stops. The clubs don't want to say it because the shirt sales stop. The player doesn't want to say it because, well, what would you do? If someone offered you money to play football in Minneapolis, you'd take it too. I'm not daft. I get it.

But somewhere along the line someone close to these players needs to sit them down with a cup of tea and say, "Listen mate. You were brilliant. You were genuinely, properly brilliant. And it's over. And that's alright."

I managed a lad at Macclesfield once. Cracking little midfielder. Could play a bit. Non league clubs kept ringing him up every summer and he kept saying yes and he kept getting hurt and he kept going back. His wife rang me one Tuesday night crying because he'd done his hamstring again in a friendly against Altrincham reserves. I told him straight. "Pack it in, son. Your body's telling you something. Listen to it."

He did. Became a plumber. Happy as Larry now.

James Rodríguez doesn't need to become a plumber. He's set for life. But he does need someone to tell him the truth instead of putting him on a ramp that leads absolutely nowhere.

Get the man a glass of water and a gold watch. He's earned both.