Cultural Relatives: Wenger's Invincibles & Pro Evo

Who makes Theo Walcott afraid? Answer: no one. At present, he is free to do his Theo thing. For the benefit of those Sign Da Ting modernist troglodytes, we must recognise that this involves a moment every six or seven matches when, put through one-on-one, he expertly finds the corner. More often, however, it involves attempting to bypass a collection of Premier League defenders with not much more craft than, 'I am Theo, let me through.'

But imagine how differently he would feel if, waiting for him when he turned around from another fruitless expedition, was Patrick Vieira. Hands on hips, staring. I'd wager young Theo would buck his ideas up pretty quickly. (Disclaimer – he wouldn't, he has no other ideas.)

Love does crazy things to all of us, but the love that Cesc Fabregas inflamed in Arsene Wenger seemed to do crazier things than most. His dream date, a wide-eyed, perfect-passing little gem who apparently convinced him that the roughhousing – the Petits and Edus and Vieiras and ultimately the Gilberto Silvas – could be dispensed with and not replaced. That little Cesc and little Denilson could anchor a Premier League midfield. I know, I know: Coquelin. Not before time, eh? And that he remained an afterthought until a predictable injury crisis struck down the Wilsheres and Rosickys and Artetas (the most dispiriting Cesc rebound) says too much about Wenger's stubbornness. That he had, almost in spite of himself, managed to identify a Premier League-quality destructive midfielder as a teen provides that most tortuous thing to Arsenal fans, who I think deep down all want something new: proof that Arsene still knows.

Before the early Emirates years and the evolution of Arsenal into a team who could usually beat the weak and always lose to the strong, they were beautiful. And seeing as this word comes off as pretty wanky in a football context, let it be said that I wouldn't use it to describe any Premier League side apart from Arsenal circa 2000-05. Manchester United's football in the '90s was thrilling, pure, annihilating; but save Cantona's otherworldly flashes it wasn't beautiful, to me at least. Whereas a move that involved Vieira clamping the ball from some unlucky midfielder, purposeful limbs driving into the opposite half, directing it to Pires, who played the most subtle of one-twos with Berkgamp to find Henry, for one of those finishes where the keeper just stands there, then turns and picks the ball from the net – that's as good as it got in the Prem.

Beauty is heart, and heart is hard to find. There's a heartfelt connection between Berkgamp, Henry, Vieira and Pires, perhaps because no one knew, until they played for Arsenal, the depth of talent each possessed. Wenger was lucky to find Bergkamp waiting for him at Highbury; for the others – as well as Anelka, and Ashley Cole, and Ljungberg, and Cesc – he demonstrated a level of foresight that at the time put him first bar none in the world of managers. Major talent and a heart filled with something to prove: invincible. Still, helps to have Vieira giving you that stare now and then, and seeing him occasionally mangle the body of someone like Lee Bowyer or Tomasz Radzinski, leaving them like a head thrust on a spike.

Football is the evolution of fighting, but it's painful how far Wenger tried to move from its roots, especially given that he'd perfected it. And then he fiddled with it. Perhaps that was inevitable.

No one understands suffering like I do. Until the age of 13, when my cunning allowed me to convince an unwitting parent that a graphics card was an essential add-on for the PC I was being bought, my access to games consoles ended with a computerised chessboard comprising nine levels, two of which I couldn't beat. A seven-level chessboard. So next time you hear Bill Gates be like, 'Oh, kids in Africa, malaria,' just think about it, okay?

And thus, as I'm sure my parents intended, it made me an addict. The combination of natural disposition, forbidden fruit, and how amazing that fruit tasted, means that the longest I've spent playing a football game was from Friday night, after getting back from bar work, through to around Sunday afternoon. And we're talking solid, fridge door left open for hours because there wasn't enough time after getting a snack to close it before the new online match loaded, phone battery dead for the entirety, sleeping in front of the menu screen for a couple of hours at noon on Saturday – the lot.

I accept FIFA. I mean, FIFA's bloody great, but in my heart, I merely accept it. I loved Pro (see also: PES, Pro Evo), through and through. I loved Man Red and Man Blue, Isar and Westfalen, games at Trad Brick Stadium and Magpie Park, Farzel Menst and Farzel Har. I loved setting the pre-game tactics arrows. I loved trawling through the Legends catalogue and figuring out who de Squeran and Durlmints were. I loved that you could beat the computer up to a logical five stars and then it would be like, try six stars. I loved Peter Brackley saying 'Trapped it nicely' or 'This is a dangerous throw-in for the defence to face', while Trevor Brooking fretted over his shoulder 'The defence need to man-mark here.' I loved the lobbed through-ball, and flicking your player's bar up to red and skinning a defender with that weave-in, weave-away move. I loved it when their defender was trying to push Adriano off the ball, and then BANG!

But most of all, I loved that it didn't make anything easy. Anyone who played a FIFA up until about FIFA 10 will know the slave you are reduced to upon working out the 'right' running-line; and then run-run-run, run-run-run, with defenders somehow unable to tackle you, and then score. And repeat.

With Pro, even figuring out how to power your shots took a while; that a micro-dot of orange could produce a daisy-cutting bullet into the corner, while half the bar would just send it tamely at the keeper. But always would come a moment, when playing in flow, where you beat three defenders and then intuitively your fingers would find the perfect power-level, and Brackley would cry out 'He took it so well!' and you could feel that evolution. And suddenly the whole pitch was alive, as opposed to the dead running-zone of FIFA.

Capitalism is stupid, right? Liverpool wore their best shirt in 2009-10 – with the stripes and the Carlsberg – but were required to update it, and now sport a shirt I wouldn't put in a dog basket. The heyday of Pro was 3 (the year of Arsenal's Invincibles) through 6. Then the restless god of capitalism convinced the good people of Konami that when you could no longer fine-tune the perfect in-game machine, you should make a new one. The beauty of Pro was always that playing it was easy, but getting good at it wasn't. In following versions, figuring out how to play a short square pass took about 25 attempts, while FIFA got its groove back. But, no matter how many naturalistic conversations Martin Tyler has with Alan Smith – 'If I could go back to what we were talking about Alan', says one piece of software to another – it will never have me the same way.

Patrick Vieira wasn't part of this game. That's the beauty of a player like him though – their presence in your squad builds a layer of steel through the collective mind. Arsenal had royally screwed up the group stage and now had to go to the San Siro and win, or else be knocked out. Arsenal fans of later years know all about being sent off to the stadium of a European giant with nothing but a wouldn't it be nice to go on. How that feeling has changed over the years.

There was also, of course, GTA Vice City. And again, you can have all the online open-world-platform interactive-variable-missions with up to 12 of your friends that you like, but tell me if, in your heart, it feels better than the few moments when the sun hit the horizon as you freewheeled a chopper down the highway alongside the harbour, before overdoing the freewheel and getting wasted, another needless traffic fatality. 'Hello son. What are you doing?' 'Right this second?' 'Yes'. 'Trying to find somewhere to buy a chainsaw.' 'Oh, right. What do you need it for?' 'For fun'.

To be 13 again.