Every Italian holiday, we have lunch at least once with friends at the beach club of a nice hotel. In the summer, Marco van Basten also likes to sit there at a long table filled with his children and their partners. A rich, beautiful, lovely table.

Now I must say that I was already a great admirer of San Marco, but it is hysterically funny to see the scene where a random Italian suddenly realizes that the man with the graying temples at that table is the great Marco van Basten. They almost collapse to the ground in complete adoration, but it's not far off.

When I think of Marco van Basten, I am back in 1988 when I watched all the matches of the European Championship (yes, even those that the Netherlands did not participate in) and was ecstatic with joy when ‘we’ won.

I also saw Marco once when I was having dinner with three friends in Vis aan de Schelde. He passed by, I was heavily pregnant and saw him looking at me tenderly: a mother-to-be. Then, of course, I was a fan again.

And now, now I am reading his biography Basta. I am back in Utrecht (where my cradle also stood) and I am YouTubing every goal he describes to three decimal places. I am not yet at the moment when he had to stop far too early because of that nasty ankle. I know I won't be able to hold back the tears then, I already know that.

Do you also want to dive into the life of Marco? You can do it here Yes, the heating is high again and my skin is immediately dry. The air is drier, and my shower is hotter. All of this does not contribute to my….