There was a moment at the weekend when Peter Crouch, his body shaped as if goal-scoring legend Marco van Basten, became fleetingly one of the true giants of the game.
The fact that he later paused before answering the question "your best ever?", as if mentally flicking back through his collected works of great goals, only heightened the moment.
The parabola he traced audaciously through the sky simultaneously pencilled in another chapter of his breed's soccer parable; big can be beautiful.
Actually it is more specific than that. Crouch and his ilk are not the towering brickhouse frontmen so beloved of Sam Allardyce; rather, his breed exists uneasily outside the game's big five - the strapping centre-half, the languid creator, the tearaway wide man, the goal poacher and that brickhouse. They are tall but more beanpole than battering ram, and with that come a peculiar spread of skills and an unparalleled ability to mix the gracious with the clumsy, the bewildering with the breathtaking. We're in giraffe country.
There appears a lack of trust in tall, gangly strikers such as Crouch.