For two-and-a-half decades, Gianluigi Buffon was the man who not just stopped time but controlled it. He never grew old, not an inch of forehead that receded, not a stray crumple on his face, not a pound of bulge in his body, not a drop in energy or fury. A few grey streaks, that was all that suggested the ravages of age on Buffon. Time, he seemed to control. He always had time, when he arched his rubbery frame to tip or toe the ball past his sticks that he fiercely guarded, when he deflected away a wickedly late deflection...