Mark Broatch

Erling Haaland, Norway’s large, maniacal striker, has several exceedingly Norwegian traits. He sometimes exercises by chopping wood in the forest. He consumes 6,000 calories a day. After training sessions, he drinks raw milk. He owns a tax-sheltered investment company in Luxembourg named Pillage. He bought an edition of the “Heimskringla,” a 13th-century Old Norse saga, for $130,000—then donated it to his local library because, he explained, “I’ve never been much of a reader.” He has flowing blond hair, often compared to a Viking’s. He brings the intensity of a raiding party to the sport. Haaland scores goals at a higher rate than almost any soccer player ever. He has said, “I think of football all the time.” His wake-up alarm plays the theme song for the Champions League. He once posted a photo of himself on a plane, staring ahead intensely, with the caption “Just raw dogged a 7 hour flight no phone no sleep no water no food only map.” The Guardian once called him a “ravenous Nordic goal-yeti.” Haaland’s style of play elicits not wonder but terror. He is enormous: six feet five, 200 pounds, about the size and speed of the N.F.L. wide receiver Randy Moss. “Watching him, I sometimes find myself giggling as I might over a big, obscene crash at a demolition derby,” Zach Helfand writes. Read more: newyorkermag.visitlink.me/_C…