I would call myself an objectivist, a realist, one in tune with the pigments of reality. I have a finger on the pulse of society. Yet, on Wednesday, I realised that for football it’s different. Once the referees whistle blows objectivity departs, I become a fan, a drone, a mindless patron of shirt and ball. Realism...... I don’t know the word.
At the start of this season my team, Leicester City were cemented at the foot of the championship table, yet I still expected promotion. We went to Portsmouth, a team with possibly the best starting 11 in the league, went a goal and a man down after 20 minutes and I expected us to win. Such blind faith is not logical. Such unrealistic expectation cannot be justified. It is what makes the football fan the football fan, a united force bound together through thick and thin. Us against them.
For the national team though, the goalposts change. The fan base is no longer secular or regional. ‘The enemy’ becomes a nation. A people place and ideology we cannot relate to. Our best versus their best. National pride is on the line. With a nation roaring at its back our 11 lions, the best the nation has to offer, take to the field.
The story from here on in usually plays out in an all too depressingly similar vein. When it comes to the crunch, the time to stand up and be counted; we fall short. Victims of unrealised potential, the expectations, hopes and dreams of a nation shelved to be rekindled another year. This year is always ’our year’, and yet it never is. 45 years is an awfully long wait. And as I watched the French farce unfurling before my eyes I realised the problem. However hard to stomach it may be, it is us, the fans and the media, who erect the platform for the players to fail. We who build them up so they have further to fall.
I understand the finer nuances of ‘pressure’. Throughout my school years I was ‘the best’ athlete in my school. ‘the one to beat’, a rabbit hunted by the greyhounds at my back. In such a situation one can only fail or achieve, never exceed. This is pressure. The idea that nothing but victory will suffice. My reputation, however, unlike the England football teams was justified. I WAS the best, they, quite conclusively, ARE NOT. In such a situation you cannot fail to fail.
Going into the last World cup we were fourth favourites. Fourth. Spain, the European champions; a team boasting a mercurially talented pool of players first. Brazil, 5 times World cup winners and South American region qualification Champions second. Holland, a team that had won every qualification game, scoring the most amount of goals in qualification third. And England fourth. A team for whom anything less than a semi-final (which incidentally we have only reached once in any international competition in the last 45 years) would be ‘a disappointment’. Why? Exactly.
I didn’t know betting cycles ran 45 years overdue.
You could argue that England did well in qualification. They did beat Croatia, a team who had performed very well in the European Championships home and away, but this very same Croatia failed to qualify for the World Cup, who came 3rd in the group. It would also be a fair point to state that England’s odds, no matter who we are playing are over inflated because we are English, live in England and therefore bet patriotically. The players though, they don’t know this. They see odds, advertising campaigns, promotions heralding the new breed, how this is our time. The collective hearts of 50 million people beating in the chest of 11 men, that is pressure.
To be honest I am as guilty as the next man, therefore I am in no position to chastise such patriotic optimism. The problem of buckling under national pressure, however, appears fundamentally ingrained in the psyche of the English football player. The Germans are big game players. Miroslav Klose, a player that was not even Bayern Munich’s first choice striker for the 09/10 season, a player written of as ’past his peak’ scored four in the tournament, in four games (he scored four in the entire Bundesliga season). If it wasn’t for injury and suspension Klose would have, in all likelihood, become the World Cups leading ever goal scorer. This is a big game player. A man who, when the chips are down, stands up proudly and performs. For some reason the German national team is full of big game players. There or there about year upon year. The pressure on the German players is no less than that we heap upon our own men, yet where they respond, we fall down.
I’ll use Tim Lampard as an example, and no I don’t mean Frank. The Frank Lampard of Chelsea fame is a giant, a 20 goal a season midfielder that leaves premier league defences yearning for the final whistle. The impostor that wears the Lampard shirt for England is not this man, how can he be? The difference in class, ability, accuracy, strength, work rate and seemingly every other facet of the Chelsea Lampard appears warped, diluted. Once he pulls on the shirt of the Three lions Lampard is no longer the world class player we know he can be, and that hurts. The case of Lampard is by no means an isolated incident, Barry, Milner, Rooney, Bent, Ferdinand, Carrick, even Gerrard; Tirants, of the premier league, perpetual bottlers on the biggest stage of them all.
If results were simply based on ability England would have won the World Cup since 66, no doubt. If results were simply based on ability public and media hype would be warranted, welcomed and embraced by our all-conquering heroes. Yet here we are, 45 years and counting.
Something, no doubt about it, needs to change. Cappello, no matter how chastised and seemingly culpable he may appear, to me isn’t the crux of the issue (although, up until this point he was exacerbating the problem by his seemingly entrenched lack of squad rotation). The precedent has been set by other nations, the Holland’s, Spain’s, Brazil’s and Germany’s of this world: Youth is the future. Amidst the shambles of Wembley on Wednesday Capello showed us a glimpse of the future. A situation in which players can learn to thrive under the pressure cauldron of public expectation from a young age. A situation in which no-ones position in the team is set in stone. 11 English men showcasing the talents of the premier league on the biggest stages of them all. Competing and succeeding, together as one. One day.
For the moment though we need to realise a rather sobering reality. The English national team is, at present one seemingly castrated by mediocrity. It will not always thus, one day we will rise again, the Englishman’s day in the sun will dawn afresh. Today, just isn’t that day. Ours is not a team of Premier League performers, it is a team of English performers. One day we will have a team that justifies its ability and the glory days will return. We just need to be patient, to hope, not expect and then the glory will be all the sweeter. For the moment we just need to understand that whilst the lion may be the king of the animal kingdom, the three lions are not yet the kings of football.
.
Friday, 19 November 2010
Monday, 8 November 2010
The smile that launched a thousand laps.
Over time things change. People come, people go. The ever-spinning vortex that is life alters the landscape in which we reside with almost depressing regularity. In such times we look for constants, points of reference, familiarity amongst a sea of change. Inevitably though, nothing is forever, age wearies us and to the annals we are confined. In sport it is no different. Even the evergreens, the stalwarts, have an expiry date. One day an aging body, a mind wearied by a lifetime of competition finally submits to the vortex of time. In the inconspicuous setting of the New York Marathon’s 16th mile 37 year old Haile Gebrsalassie’s career ran its course. The boy from Asella had ran his last.
To me, Gebrsalassie was the consummate professional in an era tainted by greed, arrogance and mediocrity. Talented, yet humble, Haile Gebrsalassie wove his indelible mark across the fabric of sport. 11 world championship medals, two Olympic gold medals, multiple World records Gebrsalassie is quite rightly lauded amongst the pantheons of the finest ever athletes. To me though he was more than this.
To class ‘Geb’ as a ‘legend of running’ or ‘one of the greatest athletes of all-time’ would be to label him, to stereotype him. Gebrsalassie was, and is, unique. Never have I seen an athlete, a man who has donated so much of his life to the tartan and road, so gracious in defeat. No my friends, it is by his smile that I will remember Haile Gebrsalassie.
Brought up as one of ten children in Asella, Ethiopia, a young Gebrsalassie ran the 10 kilometres to and from school, each and everyday. Little is known of the young ‘Geb’, until he found recognition on the world stage, winning the 5 and 1000 metre double at the 1992 World Youth Championships. It was the start of an era; the diminutive figure, left arm still crocked to hold the schoolbooks that had long since left his shoulder, would go on to become the greatest long distance runner of his, or any other generation.
Gebrsalassie became the poster boy for the Ethiopian people. A demi-god. The small boy from Asella that became the world record holder. He gave hope to a poverty stricken nation, a tangible belief that with hard work one could achieve a brighter future. The Ethiopian dream, you might say. In turn, Gebrsalassie never forgot his roots: Today ‘the Emperor’s (his name among the Ethiopian communities) ventures, including a running club and a school in Addis Ababa keep 1000 Ethiopians in work.
On the track Gebrsalassie’s emergence onto the world stage signalled the greatest period of dominance in the history of distance running. A seismic shift of power towards the Sub-Saharan continent, which, to this day, has only been exacerbated. Schooled on a diet of running, quite literally, Europe and the Americas simply could no longer compete with the African machine. It became the Kenyan and Ethiopian show.
Interestingly, and to me this is the true measure of the man, it was Gebrsalassie above all others that the world loved. His wasn’t a Usain bolt like regime of totalitarian dominance, he had rivals, he lost races, yet it was ‘Geb’ that is remembered and adored.
His arch nemisis for much of his period of dominance, (late 90’s early 00) Paul Tergat, is an enigma. A face, a name, a statistic in the record books. Tergat too though was a world marathon record holder, just 7 years ago, a 5 time World Cross country Champion between the years 1995-9. Over the cross-country Gebrsalassie never came close.
Paul Tergat retired in 2009 without a fanfare. His last race, Japan’s ‘Lake Biwa Marathon’ he won in a time of 2:10, at the age of 39. A chapter of a life barely written had been closed. Tergat can, and will be known as an exceptional runner, but he was simply thus. Gebrsalassie is so much more than tartan and spikes, trainers and road. He is a character, a little man with exceptional talent who taught the world to smile. Haile Gebrsalassie is so much more than just a runner, in a way that, sadly, Paul Tergat never was.
And so, Sunday the 7th of November 2010, the 16th mile of the 41st New York City Marathon the cruel hand of fate played the card many were praying would never come. After limping out of the race with an inflamed knee, a body weary from a lifetime of competition, a tearful Haile Gebrsalassie announced the end of an era. ‘Let me do another job’ he said, "Let me give a chance to the youngsters. I did very hard work to win this race, it didn't work." Selfless to the end, Haile Gebrsalassie called time on the greatest career distance running has ever known.
Many luminaries of the distance running fraternity have called on ‘Geb’ to reconsider his decision. British 10,00 metre record holder Brendan Foster spoke of his dream for Gebrsalassie to go out having won the London 2012 marathon, but at the moment it looks a forlorn hope. His race, it seems, has been run.
Even if we are never as privileged to witness the majesty of Haile Gebrsalassie again, however, I for one like to think it is not the end. In the months and years to come when the latest incumbent to his distance running crown crosses the line, the unbridled joy that crosses their face will remind you of another time; and a little man whose smile captured the heart of the world.
To me, Gebrsalassie was the consummate professional in an era tainted by greed, arrogance and mediocrity. Talented, yet humble, Haile Gebrsalassie wove his indelible mark across the fabric of sport. 11 world championship medals, two Olympic gold medals, multiple World records Gebrsalassie is quite rightly lauded amongst the pantheons of the finest ever athletes. To me though he was more than this.
To class ‘Geb’ as a ‘legend of running’ or ‘one of the greatest athletes of all-time’ would be to label him, to stereotype him. Gebrsalassie was, and is, unique. Never have I seen an athlete, a man who has donated so much of his life to the tartan and road, so gracious in defeat. No my friends, it is by his smile that I will remember Haile Gebrsalassie.
Brought up as one of ten children in Asella, Ethiopia, a young Gebrsalassie ran the 10 kilometres to and from school, each and everyday. Little is known of the young ‘Geb’, until he found recognition on the world stage, winning the 5 and 1000 metre double at the 1992 World Youth Championships. It was the start of an era; the diminutive figure, left arm still crocked to hold the schoolbooks that had long since left his shoulder, would go on to become the greatest long distance runner of his, or any other generation.
Gebrsalassie became the poster boy for the Ethiopian people. A demi-god. The small boy from Asella that became the world record holder. He gave hope to a poverty stricken nation, a tangible belief that with hard work one could achieve a brighter future. The Ethiopian dream, you might say. In turn, Gebrsalassie never forgot his roots: Today ‘the Emperor’s (his name among the Ethiopian communities) ventures, including a running club and a school in Addis Ababa keep 1000 Ethiopians in work.
On the track Gebrsalassie’s emergence onto the world stage signalled the greatest period of dominance in the history of distance running. A seismic shift of power towards the Sub-Saharan continent, which, to this day, has only been exacerbated. Schooled on a diet of running, quite literally, Europe and the Americas simply could no longer compete with the African machine. It became the Kenyan and Ethiopian show.
Interestingly, and to me this is the true measure of the man, it was Gebrsalassie above all others that the world loved. His wasn’t a Usain bolt like regime of totalitarian dominance, he had rivals, he lost races, yet it was ‘Geb’ that is remembered and adored.
His arch nemisis for much of his period of dominance, (late 90’s early 00) Paul Tergat, is an enigma. A face, a name, a statistic in the record books. Tergat too though was a world marathon record holder, just 7 years ago, a 5 time World Cross country Champion between the years 1995-9. Over the cross-country Gebrsalassie never came close.
Paul Tergat retired in 2009 without a fanfare. His last race, Japan’s ‘Lake Biwa Marathon’ he won in a time of 2:10, at the age of 39. A chapter of a life barely written had been closed. Tergat can, and will be known as an exceptional runner, but he was simply thus. Gebrsalassie is so much more than tartan and spikes, trainers and road. He is a character, a little man with exceptional talent who taught the world to smile. Haile Gebrsalassie is so much more than just a runner, in a way that, sadly, Paul Tergat never was.
And so, Sunday the 7th of November 2010, the 16th mile of the 41st New York City Marathon the cruel hand of fate played the card many were praying would never come. After limping out of the race with an inflamed knee, a body weary from a lifetime of competition, a tearful Haile Gebrsalassie announced the end of an era. ‘Let me do another job’ he said, "Let me give a chance to the youngsters. I did very hard work to win this race, it didn't work." Selfless to the end, Haile Gebrsalassie called time on the greatest career distance running has ever known.
Many luminaries of the distance running fraternity have called on ‘Geb’ to reconsider his decision. British 10,00 metre record holder Brendan Foster spoke of his dream for Gebrsalassie to go out having won the London 2012 marathon, but at the moment it looks a forlorn hope. His race, it seems, has been run.
Even if we are never as privileged to witness the majesty of Haile Gebrsalassie again, however, I for one like to think it is not the end. In the months and years to come when the latest incumbent to his distance running crown crosses the line, the unbridled joy that crosses their face will remind you of another time; and a little man whose smile captured the heart of the world.
Thursday, 4 November 2010
The theatre of sand.
To use a synonym from the beaches for which it is famed, if Manchester United and Chelsea were high rise sand palaces Blackpool would be a small turret, dented slightly by the unwanted intervention of a stray beach ball. In other words; they shouldn’t be very good….. but they are.
In the past Blackpool was renowned as a beach, a pleasure park, a home for donkeys, an empty façade concealing the town of Blackpool within. Blackpool FC and the mercurial Ian Holloway have given the town its colour. No longer of secondary consequence to the beach and pleasure park it contains, the once pale town of Blackpool is now orange.
To put the teams achievements over recent seasons into perspective; all predictions at the beginning of last season predicted Blackpool for relegation. They ’should’ be in League One yet they’re in the Premierships top 10. The tale of Blackpool really is one of triumph over adversity, perseverance in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.
Blackpool’s is a club steeped in heritage, the 1950’s side of Stanley Matthews and Stan Mortensen yielded the most successful era in the clubs history. Indeed up until their relegation in 1966-7, Blackpool were an established top division side. That was a s good as it got for Blackpool, however, as numerous changes of manager and a lack of continuity on the field led the club to spiral downwards into the never-regions of the football league Pyramid. To put it into perspective 18 years ago, if Blackpool had of been relegated, they would have become a non-league side. They didn’t; they were promoted, and the tracks were set in motion, culminating in the Blackpool FC of today.
It wasn’t until the last few weeks of the 09/10 championship season that Blackpool fans dared to dream. After a slow start no-one expected the tale that was about to be told. Around March though people began to sit up and take notice. Blackpool started to win, and then win again and again. Nottingham Forest, Cardiff, Leicester and Swansea, the teams in the promotion places at the time were looking over their shoulders. Little Blackpool were hunting them down. Schooled on an attacking 4-3-3 formation Holloway’s boys continued their indomitable march to the promised land. The rest, is history. Blackpool gained sixth place in the league, booking a play off spot in the process, and relegating Swansea to another season of Championship football. Nottingham Forest were next to the sword, 2-1 at Blackpool and an amazing 4-3 at the City Ground. And, in the biggest match of them all ’the 90 million pound match’ Blackpool completed the remarkable as they came from behind to beat hotly fancied Cardiff 3-2.
To many people promotion for such a side was deemed cruel. How can a team who only scraped through the championship, a team who’s record signing (for £500,000), club captain and best player, was a reject from Scotland, hope to compete with the millions on offer in the Premier League? ‘They’re gonna do a Derby’ (lowest ever points tally in the history of the premier league with 11 points) came the shout, and, to be honest, I believed them.
Blackpool’s current situation, in my mind, defies all reasonable logic. They are a team bereft of any world class players, many Premiership class players even, but, and here lies the crux of the issue, they are a team. Blackpool are the Spartans of the Premier League ‘a single impenetrable unit’. Their’s is a team made up of journeymen, rejects and those who have never even had the chance. Each and every one of them has something to prove, to fight for and that, in essence is the spirit of Blackpool. Small budgets, big hearts. No big names, just one team, man to man fighting as one.
The maverick who masterminded the rennaisance, up until this season, was by many considered a joke. A master of the press conferences where his witty one- liners and anecdotes bemused many a journalist, Ian Holloway’s teams on field exploits hadn’t lived up to their managers hype. Man and club seem to share an intrinsic bond, unfashionable, underrated as Holloway himself said; ‘I love Blackpool. We're very similar. We both look better in the dark.’ Under a shroud of darkness Blackpool and it’s master of ceremonies have taken the Premier league by storm.
At the start of this season Blackpool had become most peoples second team. More out of wild hope than expectation the nation had took the eclectic bunch of players and decidedly quirky manager to their hearts. Now though the situation has changed. Blackpool is still many peoples second favourite team, we still want them to avoid relegation, but now, the reality is, they probably will. The future of Blackpool is most certainly orange.
In the past Blackpool was renowned as a beach, a pleasure park, a home for donkeys, an empty façade concealing the town of Blackpool within. Blackpool FC and the mercurial Ian Holloway have given the town its colour. No longer of secondary consequence to the beach and pleasure park it contains, the once pale town of Blackpool is now orange.
To put the teams achievements over recent seasons into perspective; all predictions at the beginning of last season predicted Blackpool for relegation. They ’should’ be in League One yet they’re in the Premierships top 10. The tale of Blackpool really is one of triumph over adversity, perseverance in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.
Blackpool’s is a club steeped in heritage, the 1950’s side of Stanley Matthews and Stan Mortensen yielded the most successful era in the clubs history. Indeed up until their relegation in 1966-7, Blackpool were an established top division side. That was a s good as it got for Blackpool, however, as numerous changes of manager and a lack of continuity on the field led the club to spiral downwards into the never-regions of the football league Pyramid. To put it into perspective 18 years ago, if Blackpool had of been relegated, they would have become a non-league side. They didn’t; they were promoted, and the tracks were set in motion, culminating in the Blackpool FC of today.
It wasn’t until the last few weeks of the 09/10 championship season that Blackpool fans dared to dream. After a slow start no-one expected the tale that was about to be told. Around March though people began to sit up and take notice. Blackpool started to win, and then win again and again. Nottingham Forest, Cardiff, Leicester and Swansea, the teams in the promotion places at the time were looking over their shoulders. Little Blackpool were hunting them down. Schooled on an attacking 4-3-3 formation Holloway’s boys continued their indomitable march to the promised land. The rest, is history. Blackpool gained sixth place in the league, booking a play off spot in the process, and relegating Swansea to another season of Championship football. Nottingham Forest were next to the sword, 2-1 at Blackpool and an amazing 4-3 at the City Ground. And, in the biggest match of them all ’the 90 million pound match’ Blackpool completed the remarkable as they came from behind to beat hotly fancied Cardiff 3-2.
To many people promotion for such a side was deemed cruel. How can a team who only scraped through the championship, a team who’s record signing (for £500,000), club captain and best player, was a reject from Scotland, hope to compete with the millions on offer in the Premier League? ‘They’re gonna do a Derby’ (lowest ever points tally in the history of the premier league with 11 points) came the shout, and, to be honest, I believed them.
Blackpool’s current situation, in my mind, defies all reasonable logic. They are a team bereft of any world class players, many Premiership class players even, but, and here lies the crux of the issue, they are a team. Blackpool are the Spartans of the Premier League ‘a single impenetrable unit’. Their’s is a team made up of journeymen, rejects and those who have never even had the chance. Each and every one of them has something to prove, to fight for and that, in essence is the spirit of Blackpool. Small budgets, big hearts. No big names, just one team, man to man fighting as one.
The maverick who masterminded the rennaisance, up until this season, was by many considered a joke. A master of the press conferences where his witty one- liners and anecdotes bemused many a journalist, Ian Holloway’s teams on field exploits hadn’t lived up to their managers hype. Man and club seem to share an intrinsic bond, unfashionable, underrated as Holloway himself said; ‘I love Blackpool. We're very similar. We both look better in the dark.’ Under a shroud of darkness Blackpool and it’s master of ceremonies have taken the Premier league by storm.
At the start of this season Blackpool had become most peoples second team. More out of wild hope than expectation the nation had took the eclectic bunch of players and decidedly quirky manager to their hearts. Now though the situation has changed. Blackpool is still many peoples second favourite team, we still want them to avoid relegation, but now, the reality is, they probably will. The future of Blackpool is most certainly orange.
Friday, 22 October 2010
What Wayne Rooney signing a new contract means for Manchester United..
As U turns go it was pretty spectacular. A club in decline, a player disillusioned with life at a club who's ambitions could not match his own, Wayne Rooney appeared set or the Old Trafford exit door.
Two years ago Manchester United were at the very pinnacle of world football. Champions league winners, league champions for the 3rd year in a row, boasting the worlds best player as well as Rooney, the beating heart of the English game, amongst their ranks. The future appeared red.
Fast forward two years and the horizon appeared distinctly warped. Ronaldo had gone to Real Madrid, the mecurially talented Carlos Tevez, now the captain or arch rivals Mnchester City, and now it was Rooney.It would appear the worlds biggest, most famous club would no longer have the team to warrant such stature.
A visibly deflated Sir Alex Ferguson, announced to the gathering hoardes how Rooney was forcing the clubs hand. Refusing to sign a new contract at the club who helped to define Rooney the footballer as well as Rooney the man. Unable to justify a realistic transfer figure with a little over 18 months left on his current deal Manchester United appeared set to make a loss on a player they signed as an 18 year old.
Wise heads perused the inevitable decline of the once great Manchester United, bereft of any trully World class players. A spent force.
And then with with one flick of his wrist Rooney changed everything.
There are a number of different interpretations of the reasons for Rooney's decision. What was it that, in two short days persuaded a player who had openly spoken to the media about his desire to leave a club that could not fulfill his lofty ambitions. To my mind there are three diffeent eventualities:
1) Rooney has been persuaded by the board and Sir Alex Ferguson of imminent funds for replacements either in January or next summer. Or has been convinced by the playing potential of the current squad.
2)Manchester United have met, or have been close to meeting Rooney's astronomical £200,000 + a week wage demands where other potential suitors, Manchester City aside, have refused.
3) Or there is the cynical perspective that Rooney still wants to leave. That he has mearly acted selflessly and in the interests of the club by signing his contract so that, in the Summer when he does want to leave Manchester United can demand a fair and accurate transfer fee for a player o his ability and stature.
For whatever reason he has done it, that Rooney has signed a new contract is irrefutible. Why, and eventually if, he was right is a story that will be played out on the pitch, board rooms and financial statements of Manchester United in the months and years to come.
Two years ago Manchester United were at the very pinnacle of world football. Champions league winners, league champions for the 3rd year in a row, boasting the worlds best player as well as Rooney, the beating heart of the English game, amongst their ranks. The future appeared red.
Fast forward two years and the horizon appeared distinctly warped. Ronaldo had gone to Real Madrid, the mecurially talented Carlos Tevez, now the captain or arch rivals Mnchester City, and now it was Rooney.It would appear the worlds biggest, most famous club would no longer have the team to warrant such stature.
A visibly deflated Sir Alex Ferguson, announced to the gathering hoardes how Rooney was forcing the clubs hand. Refusing to sign a new contract at the club who helped to define Rooney the footballer as well as Rooney the man. Unable to justify a realistic transfer figure with a little over 18 months left on his current deal Manchester United appeared set to make a loss on a player they signed as an 18 year old.
Wise heads perused the inevitable decline of the once great Manchester United, bereft of any trully World class players. A spent force.
And then with with one flick of his wrist Rooney changed everything.
There are a number of different interpretations of the reasons for Rooney's decision. What was it that, in two short days persuaded a player who had openly spoken to the media about his desire to leave a club that could not fulfill his lofty ambitions. To my mind there are three diffeent eventualities:
1) Rooney has been persuaded by the board and Sir Alex Ferguson of imminent funds for replacements either in January or next summer. Or has been convinced by the playing potential of the current squad.
2)Manchester United have met, or have been close to meeting Rooney's astronomical £200,000 + a week wage demands where other potential suitors, Manchester City aside, have refused.
3) Or there is the cynical perspective that Rooney still wants to leave. That he has mearly acted selflessly and in the interests of the club by signing his contract so that, in the Summer when he does want to leave Manchester United can demand a fair and accurate transfer fee for a player o his ability and stature.
For whatever reason he has done it, that Rooney has signed a new contract is irrefutible. Why, and eventually if, he was right is a story that will be played out on the pitch, board rooms and financial statements of Manchester United in the months and years to come.
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Songs of the terraces.
The young boy sat in Anfield trembles slightly in anticipation for the game he is about to see. His youthful exuberance spills over as he squeals out the first few bars of You'll Never Walk Alone. The sound is rippled and magnified around the ground as the Kop stands to join him in song, and for those few split seconds he is the terrace hero.
Football is a game; it's the crowd that make football games into an event. A bubbling cess-pit of raw emotion triggered by the shriek of the referees whistle. Old men, young men, women and children, from all walks of life, bound together by their shared patronage; every Saturday at 3pm, their voices sing as one. It is these songs that shape the identity of the football fan as we know them.
Spontaneous, uncensored, primal, the terraces are the colloseum of the modern age. Each set of supporters has a set repertoire of songs, some unique to their team (forever blowing bubbles, West Ham), and some that are generic across football (....the greatest team the world has ever seen), but there is no set order in which these songs appear. A lone voice belts out the first few bars, sometimes the sound snowballs until the terraces are conjoined in song, sometimes the advances are spurned and the song dies away. Nothing is for certain, nothing is expected.
The songs speak of rivalries, of allegiances, of loves, of loathes. High flying business men in suits joined in song by the working class builder, football truly is the greatest leveller.
There is a murky underbelly that underpins the terrace chants, however. When emotion gets to much, when the platform is abused for an altogether abhorant purpose. Due to the clout wielded by thousands of people all singing the same tune,it also creates a breeding ground for tunes with racist or similarly henous stigma attatched to them. While this is a minor problem in England, in Italy it is a pandemic.
One of the plethora of new recruits arriving at Manchester City's Eastlands training complex over the summer Mario Ballotelli, suffered more than most at the hands of the Italian Crowd during his time at Inter Milan. Ballotelli, who is of Ghanain heritage played his matches to a backdrop of racial slurs and abuse, for in Italy the ideas of Racism are ingrained. There has never been a black player to dub the Famous royal blue of the Azzuri national team. The prodigiously gifted Ballotelli would be the first. The crowd are reacting to a situation they are utterly ignorant to in a manner that should be chastised, but until such a time that the first black Italian pulls on the national team shirt this will never change.
No matter the ways in which terrace chants can be abused, without them football would just not be football. They form a leveller, a unifier, a means of (acceptable) expression. They encourage creativity. Allow fans of all ages a sense of comradery, of brotherhood. And every now and then they give a small boy sat inside Anfield his moment of fame.
Football is a game; it's the crowd that make football games into an event. A bubbling cess-pit of raw emotion triggered by the shriek of the referees whistle. Old men, young men, women and children, from all walks of life, bound together by their shared patronage; every Saturday at 3pm, their voices sing as one. It is these songs that shape the identity of the football fan as we know them.
Spontaneous, uncensored, primal, the terraces are the colloseum of the modern age. Each set of supporters has a set repertoire of songs, some unique to their team (forever blowing bubbles, West Ham), and some that are generic across football (....the greatest team the world has ever seen), but there is no set order in which these songs appear. A lone voice belts out the first few bars, sometimes the sound snowballs until the terraces are conjoined in song, sometimes the advances are spurned and the song dies away. Nothing is for certain, nothing is expected.
The songs speak of rivalries, of allegiances, of loves, of loathes. High flying business men in suits joined in song by the working class builder, football truly is the greatest leveller.
There is a murky underbelly that underpins the terrace chants, however. When emotion gets to much, when the platform is abused for an altogether abhorant purpose. Due to the clout wielded by thousands of people all singing the same tune,it also creates a breeding ground for tunes with racist or similarly henous stigma attatched to them. While this is a minor problem in England, in Italy it is a pandemic.
One of the plethora of new recruits arriving at Manchester City's Eastlands training complex over the summer Mario Ballotelli, suffered more than most at the hands of the Italian Crowd during his time at Inter Milan. Ballotelli, who is of Ghanain heritage played his matches to a backdrop of racial slurs and abuse, for in Italy the ideas of Racism are ingrained. There has never been a black player to dub the Famous royal blue of the Azzuri national team. The prodigiously gifted Ballotelli would be the first. The crowd are reacting to a situation they are utterly ignorant to in a manner that should be chastised, but until such a time that the first black Italian pulls on the national team shirt this will never change.
No matter the ways in which terrace chants can be abused, without them football would just not be football. They form a leveller, a unifier, a means of (acceptable) expression. They encourage creativity. Allow fans of all ages a sense of comradery, of brotherhood. And every now and then they give a small boy sat inside Anfield his moment of fame.
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Alex 'Hurricane' Higgins; 18 March 1949 – 24 July 2010.
It did not really come as a suprise. The man they called the 'Hurricane' had become somewhat of light breeze. Painfully imaciated, paying the price of a life lived to the excess, Alex Higgins died on Saturday in his Belfast home.
Snookers wild child Ronnie O'Sullivan today called Higgins 'a legend of snooker' who should be remembered as the 'greatest player of all time'. The tribute is a fitting epitaph as O'Sullivan is essentially the modern day 'Hurricane'. A genius, but a flawed one. Both supremely talented individuals with more skill around the table than their contemporaries, both victims of unrealised potential.
The sad ignominy of the 'Hurricane', makes O'Sullivan's statement somewhat ironic. Throughout the duration of 26 year career Alex Higgins was never officially ranked as the number one snooker player in the world, reaching a career high of #2 which he held for only two years. Yet O'Sullivan wasn't wrong, Higgins was the poster boy for a generation that made snooker 'cool'. Smoking and drinking as he played Higgins made striking a ball with a cue into a soap opera.
In a sport known for its reticence the Hurricane was, pardon the pun, a breath of fresh air. If there was one thing Alex Higgins wasn't it was reticent. Sometimes though this 'exuberance' spilled over into down-right lunacy. The most serious occasion being when he head butted a tournament referee in the 1986 UK champions and was subsequently banned from the next 5 tournaments and fined 12,000 pounds.
Higgins twice won snooker's World Championship (in 72& 82) and reached the final a further twice (76&80). To put this into perspective Steve Davis won the same tournament six times, reaching the final a further twice. Yet O'Sullivan chose Higgins. The fact is snooker is about more than striking the ball. It is possible to debate Higgins did not make the most of his talent and that two World Championships are not sufficient to justify the tag of 'greatest ever', but Higgins was so much more than a snooker player.
Alex Higgins was a maverick, a magician whose off-table exploits dramatically divided public consensus. He made snooker about more than balls and felt. It became bigger than 147's. Bigger even than winning tournaments. Alex Higgins brought snooker into the mainstream. He was the cross-over, the first player who was more than just a sportsmen. The Hurricane was an entertainer, and the public loved him.
In a tragic twist of fate it was the sport to which he brought so much that would eventually lead to his downfall. The continued affiliation between snooker and the tobacco industry in the 70's and 80's helped Higgins develop a heavy smoking habit that he was never able to kick.
In June 1998 Alex Higgins was diagnosed with a form of throat cancer, attributed in no small part to his, on occasions, 80 a day habit. Although surgery later removed the cancer from his body, the intensive radiotherapy sessions lead to the loss of all his teeth. It was the beginning of the end.
Alex Higgins became a recluse. Intermittently emerging back into the spotlight, but never to the fanfare it once was. It was his weight that became the main issue, unable to consume solid foods after the radiotheraphy robbed him of his teeth the Hurricane was, it was rumoured, forced to live of liquids.
In April this year Higgins' friends announced plans to raise £20,000 he needed for teeth implants. For Higgins though it was to late, reduced to a gaunt six stone the Hurricane had blown itself out.
So here we are. Snookers great anti-hero is no longer with us and it moves to the next generation to pick up the mantle. His body may have been broken, but the genius of the Hurricane will never die. It lives on in the cues of the men who's sport Alex Higgins helped to define, and for that we thank him.
Alex 'Hurricane' Higgins; 18 March 1949 – 24 July 2010. R.I.P.
Snookers wild child Ronnie O'Sullivan today called Higgins 'a legend of snooker' who should be remembered as the 'greatest player of all time'. The tribute is a fitting epitaph as O'Sullivan is essentially the modern day 'Hurricane'. A genius, but a flawed one. Both supremely talented individuals with more skill around the table than their contemporaries, both victims of unrealised potential.
The sad ignominy of the 'Hurricane', makes O'Sullivan's statement somewhat ironic. Throughout the duration of 26 year career Alex Higgins was never officially ranked as the number one snooker player in the world, reaching a career high of #2 which he held for only two years. Yet O'Sullivan wasn't wrong, Higgins was the poster boy for a generation that made snooker 'cool'. Smoking and drinking as he played Higgins made striking a ball with a cue into a soap opera.
In a sport known for its reticence the Hurricane was, pardon the pun, a breath of fresh air. If there was one thing Alex Higgins wasn't it was reticent. Sometimes though this 'exuberance' spilled over into down-right lunacy. The most serious occasion being when he head butted a tournament referee in the 1986 UK champions and was subsequently banned from the next 5 tournaments and fined 12,000 pounds.
Higgins twice won snooker's World Championship (in 72& 82) and reached the final a further twice (76&80). To put this into perspective Steve Davis won the same tournament six times, reaching the final a further twice. Yet O'Sullivan chose Higgins. The fact is snooker is about more than striking the ball. It is possible to debate Higgins did not make the most of his talent and that two World Championships are not sufficient to justify the tag of 'greatest ever', but Higgins was so much more than a snooker player.
Alex Higgins was a maverick, a magician whose off-table exploits dramatically divided public consensus. He made snooker about more than balls and felt. It became bigger than 147's. Bigger even than winning tournaments. Alex Higgins brought snooker into the mainstream. He was the cross-over, the first player who was more than just a sportsmen. The Hurricane was an entertainer, and the public loved him.
In a tragic twist of fate it was the sport to which he brought so much that would eventually lead to his downfall. The continued affiliation between snooker and the tobacco industry in the 70's and 80's helped Higgins develop a heavy smoking habit that he was never able to kick.
In June 1998 Alex Higgins was diagnosed with a form of throat cancer, attributed in no small part to his, on occasions, 80 a day habit. Although surgery later removed the cancer from his body, the intensive radiotherapy sessions lead to the loss of all his teeth. It was the beginning of the end.
Alex Higgins became a recluse. Intermittently emerging back into the spotlight, but never to the fanfare it once was. It was his weight that became the main issue, unable to consume solid foods after the radiotheraphy robbed him of his teeth the Hurricane was, it was rumoured, forced to live of liquids.
In April this year Higgins' friends announced plans to raise £20,000 he needed for teeth implants. For Higgins though it was to late, reduced to a gaunt six stone the Hurricane had blown itself out.
So here we are. Snookers great anti-hero is no longer with us and it moves to the next generation to pick up the mantle. His body may have been broken, but the genius of the Hurricane will never die. It lives on in the cues of the men who's sport Alex Higgins helped to define, and for that we thank him.
Alex 'Hurricane' Higgins; 18 March 1949 – 24 July 2010. R.I.P.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Golf; the underdogs game.
Louis Oosthuizen's triumph by 7 clear shots in the Open Championship, is, to use an example from football like Charlton winning the FA cup; smashing Man United 4-0 on route. Then again its actually not. You see, I realised as Oosthuizen held the Claret Jug aloft, it is golf that is the true sport of the underdog. Football revels in the 'beauty' of the FA cup and her 'giantkillings', but in truth true giant killings on the Oosthuizen scale are few an far between.
In golf there is no differentiation between competitors once the event has begun. The leader, be that Tiger Woods or Louis Oosthuizen, is given preferential treatment.He is given a later tee off time, all the TV coverage and the advantage of knowing what he has to beat. Professional or amateur they are all the same. It is one man against the course. Favourites doesn't come into it. Who ever drives the ball furthest, finds the most greens and sinks his putts will find himself victorious. A golf course knows no favourites.
In football, sadly, the financial clout of the 'big boys' ruins this sense of romance. You can buy football players, you cant buy a better golfing arm. Given the financial backing a club can recruit the worlds best players to assemble a squad that small clubs cannot hope to compete with. Sure giant killings do happen. Bournemouth beating Man United in 84, Sutton United beating Coventry in 89, Swansea beating West Ham in 99, but it is only one match. One match does not win a tournament.
To put it into perspective for a lower division club (feasibly we are talking about League One or below), to emulate Oosthuizen and become 'champion', they are going to have to defeat 8 consecutive opponents. There are 20 teams in the premier division, and a further 24 in the Championship, so even the top team in League One is going into the tournament as the 45th best team. How many 'giant killings' can one team achieve? It pains me to say it but this will never happen, because sadly, in football success can be bought. It is a long way from a level playing field.
Football is not alone in accomodating to the favourite, however, in tennis and athletics the bias is even more exacerbated. In World Championships and the Olympics pre-race favouries are given favourable lane draws and kept apart from each other until later rounds. Usain Bolt, the current World record holder for the 100 and 200 metres has not been beaten in any race, of any distance in two whole calender years. Can you imagine in golf if one man won every competition he entered for two years?
It is on the Tennis court though where the underdog is most constricted. The draw, based on a seeding system, gives the best players the easiest route to the final. Any unseeded player runs the very real risk of drawing the World number One in the first round. Faced with such insumountable odds it is hardly surprising that the there has only ever been one unseeded Wimbledon champion (Goran Ivanisevic, in 2001).
The british publics love affair with the underdog is well documented. The weak prevailing over the strong, the unknown prevailing over the demi-god. Next time you want your fix, however, just remember this advice; It is not at Old Trafford or Wembley but on the golf course where the true romance is written.
In golf there is no differentiation between competitors once the event has begun. The leader, be that Tiger Woods or Louis Oosthuizen, is given preferential treatment.He is given a later tee off time, all the TV coverage and the advantage of knowing what he has to beat. Professional or amateur they are all the same. It is one man against the course. Favourites doesn't come into it. Who ever drives the ball furthest, finds the most greens and sinks his putts will find himself victorious. A golf course knows no favourites.
In football, sadly, the financial clout of the 'big boys' ruins this sense of romance. You can buy football players, you cant buy a better golfing arm. Given the financial backing a club can recruit the worlds best players to assemble a squad that small clubs cannot hope to compete with. Sure giant killings do happen. Bournemouth beating Man United in 84, Sutton United beating Coventry in 89, Swansea beating West Ham in 99, but it is only one match. One match does not win a tournament.
To put it into perspective for a lower division club (feasibly we are talking about League One or below), to emulate Oosthuizen and become 'champion', they are going to have to defeat 8 consecutive opponents. There are 20 teams in the premier division, and a further 24 in the Championship, so even the top team in League One is going into the tournament as the 45th best team. How many 'giant killings' can one team achieve? It pains me to say it but this will never happen, because sadly, in football success can be bought. It is a long way from a level playing field.
Football is not alone in accomodating to the favourite, however, in tennis and athletics the bias is even more exacerbated. In World Championships and the Olympics pre-race favouries are given favourable lane draws and kept apart from each other until later rounds. Usain Bolt, the current World record holder for the 100 and 200 metres has not been beaten in any race, of any distance in two whole calender years. Can you imagine in golf if one man won every competition he entered for two years?
It is on the Tennis court though where the underdog is most constricted. The draw, based on a seeding system, gives the best players the easiest route to the final. Any unseeded player runs the very real risk of drawing the World number One in the first round. Faced with such insumountable odds it is hardly surprising that the there has only ever been one unseeded Wimbledon champion (Goran Ivanisevic, in 2001).
The british publics love affair with the underdog is well documented. The weak prevailing over the strong, the unknown prevailing over the demi-god. Next time you want your fix, however, just remember this advice; It is not at Old Trafford or Wembley but on the golf course where the true romance is written.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Can opinion be correct?
An opinion is a subjective viewpoint, formed by an individual upon the back of the circumstance and knowledge they reside upon at any one time. Opinions differ from person to person, because, as the old adadge goes 'no two people are alike'. We are only able to truly base our opinions on the experiences and obstacles that have crossed our path.
A fitness fanatic, used to regular exercise and an athletic lifestyle would lay scorn upon those who have more of a weight issue, unable to emphaphise with a situation that, to them, is completely alien. So can this opinion really be construed as 'correct'.
The human race, by nature, are very opinionated. Our experiences shape our beliefs, and our beliefs then shape our experiences. Effectively a vicious circle. A staunchly middle class man, who has worked his whole life and payed taxes for the duration of that time is likely to hold those who claim benefits in a fairly low regard. He does not know the circumstance that has lead someone 'sign on', it is simply an opinion formed from the resentment he feels towards the percieved 'idleness' his taxes are funding.
Again, this is a judgement fueled by a very different individual who has lived his whole life in very different circumstances, unable to empathise with an all-together alien world. It is not right, but cannot be dismissed either.
This leads on to the crux of the issue. Can opinion really be construed as 'correct or 'incorrect'? No, no it cant as all opinions are correct, no matter how left field they may appear. Opinions are simply the response of an individual judjing events based on the circumstance in which they have lived their lives. As they encounter an alterior environment opinions become distorted, or even reverse. We can only make judgments upon what we know.
How can we disregard the view of the fitness fanatic who has lived his whole live with an active lifestlye when he fails to understand those who live sedentary lives?
Or the middle class man who resents the unemployed because of his perception of the injustice that his taxes are funding such a lifestyle when he has never experienced life on the breadline?
For they are simply judgements brought about through ignorance. They are two individuals forming an opinion based upon the life that they have lead, and applying it to an alien situation. In both situations the judgement that has been passed is 'correct' as it forms a response to the assimilation of a life's experiences.
Is it wrong to encourage such hasty judgements based purely on ignorance?; well maybe but if the human race is nothing else its judgemental, and who are we to chastise that?
A fitness fanatic, used to regular exercise and an athletic lifestyle would lay scorn upon those who have more of a weight issue, unable to emphaphise with a situation that, to them, is completely alien. So can this opinion really be construed as 'correct'.
The human race, by nature, are very opinionated. Our experiences shape our beliefs, and our beliefs then shape our experiences. Effectively a vicious circle. A staunchly middle class man, who has worked his whole life and payed taxes for the duration of that time is likely to hold those who claim benefits in a fairly low regard. He does not know the circumstance that has lead someone 'sign on', it is simply an opinion formed from the resentment he feels towards the percieved 'idleness' his taxes are funding.
Again, this is a judgement fueled by a very different individual who has lived his whole life in very different circumstances, unable to empathise with an all-together alien world. It is not right, but cannot be dismissed either.
This leads on to the crux of the issue. Can opinion really be construed as 'correct or 'incorrect'? No, no it cant as all opinions are correct, no matter how left field they may appear. Opinions are simply the response of an individual judjing events based on the circumstance in which they have lived their lives. As they encounter an alterior environment opinions become distorted, or even reverse. We can only make judgments upon what we know.
How can we disregard the view of the fitness fanatic who has lived his whole live with an active lifestlye when he fails to understand those who live sedentary lives?
Or the middle class man who resents the unemployed because of his perception of the injustice that his taxes are funding such a lifestyle when he has never experienced life on the breadline?
For they are simply judgements brought about through ignorance. They are two individuals forming an opinion based upon the life that they have lead, and applying it to an alien situation. In both situations the judgement that has been passed is 'correct' as it forms a response to the assimilation of a life's experiences.
Is it wrong to encourage such hasty judgements based purely on ignorance?; well maybe but if the human race is nothing else its judgemental, and who are we to chastise that?
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Hand of a patriot.
Sometimes a moment defines a nation, a career and a dream. Friday July the 2nd 2010, World Cup quarter final, Luis Suarez stretched up his left hand and history was hastily re-written.
The act has been looked at and scrutinised, chastised and praised in equal measure. Critics, such as the BBC's chief sports correspondant Matt Lawton refered to Suarez as an 'enemy of football', but i am unable to do likewise.
In essence Suarez's decision to deny a certain goal that would of given Africa its first ever World Cup semi-finalist is a henous slight against the ethics of the game. A decision that 'robbed' deserving victors of their prize. This would of been all well and good had the incident, in circumstances similar to Diego Maradonna's infamous 1986 'hand of god', gone unnoticed. It wasn't. Suarez was sent off, Uruguay were down to ten men and Ghana were given a penalty. Punishment befitting the crime.
Even at this point Uruaguay were at a huge disadvantage. Down to ten men and having to hope Ghana missed a penalty that, according to studies, they had a 65% chance of scoring. The fact Ghana then went on to miss the penalty is inconsequential. They had the chance.
At the time he struck the ball off the line with his hand Suarez did not have the benefit of foresight to tell him Ghana would miss the penalty. He was simply a patriot, putting himself on the line for the good of his country. The only reason that the 'cheating' furore has been created is because Ghana missed the penalty. They only have themselves to blame and the fact that they have done otherwise is more of a slight against the ethics of fair play than Suarez's handball itself.
The act has been looked at and scrutinised, chastised and praised in equal measure. Critics, such as the BBC's chief sports correspondant Matt Lawton refered to Suarez as an 'enemy of football', but i am unable to do likewise.
In essence Suarez's decision to deny a certain goal that would of given Africa its first ever World Cup semi-finalist is a henous slight against the ethics of the game. A decision that 'robbed' deserving victors of their prize. This would of been all well and good had the incident, in circumstances similar to Diego Maradonna's infamous 1986 'hand of god', gone unnoticed. It wasn't. Suarez was sent off, Uruguay were down to ten men and Ghana were given a penalty. Punishment befitting the crime.
Even at this point Uruaguay were at a huge disadvantage. Down to ten men and having to hope Ghana missed a penalty that, according to studies, they had a 65% chance of scoring. The fact Ghana then went on to miss the penalty is inconsequential. They had the chance.
At the time he struck the ball off the line with his hand Suarez did not have the benefit of foresight to tell him Ghana would miss the penalty. He was simply a patriot, putting himself on the line for the good of his country. The only reason that the 'cheating' furore has been created is because Ghana missed the penalty. They only have themselves to blame and the fact that they have done otherwise is more of a slight against the ethics of fair play than Suarez's handball itself.
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