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.
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