If I had a fiver for every time that the words 'credit crunch' have been blurted out as the root cause for any of the events of the past year then I would be able to bail out the nation from the aforementioned crunch all on my own and still have enough spare change to purchase an ailing multi-national corporate bank. Am I alone in finding the two word phrase itself more irksome than the implications to the nation's economy? I know the answer to that should be yes, but I am confident I'm not the only easily irritated financial novice out there.
Anyway, to haul this piece back to sport, one of the suggested impacts of the, grrr, credit crunch is a significant reduction in spending on leisure activities. So in theory the steady boost in sporting attendances which this country has seen since the 1980s should this year have begun to wain. Whilst in football at least there are signs that crowds are beginning to level out and or drop. Of the Premier League's top ten supported teams from last season, nine currently have a lower average attendance than last season. Only Manchester City, buoyed by the arrival of Robinho and a truck load of cash, can boast an higher average, albeit only by 1,500.
However, whilst top level football in this country looks to have reached the top of an attendance arc, top level rugby union is continuing to grow in popularity. The Six Nations tournament is a regular sell-out, with supporter demand regularly outstripping availability, and now it seems the increased demand for live rugby union is extending to club level. Numerous Guinness Premiership sides are boasting increased attendances this season, in the case of Saracens that increase means their total home attendance at this point in the season is only one thousand shy of last season's overall total.
Such is the demand for club rugby that Harlequins have reached a deal with Twikenham to stage a league match at the national stadium in each of the next three seasons. The result of their first attempt at this venture was a reduced capacity sell-out of 50,000 for the Quins match with Leicester this week, a club attendance record. North of the border it was a similar story as Edinburgh's own national stadium hosted a club record league crowd for Edinburgh's match against Glasgow.
The Harlequins Chief Executive Mark Evans is confident that come next year Harlequins 'Big Game II' will be a full capacity crowd. "It is about an event, about building a fan-base not just about maximising monetary return," said Evans on the Guinness Premiership website. However his approach to spending may give some indication as to how the nation currently finds itself at this financial point; "If we get 82,000 next year and the profit margin increases, we will just spend it, have more fireworks." Stability will never win out over Catherine Wheels.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Santa's Sack
Back in 2002 their was an uprising in Belgrade. Thousands of Serbians stormed the city's Parliament building, only to be held back by assorted members of the country's police and armed forces. As this stand-off went on those holding back the uprisers realised that they too were Serbian people and that they too had issues with the country's Parliament. The result was the armed forces and police not just relinquishing their guard but turning and joining the masses in their siege of the building. I was reminded of this scene on Boxing Day afternoon, in the less picturesque setting of Nottingham Forest's City Ground.
Ten minutes before half-time Forest trailed 2-0 to Doncaster Rovers who up til that point had propped up the Championship table and failed to score more than a single goal a game in almost eight months. The Rovers fans aimed a chorus of "Sacked in the morning" to the tune of Guantanamera, at Forest boss Colin Calderwood and the nearby Forest fans counter-acted the Rovers' fans' song. Ten minutes on, Richie Wellens' deflected free-kick made it 3-0 and as the Rovers fans piped up again the Forest supporters chose to join them and round on their own, "Sacked in the morning" sang the ground, and the club's board did not even wait that long.
By around 9pm on Boxing Day Colin Calderwood was unemployed, and he wasn't the only former footballer to find himself out of work in the heart of the festive period. Just four days the other side of Christmas Gary McAllister had been sacked by Leeds United, a sacking even more galling for McAllister in that Christmas Day is also his birthday. Football chairman it seems do not embody the true spirit of Christmas, not even in the case of Leeds where Ken Bates actually does have the body of Santa Claus.
"We're in a results business," was the reasoning of Forest chief executive Mark Arthur, whilst statements from both clubs claimed that they had made the dismissal at this time to allow respective successors as much time as possible to achieve their aims for the season. There is however a serious flaw in this logic, in that whoever does replace Calderwood and McAllister will have had significantly less time in the job than their predecessors. If time is so much of the essence, then why the panicked rush to change things instead of giving the current incumbent more of this supposedly precious time.
Of the football league's ninety-two clubs it cannot be of coincidence that those who have retained the services of their manager the longest are generally the more successful. Alex Ferguson's twenty-two years and Arsene Wenger's twelve years at the helm sandwiching the 13 year stint of Graham Turner at Hereford, who, whilst they may not be knocking at the Champions League door, are as high as they have been in the last twenty years.
Had Ferguson begun his management in the modern era its unlikely that he would have lasted beyond those first three trophy-less seasons. Instead he remains with a managerial term of office that will never again be reached again in this country. Sean O'Driscoll, the manager of the Doncaster side who sounded the death knell for Colin Calderwood, is now in the top twenty-five of the league's longest serving bosses. O'Driscoll was appointed just over two years ago... when Ferguson first sat at his Old Trafford desk, O'Driscoll would have struggled to make the the top 90 with a stint so short.
Ten minutes before half-time Forest trailed 2-0 to Doncaster Rovers who up til that point had propped up the Championship table and failed to score more than a single goal a game in almost eight months. The Rovers fans aimed a chorus of "Sacked in the morning" to the tune of Guantanamera, at Forest boss Colin Calderwood and the nearby Forest fans counter-acted the Rovers' fans' song. Ten minutes on, Richie Wellens' deflected free-kick made it 3-0 and as the Rovers fans piped up again the Forest supporters chose to join them and round on their own, "Sacked in the morning" sang the ground, and the club's board did not even wait that long.
By around 9pm on Boxing Day Colin Calderwood was unemployed, and he wasn't the only former footballer to find himself out of work in the heart of the festive period. Just four days the other side of Christmas Gary McAllister had been sacked by Leeds United, a sacking even more galling for McAllister in that Christmas Day is also his birthday. Football chairman it seems do not embody the true spirit of Christmas, not even in the case of Leeds where Ken Bates actually does have the body of Santa Claus.
"We're in a results business," was the reasoning of Forest chief executive Mark Arthur, whilst statements from both clubs claimed that they had made the dismissal at this time to allow respective successors as much time as possible to achieve their aims for the season. There is however a serious flaw in this logic, in that whoever does replace Calderwood and McAllister will have had significantly less time in the job than their predecessors. If time is so much of the essence, then why the panicked rush to change things instead of giving the current incumbent more of this supposedly precious time.
Of the football league's ninety-two clubs it cannot be of coincidence that those who have retained the services of their manager the longest are generally the more successful. Alex Ferguson's twenty-two years and Arsene Wenger's twelve years at the helm sandwiching the 13 year stint of Graham Turner at Hereford, who, whilst they may not be knocking at the Champions League door, are as high as they have been in the last twenty years.
Had Ferguson begun his management in the modern era its unlikely that he would have lasted beyond those first three trophy-less seasons. Instead he remains with a managerial term of office that will never again be reached again in this country. Sean O'Driscoll, the manager of the Doncaster side who sounded the death knell for Colin Calderwood, is now in the top twenty-five of the league's longest serving bosses. O'Driscoll was appointed just over two years ago... when Ferguson first sat at his Old Trafford desk, O'Driscoll would have struggled to make the the top 90 with a stint so short.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Captain Slog
Its probably Bobby Moore's fault. When England's only World Cup winning captain passed away in 1993 many people bemoaned the lack of support Moore had received from the game in the latter stages of his life. After marriage troubles and failed business ventures Moore approached the end of his life penning columns for the Sunday Sport, rather than working in the game he had excelled at. The upshot of this is of course overdue, and sadly post-humous praise for Moore and a disappointing legacy that means England captains from the 1990s onwards have been unashamedly fawned over by the media. You see, just because Moore was a great footballing hero, a role model before the phrase had even come into existence, does not mean that every England captain will be.
Step forward the current incumbent; ladies and gentlemen I give you Mr John Terry. Even despite the continued existence of Neil Warnock, Ken Bates and Peter Kenyon John Terry continues to get my goat at unprecedented levels. The main cause of my distaste of John Terry is only partially his fault as well, as it is centred on the two John Terry's we are presented with; the immaculate heroic England captain we read about in the press, and the witless thug he actually is. Whilst other players are gleefully singled out for their misdemeanours by the national press, Terry's past failings are swept under the carpet, brushed under the sofa, and stuffed in the nearest plant-pot.
Terry's less celebrated history includes a nightclub brawl, and then the drunken hassling of American tourists in an airport bar in the immediate aftermath of the September 11th attacks. He managed to land a hefty stud or six on a Bayern Munich player during a European tie and he retains a handy knack of being the first on the scene to ensure any opportunity for unnecessary light fisticuffs and general footballer chest shoving is taken; like the annoying girlfriend in a pub argument who helpfully yells "Are you gonna stand for that Gaz?" just as folk are returning to their pints. Pleasingly this tendency to whip up a drama out of a non-crisis has this year begun to backfire, as Didier Drogba's sending off in the Champions League Final shows.
The most irritating thing about all of John Terry's misdemeanours though is the fact that he has begun to believe the hype of a fawning media, and so he too now expects to get away with anything he does. In September Terry received his first ever straight red card for hauling down Manchester City's Jo, the card was duly rescinded... how dare Mark Halsey dismiss the England captain. On Monday Phil Dowd also showed John Terry a red card, after the defender had clattered through Leon Osman in the first half of Chelsea's match at Goodison Park. A terrible challenge and yet JT still perfected a jarring look of absolute incredulity as Mr Dowd brandished the red card.
Perhaps even worse than Terry's horror at being dismissed for a terrible foul was the subsequent press coverage. John Edwards of the Daily Mail was the worst culprit, claiming that Terry had been "on the wrong end of [Phil] Dowd’s occasionally erratic officiating". Edwards also suggested that "the inevitable response from home fans and the current climate of such challenges incurring the wrath of the authorities" were the reason for Terry's red card. Would it be so hard to just suggest that Terry had made a poor challenge and been suitably punished instead of making preposterous justifications of a high and late challenge that includes the phrase "for all the absense of malice". And on the same subject, a special mention is reserved for Matt Hughes of The Times who had the gall to use the phrase "although out of character" when referring to the challenge.
Of course JT is simply following a precedent laid down by Alan Shearer. The Match of the Day sofa dweller scored a lot of goals for England, he scored a lot of goals for Newcastle and Blackburn too, but he also got away with a lot as well. In 1998 he was seen on television kicking Neil Lennon in the head and charged with misconduct by the FA, although the subsequent hearing cleared Shearer of all charges. Graham Kelly later claimed that Shearer had threatened to withdraw from the 1998 World Cup squad if found guilty although Shearer claims this is not true. Disappointingly, but predictably, the media by and large decided to accept Shearer's account of events and so this spat went no further. Had it been we could have been faced with the spectre of an argument so dull and monotone that its collected tedium would have broken the space time continuum.
Step forward the current incumbent; ladies and gentlemen I give you Mr John Terry. Even despite the continued existence of Neil Warnock, Ken Bates and Peter Kenyon John Terry continues to get my goat at unprecedented levels. The main cause of my distaste of John Terry is only partially his fault as well, as it is centred on the two John Terry's we are presented with; the immaculate heroic England captain we read about in the press, and the witless thug he actually is. Whilst other players are gleefully singled out for their misdemeanours by the national press, Terry's past failings are swept under the carpet, brushed under the sofa, and stuffed in the nearest plant-pot.
Terry's less celebrated history includes a nightclub brawl, and then the drunken hassling of American tourists in an airport bar in the immediate aftermath of the September 11th attacks. He managed to land a hefty stud or six on a Bayern Munich player during a European tie and he retains a handy knack of being the first on the scene to ensure any opportunity for unnecessary light fisticuffs and general footballer chest shoving is taken; like the annoying girlfriend in a pub argument who helpfully yells "Are you gonna stand for that Gaz?" just as folk are returning to their pints. Pleasingly this tendency to whip up a drama out of a non-crisis has this year begun to backfire, as Didier Drogba's sending off in the Champions League Final shows.
The most irritating thing about all of John Terry's misdemeanours though is the fact that he has begun to believe the hype of a fawning media, and so he too now expects to get away with anything he does. In September Terry received his first ever straight red card for hauling down Manchester City's Jo, the card was duly rescinded... how dare Mark Halsey dismiss the England captain. On Monday Phil Dowd also showed John Terry a red card, after the defender had clattered through Leon Osman in the first half of Chelsea's match at Goodison Park. A terrible challenge and yet JT still perfected a jarring look of absolute incredulity as Mr Dowd brandished the red card.
Perhaps even worse than Terry's horror at being dismissed for a terrible foul was the subsequent press coverage. John Edwards of the Daily Mail was the worst culprit, claiming that Terry had been "on the wrong end of [Phil] Dowd’s occasionally erratic officiating". Edwards also suggested that "the inevitable response from home fans and the current climate of such challenges incurring the wrath of the authorities" were the reason for Terry's red card. Would it be so hard to just suggest that Terry had made a poor challenge and been suitably punished instead of making preposterous justifications of a high and late challenge that includes the phrase "for all the absense of malice". And on the same subject, a special mention is reserved for Matt Hughes of The Times who had the gall to use the phrase "although out of character" when referring to the challenge.
Of course JT is simply following a precedent laid down by Alan Shearer. The Match of the Day sofa dweller scored a lot of goals for England, he scored a lot of goals for Newcastle and Blackburn too, but he also got away with a lot as well. In 1998 he was seen on television kicking Neil Lennon in the head and charged with misconduct by the FA, although the subsequent hearing cleared Shearer of all charges. Graham Kelly later claimed that Shearer had threatened to withdraw from the 1998 World Cup squad if found guilty although Shearer claims this is not true. Disappointingly, but predictably, the media by and large decided to accept Shearer's account of events and so this spat went no further. Had it been we could have been faced with the spectre of an argument so dull and monotone that its collected tedium would have broken the space time continuum.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Is the World Watching?
Football has a long tradition of ultimately pointless cup competions; from the Simod Cup, and the Zenith Data Systems both almost exclusively won by Crystal Palace to the second-tier exclusive Anglo-Italian Cup (last contested between Genoa and Port Vale in 1996) And then of course there is the infamous Anglo-Scottish Challenge Cup, which is technically still being contested by Coventry City and St Mirren. The two sides played out a 1-1 draw in the first leg at Highfield Road in December 1987, the second leg is still, twenty-one years on, yet to be scheduled.
Thankfully, these late 1980s and early 1990s nadirs in domestic cup competition taught the English FA a valuable lesson in footballing overkill; unfinished business aside, all of the above are now thankfully defunct. On the international stage however lessons are yet to be learnt; the Champions League is now so vast that for any champions of the continents 'lesser nations' to win the tournament, they would have to play two games a day from Septmebr through to May. And whilst UEFA may have combined the former Fairs and Cup Winners Cups into the singular UEFA Cup, they have done so in the Ocean Finance mould, and consolidated their two recognisable competitions into one great managable but no longer understandable competition. As such this year's UEFA Cup will be spread over seven years and will accumulate further participants as the years go by until its completion.
FIFA of course excel in the field of pointless cup competitions with a two pronged attack featuring, on the international stage, the Confederations Cup, an excuse to give Canada and New Zealand exposure as fodder to Brazil's latest batch of stars; the footballing equivalent of the Harlem Globestrotters' opponents. Now of course they have the club level equivalent, the Club World Cup. For the past four years this now annual event has pitted the reigning continental champions against one another, albeit in a staggered manner which means the champions of Europe and South America are only thrown into the mix at the semi-final stage. The footballing equivalent of letting a 400metre race get to its half-way stage before releasing Usain Bolt and Michael Johnson for the final bend.
Apparently this year's final was the predictable Bolt vs Johnson affair between Manchester United and Ecuador's Liga Deportiva Universitaria Quito, to use their sadly underused full name. Much to the delight of the Japanese public it was United who triumphed, but the real issue is, does anyone really care? This, theoretically at least, is the pinnacle of the global game at club level. And yet, as United paraded their shiny decanter much more hype was being generated in the British press by the impending Arsenal vs Liverpool league fixture, and also curiously, by the sacking of Gary McAllister... manager of what is, despite their history, a third tier English club.
So understandably, whilst United can call themselves World Champions the debate remains as to what is the biggest prize in football? Thankfully, I can tell you the answer, the holders of the biggest prize in football are not United, nor is it Milan, nor Barcelona. It is in fact Wolverhampton Wanderers. In front of an 80,000 strong Wembley crowd in 1988 Wolves beat Burnley 2-0 to win the Sherpa Van Trophy, and claim the biggest prize in football... their very own Sherpa Van. Take that Ronaldo.
Thankfully, these late 1980s and early 1990s nadirs in domestic cup competition taught the English FA a valuable lesson in footballing overkill; unfinished business aside, all of the above are now thankfully defunct. On the international stage however lessons are yet to be learnt; the Champions League is now so vast that for any champions of the continents 'lesser nations' to win the tournament, they would have to play two games a day from Septmebr through to May. And whilst UEFA may have combined the former Fairs and Cup Winners Cups into the singular UEFA Cup, they have done so in the Ocean Finance mould, and consolidated their two recognisable competitions into one great managable but no longer understandable competition. As such this year's UEFA Cup will be spread over seven years and will accumulate further participants as the years go by until its completion.
FIFA of course excel in the field of pointless cup competitions with a two pronged attack featuring, on the international stage, the Confederations Cup, an excuse to give Canada and New Zealand exposure as fodder to Brazil's latest batch of stars; the footballing equivalent of the Harlem Globestrotters' opponents. Now of course they have the club level equivalent, the Club World Cup. For the past four years this now annual event has pitted the reigning continental champions against one another, albeit in a staggered manner which means the champions of Europe and South America are only thrown into the mix at the semi-final stage. The footballing equivalent of letting a 400metre race get to its half-way stage before releasing Usain Bolt and Michael Johnson for the final bend.
Apparently this year's final was the predictable Bolt vs Johnson affair between Manchester United and Ecuador's Liga Deportiva Universitaria Quito, to use their sadly underused full name. Much to the delight of the Japanese public it was United who triumphed, but the real issue is, does anyone really care? This, theoretically at least, is the pinnacle of the global game at club level. And yet, as United paraded their shiny decanter much more hype was being generated in the British press by the impending Arsenal vs Liverpool league fixture, and also curiously, by the sacking of Gary McAllister... manager of what is, despite their history, a third tier English club.
So understandably, whilst United can call themselves World Champions the debate remains as to what is the biggest prize in football? Thankfully, I can tell you the answer, the holders of the biggest prize in football are not United, nor is it Milan, nor Barcelona. It is in fact Wolverhampton Wanderers. In front of an 80,000 strong Wembley crowd in 1988 Wolves beat Burnley 2-0 to win the Sherpa Van Trophy, and claim the biggest prize in football... their very own Sherpa Van. Take that Ronaldo.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Hero Self-Worship
I thought that I was a big fan of David Healey, but having afforded it more thought I realised that I'm not. I know that as opening paragraphs go that is about as succinct as an improvised speech from Boris Johnson, but it is the truth. The actual fact is that while I am impressed by Healey's goal scoring feats for Northern Ireland I have let my actual appreciation of him blur with my greater appreciation for one of my favourite football chants. It is actually the song that Norn Iron fans sing in tribute to David Healey that I am a big fan of. I was glad of this, particularly in light of the Healey's comments published on the BBC website today which make the striker look like, for want of a more erudite phrase, quite a cock.
According to the BBC Healey responded to Northern Ireland manager Nigel Worthington's criticisms of the fitness of the squad's players by saying; "Nigel basically blamed the players which was disappointing. Is he going to do the unthinkable and leave the hero, the messiah, out?" And yes, it appears that he is talking about himself, in a very reverential third person. There is no doubting that Healey's record of thirty-five international goals for Northern Ireland is impressive, but should be so believing of the hype himself as to begin self-deifying.
Unlike Christianity football is already rich in messiahs, most notably Kevin Keegan who this year already has acheived both the Third Coming and the Third Departing at Newcastle United. So deified was Keegan by Newcastle fans as a Geordie Messiah that the masses managed to overlook the key facts that he was firstly a poor manager, and secondly not actually a Geordie, born and raised in Doncaster. Obviously the birth place of a Messiah is not-predeterminable, but its safe to say that in coal-mining South Yorkshire not only would there have been no room at the Inn, there'd probably have been no windows either.
However, unlike Healey, Keegan did not openly rejoice in his messiah monicker. Thanks to ill-thought remarks on pay from Ashley Cole, and Frank Lampard and the like, John Terry's above the law sanctimony, and plethora of other examples of self-satisfied nouveau-riche players of average ability, top flight footballers rarely come across as the sort of down to earth folk you would like to meet. So for Healey to come out with a comment that makes him seem arrogant and self-inflated in comparion to other footballers is akin to a Daily Mail journalist being known as the paper's right-wing columnist.
So, how do you punish a player for his over-inflated sense of self? A fine is almost meaningless given the amount of money top flight players are on, whilst a match ban of any sort just encourages this sort of player away from the football-ground safe-houses and into the general public where he'll be parking in disabled spaces and pushing in nightclub queues... no-one wants that. I say, hit him where it hurts, and take his chant from him. After all, can a man seemingly so arrogant really be deserving of such brilliant terrace humour as this?
"Away in a manger, no crib for His bed,
The Little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head.
The stars in the bright sky, looked down where He lay
HEALEY! HEALEY! HEALEY!"
According to the BBC Healey responded to Northern Ireland manager Nigel Worthington's criticisms of the fitness of the squad's players by saying; "Nigel basically blamed the players which was disappointing. Is he going to do the unthinkable and leave the hero, the messiah, out?" And yes, it appears that he is talking about himself, in a very reverential third person. There is no doubting that Healey's record of thirty-five international goals for Northern Ireland is impressive, but should be so believing of the hype himself as to begin self-deifying.
Unlike Christianity football is already rich in messiahs, most notably Kevin Keegan who this year already has acheived both the Third Coming and the Third Departing at Newcastle United. So deified was Keegan by Newcastle fans as a Geordie Messiah that the masses managed to overlook the key facts that he was firstly a poor manager, and secondly not actually a Geordie, born and raised in Doncaster. Obviously the birth place of a Messiah is not-predeterminable, but its safe to say that in coal-mining South Yorkshire not only would there have been no room at the Inn, there'd probably have been no windows either.
However, unlike Healey, Keegan did not openly rejoice in his messiah monicker. Thanks to ill-thought remarks on pay from Ashley Cole, and Frank Lampard and the like, John Terry's above the law sanctimony, and plethora of other examples of self-satisfied nouveau-riche players of average ability, top flight footballers rarely come across as the sort of down to earth folk you would like to meet. So for Healey to come out with a comment that makes him seem arrogant and self-inflated in comparion to other footballers is akin to a Daily Mail journalist being known as the paper's right-wing columnist.
So, how do you punish a player for his over-inflated sense of self? A fine is almost meaningless given the amount of money top flight players are on, whilst a match ban of any sort just encourages this sort of player away from the football-ground safe-houses and into the general public where he'll be parking in disabled spaces and pushing in nightclub queues... no-one wants that. I say, hit him where it hurts, and take his chant from him. After all, can a man seemingly so arrogant really be deserving of such brilliant terrace humour as this?
"Away in a manger, no crib for His bed,
The Little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head.
The stars in the bright sky, looked down where He lay
HEALEY! HEALEY! HEALEY!"
Varsity Blues
My dad's a PE teacher, so is my sister, its the family trade. I assume this is where my interest in sport comes from. Whilst I watch a lot of sport now, its nothing compared to the interest and zeal I had in sport, any sport, when I was at school. Not only did I have a favourite football team, I had one for every league in Europe. And then there were favourite rugby teams, Union and League, prefered tennis players, County cricket sides, favourite motor racing drivers and the list goes on. However, our house was satelitte dish free and so my sporting interest revolved around what I could watch. If there was sport on one of the four (yes, four) channels I would watch it, from bowls to Touring Car racing. And so when the Boat Race came around, safe to say I was there in front of the television watching the prolonged, drawn out build-up, freakishly posh interviewees, guffawing wine quaffers, the whole lot.
The Boat Race however, was the most anti-climactic of all televisied sporting events, and I used to watch Formula One. Like any young boy I watched motor-racing in the hope of seeing a crash; I could watch cars drive around at the top of our street, but only on tv did they crash. Similarly, in the 'warm-up' to the Boat Race the BBC would always show footage of the Cambridge boat sinking in 1978, a crew of 118 man look-a-likes slowly descending into the Thames, or talk of lightning striking the camera positions before the start of the race. And so I stayed tune in the hope that well, lightning would strike twice, or someone would fall overboard, or a whale would swim up the Thames. Of course nothing even half as exciting as this ever did happen.
Instead, it was, as the name suggested, just a Boat Race, the same two teams battling it out year on year, a lengthy monotonous dirge from start to finish, overhyped by the media, watched avidly and excitedly by two exclusive supporting contingents while the rest of us looked on wondering what all the fuss was about. It is basically the Scotish Premier League on water. So with all this in mind, I was surprised to see how much media had been generated today by the news that ITV have decided not to continue televising the event. According to the Guardian 'The Boat Race is no longer protected under the government's 'crown jewels' legislation' meaning that it is not on the Government produced list of sporting events which must be televised on free-to-air channels.
The question remains, why was it ever on this list? The 'crown jewels' list exists to save sporting fixtures of national interest from pay-per-view channels, on it are, amongst others, Wimbledon, the FA Cup Finals of England and Scotland, the Rugby World Cup, the Grand National and the Rugby League Challenge Cup. All of these, are sporting competitions, with a wide array of possible winners, yes, the Boat Race is has history, but it exists as little more than an Oxbridge folly. "Oh bad luck Mungo, thought you had us this year... still, fancy another go next year?" Do we really need to see that?
The Boat Race however, was the most anti-climactic of all televisied sporting events, and I used to watch Formula One. Like any young boy I watched motor-racing in the hope of seeing a crash; I could watch cars drive around at the top of our street, but only on tv did they crash. Similarly, in the 'warm-up' to the Boat Race the BBC would always show footage of the Cambridge boat sinking in 1978, a crew of 118 man look-a-likes slowly descending into the Thames, or talk of lightning striking the camera positions before the start of the race. And so I stayed tune in the hope that well, lightning would strike twice, or someone would fall overboard, or a whale would swim up the Thames. Of course nothing even half as exciting as this ever did happen.
Instead, it was, as the name suggested, just a Boat Race, the same two teams battling it out year on year, a lengthy monotonous dirge from start to finish, overhyped by the media, watched avidly and excitedly by two exclusive supporting contingents while the rest of us looked on wondering what all the fuss was about. It is basically the Scotish Premier League on water. So with all this in mind, I was surprised to see how much media had been generated today by the news that ITV have decided not to continue televising the event. According to the Guardian 'The Boat Race is no longer protected under the government's 'crown jewels' legislation' meaning that it is not on the Government produced list of sporting events which must be televised on free-to-air channels.
The question remains, why was it ever on this list? The 'crown jewels' list exists to save sporting fixtures of national interest from pay-per-view channels, on it are, amongst others, Wimbledon, the FA Cup Finals of England and Scotland, the Rugby World Cup, the Grand National and the Rugby League Challenge Cup. All of these, are sporting competitions, with a wide array of possible winners, yes, the Boat Race is has history, but it exists as little more than an Oxbridge folly. "Oh bad luck Mungo, thought you had us this year... still, fancy another go next year?" Do we really need to see that?
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
The Choice is Yours
Given the success he has enjoyed since you forget that one of the earliest television airings for Steve Coogan's Alan Partridge character came on someone else's show. And yet I beleive that it was as the hapless sports reporter on The Day Today way back in 1994 that Coogan got the best out of Partridge. There was the World Cup goal montage including infamous commentary lines; "Goal... and another" and "He must have a foot like a traction engine" which still makes me laugh whenever I meandre onto Youtube pretending not to look for it. And then of course there was Alan's 'soccermeter', a useless invention to 'help explain the group stages' which bore no relation to the tournament format and istead just left Alan flumoxed and confused and desperate for a way out.
I was reminded of this specific clip today when looking over the new format for rugby league's Super League play-offs. The play-offs have been increased from six teams to eight in view of the expansion of the League itself, and so I had presumed the knock-out format would take the obvious route of quarter-finals, semi-finals, final. Instead, the RFL has gone all Partridge on us and instead the end of season knock-out features qualifying and elimination play-offs, qualifying and preliminary semi-finals, a Grand Final and presumably a spin-off Saturday evening television series that allows the public to have their say.
And even layed out in text the format still is not quite as black and white as it preturbs to be. This is because the RFL have come up with a unique and equally bizarre format for one of the many semi-final stages. Instead of a draw or a pre-draw to determine the opponents at this stage, the highest ranked team incredibly gets to choose who they play.
Initially your thought process leads you to conclude that they will choose the lowest ranked opponents and progress at will to the next stage. But think of this from he other foot, if you are the chosen opponents, the supposed weakest team of the semi-final stage then presumably you're going to need little more motivation to upset the odds. So, do you choose the statistically weak, or is it more important to choose the mentally weak? And who gets to decide? Rugby League is not a rich game, would a money spinning phone in be the way forward? Or does the decision rest with the team manager?
We could have another Strictly Come Dancing fall-out on our hands as the St Helens coach Daniel Anderson criticises the public for choosing to face Celtic Crusaders rather than going for his prefered option of Hull Kingston Rovers. "It makes a nonsense of the league," Anderson says, "this is about Rugby League not entertainment, the more people vote for Celtic Crusaders the more its unfair on those teams who are putting the work in week in week out" and so on. That said, I'll be first in line when the opportunity arises to select a mystery guest player... in you go John Terry, no you won't need any padding, hey lads, he says you're all northern monkeys.
I was reminded of this specific clip today when looking over the new format for rugby league's Super League play-offs. The play-offs have been increased from six teams to eight in view of the expansion of the League itself, and so I had presumed the knock-out format would take the obvious route of quarter-finals, semi-finals, final. Instead, the RFL has gone all Partridge on us and instead the end of season knock-out features qualifying and elimination play-offs, qualifying and preliminary semi-finals, a Grand Final and presumably a spin-off Saturday evening television series that allows the public to have their say.
And even layed out in text the format still is not quite as black and white as it preturbs to be. This is because the RFL have come up with a unique and equally bizarre format for one of the many semi-final stages. Instead of a draw or a pre-draw to determine the opponents at this stage, the highest ranked team incredibly gets to choose who they play.
Initially your thought process leads you to conclude that they will choose the lowest ranked opponents and progress at will to the next stage. But think of this from he other foot, if you are the chosen opponents, the supposed weakest team of the semi-final stage then presumably you're going to need little more motivation to upset the odds. So, do you choose the statistically weak, or is it more important to choose the mentally weak? And who gets to decide? Rugby League is not a rich game, would a money spinning phone in be the way forward? Or does the decision rest with the team manager?
We could have another Strictly Come Dancing fall-out on our hands as the St Helens coach Daniel Anderson criticises the public for choosing to face Celtic Crusaders rather than going for his prefered option of Hull Kingston Rovers. "It makes a nonsense of the league," Anderson says, "this is about Rugby League not entertainment, the more people vote for Celtic Crusaders the more its unfair on those teams who are putting the work in week in week out" and so on. That said, I'll be first in line when the opportunity arises to select a mystery guest player... in you go John Terry, no you won't need any padding, hey lads, he says you're all northern monkeys.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Safe Hans?
Modern-day football is a reactionary business. As soon as a team loses three of four matches then their manager is said to be under pressure, or fighting to save his job. So much so that ‘under-fire’ is now the world’s most popular team name prefix. Where once we may have talked about the Dynamo Kiev manager, or the Dynamo Moscow coach now it’s under-fire Sunderland boss, under-fire Blackburn manager, and under-fire Wigan gaffer.
Gordon Strachan, a loan subversive wit in a sea of clichés, once mocked this scapegoat approach in a post match interview when asked how his Coventry had turned their fortunes around to get a first away win. “We sacked the bus driver” was Strachan’s succinct reply. However, in this past week, it seems Strachan’s tongue-in-cheek route-to-cause approach has been mimicked by the media’s new favourite Premier League manager.
Step forward, the rent-a-quote fruit and veg stall holder of top flight football Harry Redknapp. With the form of goalkeeper Huerelho Gomes taking a path for which the word ‘eratic’ was seemingly invented Redknapp has shown perverse faith in his goalkeeper. After gifting a goal to Fulham last weekend, and regularly showing as much composure under a cross as a cat that’s just fallen in the bath, it was clear that something needed to be done about Gomes.
Redknapp and Tottenham reacted clinically... and sacked their goalkeeping coach. Presumably Hans Leitert had not spent time instructing Gomes in the technique of flapping and flailing around his six-yard box in hapless pursuit of a corner like Daryl Hannah in Kill Bill 2 having just lost her other eye. However, it is he who pays the price for Gomes form whilst the Brazilian goalkeeper lines up between the posts again, presumably chortling like a child who just got their sibling into trouble for something they ultimately did.
Oh, And if you are passing along Tottenham High Road in the coming days and you pass a man in a tracksuit on his knees thrusting his arms up into the sky yelling “Why? What do I have to do?” at the top of his voice. Fear not, that’ll just be Cesar Sanchez, Tottenham’s second choice keeper.
Gordon Strachan, a loan subversive wit in a sea of clichés, once mocked this scapegoat approach in a post match interview when asked how his Coventry had turned their fortunes around to get a first away win. “We sacked the bus driver” was Strachan’s succinct reply. However, in this past week, it seems Strachan’s tongue-in-cheek route-to-cause approach has been mimicked by the media’s new favourite Premier League manager.
Step forward, the rent-a-quote fruit and veg stall holder of top flight football Harry Redknapp. With the form of goalkeeper Huerelho Gomes taking a path for which the word ‘eratic’ was seemingly invented Redknapp has shown perverse faith in his goalkeeper. After gifting a goal to Fulham last weekend, and regularly showing as much composure under a cross as a cat that’s just fallen in the bath, it was clear that something needed to be done about Gomes.
Redknapp and Tottenham reacted clinically... and sacked their goalkeeping coach. Presumably Hans Leitert had not spent time instructing Gomes in the technique of flapping and flailing around his six-yard box in hapless pursuit of a corner like Daryl Hannah in Kill Bill 2 having just lost her other eye. However, it is he who pays the price for Gomes form whilst the Brazilian goalkeeper lines up between the posts again, presumably chortling like a child who just got their sibling into trouble for something they ultimately did.
Oh, And if you are passing along Tottenham High Road in the coming days and you pass a man in a tracksuit on his knees thrusting his arms up into the sky yelling “Why? What do I have to do?” at the top of his voice. Fear not, that’ll just be Cesar Sanchez, Tottenham’s second choice keeper.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Haka Sack
I read an article recently which suggested that the Haka, the pre-match ritual traditional dance performed by the New Zealand rugby squad, had run its course. That in modern rugby union it was an outdated and unnecessary piece of showmanship which no longer bore any relevance. At around 5:10pm on Saturday this suggestion was refuted as New Zealand faced Wales at a packed Millennium Stadium.
The word ‘faced’ is more descriptive in that sentence than it would normally be in reference to a sporting event. The dial on the Welsh crowd had been slowly turned up toward eleven by the presence of Joe Calzaghi, and the sort of pulsating music and pyrotechnics that normally greet an X-Factor winner. As such, they refused to fall quiet for the Haka and the tongue waggling, and the emphasised gesturing were played out to a chorus of “Wales! Wales!” from the surrounding three tiers.
And so as the Haka ended, a piece of glorious sporting theatre played out in a very minimalist fashion. The New Zealanders remained in formation on the half-way line, and ten metres away a line of scarlet shirts looked straight back at them. And so this continued; all the time, the noise in the Millennium building as the two sides simply stood their ground in the face of their opposition.
The referee blows his whistle to get the two sides ready for action and still not a player is moved. The two sides are now embroiled in the kind of staring match that is normally only undertaken by gunslingers at a high noon-shoot-out. Eventually, eventually the referee is able to usher the two teams in position and the game can begin. I normally find the co-commentary of the less than impartial Brian Moore about as tolerable as stubbing my toe on the base of a door, but it is he who I quote when I conclude; "Why would you want to get rid of the Haka when it produces moments of pure theatre like that?"
The word ‘faced’ is more descriptive in that sentence than it would normally be in reference to a sporting event. The dial on the Welsh crowd had been slowly turned up toward eleven by the presence of Joe Calzaghi, and the sort of pulsating music and pyrotechnics that normally greet an X-Factor winner. As such, they refused to fall quiet for the Haka and the tongue waggling, and the emphasised gesturing were played out to a chorus of “Wales! Wales!” from the surrounding three tiers.
And so as the Haka ended, a piece of glorious sporting theatre played out in a very minimalist fashion. The New Zealanders remained in formation on the half-way line, and ten metres away a line of scarlet shirts looked straight back at them. And so this continued; all the time, the noise in the Millennium building as the two sides simply stood their ground in the face of their opposition.
The referee blows his whistle to get the two sides ready for action and still not a player is moved. The two sides are now embroiled in the kind of staring match that is normally only undertaken by gunslingers at a high noon-shoot-out. Eventually, eventually the referee is able to usher the two teams in position and the game can begin. I normally find the co-commentary of the less than impartial Brian Moore about as tolerable as stubbing my toe on the base of a door, but it is he who I quote when I conclude; "Why would you want to get rid of the Haka when it produces moments of pure theatre like that?"
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Roll Up, Roll Up for England
Huddled at the end of platform 4, Doncaster station are a group of odd looking men. A gaggle of ill-fitting jeans, unknowingly retro sportswear present whatever the weather and bedecked with binoculars, Dictaphones and notepads. The thing about trainspotters is that they are pretty much just a concentrated version of everyman. Eventually all men reach a certain age where they begin to develop an unhealthy fascination in one area. It may be trains, it may be cars, it may be birds, it may even be a personal quest to make the council alter that incorrect road sign by the roundabout. Now I am nearer thirty than twenty I am becoming one of these men and I believe I have identified the object of my odd fascination; I think its the England football team.
To me the England football team is becoming the equivalent of a roadside fire on the opposite carriageway of a motorway. I know it has nothing to do with me and it won't affect me in anyway, but I still can't fight the urge to slow down and have a bloody good gawp. They have a wealth of talented players led by a succession of (Steve McClaren and Kevin Keegan aside) established managers and yet thanks to weighty and often unrealistic expectations they never quite hit it off; if they were a band they would have split up over musical differences round about 1973.
The latest reason to stare across the central reservation comes from England's stand in captain Rio Ferdinand. (As a brief aside has anyone else noticed how Rio's lips appear to be moving completely independent of his body, flapping around like a couple of caterpillars clinging to a leaf in a strong breeze) Speaking at a press conference earlier Rio confirmed what many of us had known for a long time of the England squad's reputation under previous managers. "We became a bit of a circus, in terms of the whole WAG situation," he told the assembled journalists, and Ray Stubbs.
The 'circus' atmosphere at England team get-togethers had been a well known problem amongst many insiders, even before mobile phone footage of Victoria Beckham and Cheryl Cole performing a trapeze act in the dining hall at Bisham Abbey made it onto YouTube. This was at a time when reports had begun to appear in the tabloids about Alex Curran's irritating habit of clumsily wandering round the team hotel and making quick changes of direction whilst carrying a particularly long plank of wood. And of course their had long been pressure from the FA preventing the media from publishing stories about Colleen McLoughlin having to subdue husband Wayne Rooney using a whip and a dining room chair.
Although Rio was quick to criticise the circus nature of the England teams wives and girlfriends the players themselves were not without exception, with David Beckham regularly arriving for training on the back of an elephant whilst simultaneously spinning a couple of plates. The final straw for all came in England's defeat against Croatia last Autumn when physio Gary Lewin went on to treat Joe Cole only to find that his medical bag was filled with confetti. This incident capped a woeful night for England which had begun when the entire squad arrived at Wembley crammed inside an old jalopy which subsequently fell apart as it parked inside the stadium, with Steve McClaren left standing forlorn in a pair of over-sized shoes and trousers clutching a useless car door
To me the England football team is becoming the equivalent of a roadside fire on the opposite carriageway of a motorway. I know it has nothing to do with me and it won't affect me in anyway, but I still can't fight the urge to slow down and have a bloody good gawp. They have a wealth of talented players led by a succession of (Steve McClaren and Kevin Keegan aside) established managers and yet thanks to weighty and often unrealistic expectations they never quite hit it off; if they were a band they would have split up over musical differences round about 1973.
The latest reason to stare across the central reservation comes from England's stand in captain Rio Ferdinand. (As a brief aside has anyone else noticed how Rio's lips appear to be moving completely independent of his body, flapping around like a couple of caterpillars clinging to a leaf in a strong breeze) Speaking at a press conference earlier Rio confirmed what many of us had known for a long time of the England squad's reputation under previous managers. "We became a bit of a circus, in terms of the whole WAG situation," he told the assembled journalists, and Ray Stubbs.
The 'circus' atmosphere at England team get-togethers had been a well known problem amongst many insiders, even before mobile phone footage of Victoria Beckham and Cheryl Cole performing a trapeze act in the dining hall at Bisham Abbey made it onto YouTube. This was at a time when reports had begun to appear in the tabloids about Alex Curran's irritating habit of clumsily wandering round the team hotel and making quick changes of direction whilst carrying a particularly long plank of wood. And of course their had long been pressure from the FA preventing the media from publishing stories about Colleen McLoughlin having to subdue husband Wayne Rooney using a whip and a dining room chair.
Although Rio was quick to criticise the circus nature of the England teams wives and girlfriends the players themselves were not without exception, with David Beckham regularly arriving for training on the back of an elephant whilst simultaneously spinning a couple of plates. The final straw for all came in England's defeat against Croatia last Autumn when physio Gary Lewin went on to treat Joe Cole only to find that his medical bag was filled with confetti. This incident capped a woeful night for England which had begun when the entire squad arrived at Wembley crammed inside an old jalopy which subsequently fell apart as it parked inside the stadium, with Steve McClaren left standing forlorn in a pair of over-sized shoes and trousers clutching a useless car door
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Kazahk-Slam
Its be applauded for standing up in the middle of a circle of stacking chairs in a drafty community hall confession time. Everyone, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you all that I don't support the England national football team. No, my national allegiancies lie with Wales, when people ask why I tell them its because I'm a glory-hunter. Rather than tread that path now I will stick with the originally vague subject matter; I don't support England. And the key upshot of this is that when I do watch them I can be assured that I am one of the few people doing so able to watch the match subjectively.
The general rule of thumb for the media in past years was that sports coverage was done with equal objectivity. In the past it would have been Kazkhstan and England, the blues and the whites; now its very much 'us' and 'them'. We are presumed to share the same goals and so ITV's lengthy preamble can begin with Steve Ryder eulogising on how "we are all hoping". On a brief tangent ITV also began with a highlight reel of England's great football moments from the past forty years, only there was something not quite right. It looked like those famous moments, but it sounded a bit odd. It was like one of those odd feeds you often get on satellite television or copied DVDs when the sound is just a fraction of a second out and so characters no longer look like they are talking in their normal voice.
It took me a while to register that the reason for this unfamiliar feeling was of course that they were ITV's highlights. So no "What a save... Gordon Banks" from David Coleman... no faded "Sheringham... Sh--rer" from John Motson... and no "They think its all over..." from Kenneth Wolstenholme. This was ITV's England history, and like a long lost communist dictatorship any trace of the dissenters had long since been erased.
Neatly back to the subject in point, and thankfully there was no danger of the BBC lazily stereotyping Kazakhstan as a long lost communist dictatorship. Although that is essentially because on Football Focus they had elected for the even lazier option of a succession of poor 'Borat' character impersonations, with messrs Keown, Lawrenson and Ferdinand spending more time analysing a luminous mankini than any of the Kazahk players. Is this not the national media whose purpose is to inform? How hard would it have been for just one of the threesome named above to have maybe done some sort of research for their job? Instead Kazakhstan were dismissed as 'minnows' by Mark Lawrenson, and on ITV Clive Tyldsley heralded the squad of 'virtual unknowns'.
Although I am not an England fan I am by no-means anti-England. However, Saturday's match became an exception. Not because of any angst against the over-paid players, the wasted talent, or the reactionary fanbase. No I cheered for Kazakhstan simply because Lawrenson, Tyldsley and co. are too lazy to even spend half an hour googling 'Kazakhstan football'.
The general rule of thumb for the media in past years was that sports coverage was done with equal objectivity. In the past it would have been Kazkhstan and England, the blues and the whites; now its very much 'us' and 'them'. We are presumed to share the same goals and so ITV's lengthy preamble can begin with Steve Ryder eulogising on how "we are all hoping". On a brief tangent ITV also began with a highlight reel of England's great football moments from the past forty years, only there was something not quite right. It looked like those famous moments, but it sounded a bit odd. It was like one of those odd feeds you often get on satellite television or copied DVDs when the sound is just a fraction of a second out and so characters no longer look like they are talking in their normal voice.
It took me a while to register that the reason for this unfamiliar feeling was of course that they were ITV's highlights. So no "What a save... Gordon Banks" from David Coleman... no faded "Sheringham... Sh--rer" from John Motson... and no "They think its all over..." from Kenneth Wolstenholme. This was ITV's England history, and like a long lost communist dictatorship any trace of the dissenters had long since been erased.
Neatly back to the subject in point, and thankfully there was no danger of the BBC lazily stereotyping Kazakhstan as a long lost communist dictatorship. Although that is essentially because on Football Focus they had elected for the even lazier option of a succession of poor 'Borat' character impersonations, with messrs Keown, Lawrenson and Ferdinand spending more time analysing a luminous mankini than any of the Kazahk players. Is this not the national media whose purpose is to inform? How hard would it have been for just one of the threesome named above to have maybe done some sort of research for their job? Instead Kazakhstan were dismissed as 'minnows' by Mark Lawrenson, and on ITV Clive Tyldsley heralded the squad of 'virtual unknowns'.
Although I am not an England fan I am by no-means anti-England. However, Saturday's match became an exception. Not because of any angst against the over-paid players, the wasted talent, or the reactionary fanbase. No I cheered for Kazakhstan simply because Lawrenson, Tyldsley and co. are too lazy to even spend half an hour googling 'Kazakhstan football'.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Land of the Free
On the radio yesterday one fan said of the influx of foreign owners; "something needs to be done before the Premiership ends up like American Football". Although his words were surely meant to bring up some horrific image of multiple advertising breaks and the blood-curdling thought of half-time shows, I for one was left thinking, 'would that really be so bad?'
American Football, with all its padding and its multiple in game stoppages is often held up by fans of the other football as some sort of nightmarish image of what might be. But is it really such a terrifying prospect? And is it that far removed from what we have now? Cheerleaders and additional sponsorship opportunities have slowly crept into British football about as subtly as Wyle E Coyote sneaking up on Roadrunner in the desert like mid-west dressed as a shrub. At St Andrews earlier this season the PA announcer was happy to tell all that the opening substitution was brought to us in association with some local building firm or another, as if James McFadden would have struggled to locate the pitch without the aid of Brown's Scaffolding.
The main difference between American Football's head table and the top of the Premier League is that the former is still a very competitive division. In the past decade fifteen different teams have contested the Superbowl, while in the same period of time only seven different sides have occupied the top four places in the Premier League, and bear in mind two of those seven are Newcastle (2003 and 04) and Leeds United (1999-2001). A frightening thought.
American Football may not have the historical community roots of its British counterpart, but its modern corporate owners recognise the need for competition. The league controls all marketing rights, and so though the Dallas Cowboys may have a much more global appeal than say the Tenessee Titans, it doesn't mean they will be able to so easily transfer this popularity into income, and subsequently higher earning players. Similarly the draft system also helps regenerate the balance as the lowest ranked teams from the previous year get to pick first from amongst the upcoming College players.
The Premier League is so far removed from the rest of British football now that a complete switch over to a franchised league controlled existence looks much the better option. It may be against the history of the British game and all it was established for, but at least I wouldn't feel as compelled to turn off the television when it came on.
American Football, with all its padding and its multiple in game stoppages is often held up by fans of the other football as some sort of nightmarish image of what might be. But is it really such a terrifying prospect? And is it that far removed from what we have now? Cheerleaders and additional sponsorship opportunities have slowly crept into British football about as subtly as Wyle E Coyote sneaking up on Roadrunner in the desert like mid-west dressed as a shrub. At St Andrews earlier this season the PA announcer was happy to tell all that the opening substitution was brought to us in association with some local building firm or another, as if James McFadden would have struggled to locate the pitch without the aid of Brown's Scaffolding.
The main difference between American Football's head table and the top of the Premier League is that the former is still a very competitive division. In the past decade fifteen different teams have contested the Superbowl, while in the same period of time only seven different sides have occupied the top four places in the Premier League, and bear in mind two of those seven are Newcastle (2003 and 04) and Leeds United (1999-2001). A frightening thought.
American Football may not have the historical community roots of its British counterpart, but its modern corporate owners recognise the need for competition. The league controls all marketing rights, and so though the Dallas Cowboys may have a much more global appeal than say the Tenessee Titans, it doesn't mean they will be able to so easily transfer this popularity into income, and subsequently higher earning players. Similarly the draft system also helps regenerate the balance as the lowest ranked teams from the previous year get to pick first from amongst the upcoming College players.
The Premier League is so far removed from the rest of British football now that a complete switch over to a franchised league controlled existence looks much the better option. It may be against the history of the British game and all it was established for, but at least I wouldn't feel as compelled to turn off the television when it came on.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Loony Toons
Newcastle United are the new Princess Diana. A bold statement I know but think on. Like Diana they have thousands of overtly loyal followers who feel the existence of the object of their affections has a correlation with their own life because they once saw them in the flesh... from behind a barrier... a few hundred feet away. Remember the woman on Match of the Day after Kevin Keegan left who proclaimed "My whole life is ruined", I can't be the only one who suspected that she was one of those took a month off from work eleven years ago to mourn the 'Princes of our Hearts'. And, like Diana they are also receiving blanket and daily newspaper coverage as they move steadily towards their ultimate demise.
If you are a Newcastle fan, then beware of the following. If you see pictures of Newcastle United reclining on a yacht with a wealthy heir, then grainy footage of the club leaving a lift in a Paris Hotel, followed lastly by commemorative Magpies of Our Hearts plate offers in the Daily Express, then don't complain you weren't warned. Each of these occurrences is just the next step in your club's slow death-march to, well, probably to a bright new dawn.
Call me a cynical lower league fan if you will, but can the recent events at Newcastle really be classed as 'turmoil'? Given the money available to top flight clubs at the moment all this supposed demise can possibly mean is a club dropping from being a well-supported mid-table Premier League team to a well supported mid-table Championship team. Until Mike Ashley is hiring henchmen to set fire to the Gallowgate End or Joe Kinnear is picking his next-door neighbour in goal then the word 'crisis' need be used in connection with St James Park as seldom as the word 'overcoat'.
I have no sympathies with the Toon Army I'm afraid, as I am firmly of the belief that any group of people who describe a managerial partnership of Kevin Keegan and Alan Shearer as a 'dream ticket' has already crossed the fine line from loyal to madness. Keegan on his own is speculative, as his managerial carrer has had a distinctive downward arc to it since his initial spell on Tyneside. Shearer meanwhile as a pundit on Match of the Day has taken three years to hone his tell-the-public-exactly-what-they've-just-seen style of tactical incitement which is as necessary and useful as subtitles for the blind. Its a 'dream ticket' yes, but only for Sunderland fans.
If you are a Newcastle fan, then beware of the following. If you see pictures of Newcastle United reclining on a yacht with a wealthy heir, then grainy footage of the club leaving a lift in a Paris Hotel, followed lastly by commemorative Magpies of Our Hearts plate offers in the Daily Express, then don't complain you weren't warned. Each of these occurrences is just the next step in your club's slow death-march to, well, probably to a bright new dawn.
Call me a cynical lower league fan if you will, but can the recent events at Newcastle really be classed as 'turmoil'? Given the money available to top flight clubs at the moment all this supposed demise can possibly mean is a club dropping from being a well-supported mid-table Premier League team to a well supported mid-table Championship team. Until Mike Ashley is hiring henchmen to set fire to the Gallowgate End or Joe Kinnear is picking his next-door neighbour in goal then the word 'crisis' need be used in connection with St James Park as seldom as the word 'overcoat'.
I have no sympathies with the Toon Army I'm afraid, as I am firmly of the belief that any group of people who describe a managerial partnership of Kevin Keegan and Alan Shearer as a 'dream ticket' has already crossed the fine line from loyal to madness. Keegan on his own is speculative, as his managerial carrer has had a distinctive downward arc to it since his initial spell on Tyneside. Shearer meanwhile as a pundit on Match of the Day has taken three years to hone his tell-the-public-exactly-what-they've-just-seen style of tactical incitement which is as necessary and useful as subtitles for the blind. Its a 'dream ticket' yes, but only for Sunderland fans.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Anyone for Tennis?
“He’s silencing the crowd now Melzer, thats half the battle won,” said the commentator as the Austrian put his nation 5-2 up in the third set of their Davis Cup tie at Wimbledon. A reasonable statement in many senses, but not when it has come within a minute of a close up camera shot of a young fan asleep, and is followed by a wide angled shot of sparsely populated Number One court seats, save for the occasional person with a newspaper on their head, then I take issue with it.
Tennis folk love to make it known that ‘nothing compares to the partisan atmosphere’ of Davis Cup ties. After over an hour of Alex Bogdanovic’s opening rubber against Johan Melzer I can instead conclude that several things compare to a Davis Cup tie’s ‘partizan atmosphere’. Non-league football, school swimming galas, Robot Wars... the list could go on. The truth is, whilst in central and eastern Europe a tennis crowd can seem intimidating, when it comes to Britain a tennis audience is about as fearsome as marginally irate goldfish.
Think back, if you can bear it, to what the late 1990s press dubbed ‘Henmania’. Far from being a free for all of unwavering support what this ‘mania’ actually resembled was nearer a cross between the Last Night of the Proms and a meeting of the Women’s Institute Amateur Dramatics Society. No amount of plastic Union Jack hats and giant autographed tennis balls could disguise from what essentially was menopausal, suburban housewives getting unnaturally giddy over a middle-class man playing a middle-class sport.
Thats the problem with tennis, despite its desire to appeal to a wider demographic, it remains very much in this country a middle-class world. Wimbledon’s British Racing Green hoardings and hedgerows, strawberries and cream and Roger Federer’s blazers are no more catalysts for a partisan atmosphere than a wine-tasting nor a jam making contest. So please get things in perspective, stop describing this mini flag waving and air horn toting as partisan and instead draw a more direct parallel; think of a village fete where Maude from the post office has spent a little too long sampling Farmer Thompson’s home-made cider.
Tennis folk love to make it known that ‘nothing compares to the partisan atmosphere’ of Davis Cup ties. After over an hour of Alex Bogdanovic’s opening rubber against Johan Melzer I can instead conclude that several things compare to a Davis Cup tie’s ‘partizan atmosphere’. Non-league football, school swimming galas, Robot Wars... the list could go on. The truth is, whilst in central and eastern Europe a tennis crowd can seem intimidating, when it comes to Britain a tennis audience is about as fearsome as marginally irate goldfish.
Think back, if you can bear it, to what the late 1990s press dubbed ‘Henmania’. Far from being a free for all of unwavering support what this ‘mania’ actually resembled was nearer a cross between the Last Night of the Proms and a meeting of the Women’s Institute Amateur Dramatics Society. No amount of plastic Union Jack hats and giant autographed tennis balls could disguise from what essentially was menopausal, suburban housewives getting unnaturally giddy over a middle-class man playing a middle-class sport.
Thats the problem with tennis, despite its desire to appeal to a wider demographic, it remains very much in this country a middle-class world. Wimbledon’s British Racing Green hoardings and hedgerows, strawberries and cream and Roger Federer’s blazers are no more catalysts for a partisan atmosphere than a wine-tasting nor a jam making contest. So please get things in perspective, stop describing this mini flag waving and air horn toting as partisan and instead draw a more direct parallel; think of a village fete where Maude from the post office has spent a little too long sampling Farmer Thompson’s home-made cider.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Cap That
There were genuine fears that the world might end yesterday. Deep in a Swiss lab that resembled a Bond Villain’s hideout scientists conducted an experiment on sub atomic particles which allegedly, had it gone wrong, could have destroyed the planet. My heart goes out to whoever had to compile the Health and Safety report. However, instead of the world’s end England fans and the national press have been treated to an apparent new dawn. Andorra forgotten as quickly as it was judged; Capello is OK after all.
Yesterday’s news is no longer today’s chip wrappers. This is mainly because its hard to fold a webpage around a large haddock, but also because yesterday’s news is no longer simply discarded. Its stored on file ready for ‘We told you so’ features and articles when premonitions come to pass. However when things are called wrongly yesterday’s news is glossed over quicker than a 1ft window sill. So for all those journalists and pundits who turned on the England manager after Saturday’s result expect precisely to be standing sheepishly on Fabio’s doorstep clutching a box of roses and some hastily purchased carnations from the nearby Tesco Express.
On Sunday the common consensus in the press was ‘Joe Cole saves Capello’s blushes’ (The Independent, Daily Mirror). The manager had begun his competitive England reign with a win, an away win, but for many it was not good enough. Even renowned world news service Reuters were questioning Capello’s credentials; “England have now played six matches under the Italian and although they have won four of them, they have rarely looked much better than they did when McClaren was in charge”. And bizarrely much was made also of the England manager shouting instructions at Wayne Rooney and Joe Cole. Too much passion perhaps?
Today the outlook is suddenly very different, as if Saturday and its subsequent doom-mongering never really existed as claimed in the News of the World’s online coverage; “[Theo Walcott] scored a hat-trick as the Capello’s quest for World Cup qualification began in earnest.” Andorra? Questioning the manager? Don’t know what you’re talking about... this is where it starts. Why bother being pragmatic when you can change your stance as it suits? A mantra seemingly adopted by The Sun (“Fabio Capello is leading the country out of the dark ages and we are on course for the 2010 World Cup finals”) and the Daily Mail (“in Capello the Football Association [has] indeed found someone who can guide England out of the darkness and on to the next World Cup”).
Another subject that is raised and forgotten as it suits is the issue of ‘passion’, and how it is shown by a manager. Unless a manager is jumping around like Martin O’Neil trying to escape from a pack of wasps then it is taken that they don’t care enough. After all how many England managers have succeeded when displaying the sort of touchline stoicism of, erm, Alf Ramsey? Last night Capello showed no passion in the House of Pain sense, but instead he perfected a very continental film noire-esque style of satisfaction. As the England bench leapt in celebration of Wayne Rooney’s goal Capello instead went for the long stare into the middle distance followed by a wry whimsical smile as if the goal had just reminded him of a fond childhood toy; probably a Mr Potato Head.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Load of Tosh?
Load of Tosh?
The seemingly inevitable doom-mongering amongst the media and vast numbers of supporters following Fabio Capello’s first game in charge of the national team has reminded me just what it’s like to be an England fan. And more importantly, why I’m so glad I’m not one.
Fabio Capello has after all done his job. He has gone away in his first competitive game as manager and returned with three points... the maximum three points. Sadly for Capello, with the way the Premiership is hyped up a win is sometimes not enough. If these players are paid ludicrous sums to play in ‘the best league in the world’ then surely they should be winning by at least double figures against ‘a team of postmen and bank clerks’. International football doesn’t work like that. Points win prizes more often than style; as the international records of Germany and the Netherlands will testify.
That said, even as a fan of lowly Wales, it’s still possible to be frustrated in victory. I went to the Azerbaijan game on Saturday and in my newspaper on the train down to Cardiff there was a promotional booklet for Wales. “Its easy to act on impulse here,” it read. “Dylan Thomas only wrote when he was inspired. In bars. In parks. In his shed”. Had he been in the Millennium Stadium Dyalan Thomas would have written f*** all. Not only that, he’d have probably eaten his pen as well in sheer frustration
Yes a win is a win, but against a team who have never won away, surely the aim should be a little higher. Inside the opening half an hour it was already clear to those in the sparsely populated Millennium Stadium stands that Wales had the beating of their opponents out wide, and that a back four was at least one more defender than was needed against Azerbaijan’s increasingly lonely centre forward.
But despite boos at the end of a goalless first half and cat calls and yells for an extra forward Wales fans had to wait until the 72nd minute for John Toshack to deliver what had for so long seemed the obvious call. By which point the Azeri were already down to ten men, and had been for nigh on ten minutes. That 72nd minute sub was goalscorer Sam Vokes, on paper a tactical masterstroke, yet in the flesh a long overdue move. The game in this respect seemed to sum up vast parts of John Toshack’s reign; whilst he often makes the key decisions, he has a frustrating tendency to make them when its close to being too little too late.
The commitment and enthusiasm shown by Wales younger stars is the harbinger of hope for many Welsh fans. Wayne Henessey in goal, Chris Gunther and Gareth Bale at full-back, Joe Ledley and David Edwards in midfield, the introduction of Ched Evans and Sam Volkes up front. The crux of the squad is scarily young, but refreshingly happy to be playing for their nation. The future is certainly bright, its Toshack's misty present that just confuses issues. He gets the tactics right eventually, but for the sake of our nerves Tosh please do it sooner.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Throw Back
English football is enjoying a welcome renaissance and its all thanks to the cultured skills of those renowned artistic denizens Rory Delap and Aron Gunnarsson. Yes folks, the long throw-in is back.
Although hated by that indeterminable bunch known otherwise as ‘the purists’ the long throw is a proven and effective method of doing what the England midfield seem incapable of; namely getting the ball into goalscoring opportunities. So, as David Beckham remains a fixture in the England line-up for his ability to deliver ‘a quality ball in’, why no similar praise and fawning over the throw-in style of Delap?
Perhaps this foot to hand bias has its roots in the history of the game, after all, the long throw has never really found favour with football’s authorities. To prevent the game’s early players using the then one-handed throw-in technique to hurl the ball way downfield like a quarter back the FA changed the rules. In came the two hands behind the head two feet on the floor technique, and that was thought to be the end of the long throw.
Until the 1970 FA Cup Final and the long throw renaissance courtesy of Ian Hutchinson’s pioneering windmill technique. Hutchinson believe that by continuing the throw motion after the release propelled the ball even further, with Chelsea’s winning goal arguable proof. Twelve years later the long throw produced another Cup Final assist from QPR’s Simon Stainrod but it was not until the end of the century that the art reached its zenith.
The long jump had the all American tussle of Mike Powell versus Carl Lewis, the long throw however had the all British dominance; Andy Legg versus Dave Challinor. The pair trading world records whilst an expectant nation looked on with vague interest. Legg of Notts County, Birmingham and Cardiff, the blond tousled poster boy of the throw set the initial record. But he was eventually beaten by throw-in champion of the people Challinor. With the aid of towel-armed ballboys and strategic advertising board gaps Challinor topped out at 46.2 metres in 2000.
As with other aspects of the game the long throw-in also had its showboaters; enter that latter day footballing cavalier Steve Watson. Taking his cue from footage of obscure Estonian full-backs on Sportsnight Watson introduced the somersault throw-in to English football. Using a hand spring to gather more momentum it was believed that distances up to seventy metres could be achieved using this technique, as well as countless crooked necks and slipped discs on amateur football fields the length of the country.
In Ken Bray’s ‘How to Score’, the author suggests that a long throw should be easier to defend than say a free-kick or corner as the ball is usually in the air for longer, giving defenders more time to react. And yet despite the science an effective long throw continues to reduce even the most talented defender to all the composure of a cat that’s just fallen in a bath.
Given its effectiveness why is the long throw now considered a last resort? Does it stem from the modern consumer approach to football fandom? Many supporters are no longer happy with just a win, having forked out a considerable fortune for their ticket they want instead to be entertained. Gary Neville’s long throw used to be a regular feature of Manchester United attacks, but not anymore. Why throw the ball into the box when you could throw it to the feet of Cristiano Ronaldo for a stepover or seven? As consumerism has taken hold at Old Trafford Neville now appears as reluctant to wheel out the party trick as a teenager at a family Christmas asked to ‘sing that song you used to sing’ for an overly doting grandmother.
While some players have been honed into free-kick specialists the long throwers have been left to their own devices, as unwanted as the last volauvent at a wedding buffet. As the game moves from the objective to the subjective the long throw in has slowly become the wind turbine on football’s coastline. Functional and effective, yet commonly perceived as ugly, a blot on the landscape. However, I ask of you, please look again. Open your eyes that little wider and instead view them in late afternoon as the setting sun glints of their blades and you need that last gasp equaliser at any cost, then perhaps you will finally understand their worth and see that the long throw-in, like the well delivered free-kick, can become a thing of beauty
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Olympic Education
The thing I love most about the Olympic Games, all Olympic Games, is their ability to draw you into sports that at all other times exist on the very edge of your consciousness. Over the course of the past fortnight I have been enthralled in contests in sports I know very little about; taekwondo, canoeing, boxing, BMX have all held me captive on my sofa.
As a result I can subsequently justify the hours spent using the red button to follow everything from Handball to the Heptathlon as an educational venture. The Olympic Games has taught me things, and here are just a few of them;
1. On Their Own, Britons Aren’t That Good
However, throw in a bike, or a boat, or a horse and we’ll meet you on the podium.
2. Water Polo is Brutal
I turned it on just as the camera zoomed in to see an Italian substitute having their nose reset. Oh, and this was the women’s game.
3. Rowers are Posh
All of them, every single one. Britain takes a team of about a hundred of them and not a single dropped a ‘H’ to be found.
4. Gymnastics in Volleyball Must be the Norm
Women’s Pool Match; Brazil versus Cuba. One of the Brazilian team keeps the ball alive by simultaneously performing a ‘dig’ and the splits... the commentators are unmoved.
5. Olympic Archers are Damn Good
Coverage of the archery begins with a split screen of archer and target, and as this the same manner in which darts is televised my brain tends to compute the distance between the two objects on a similar ratio to that in darts. One panning shot later and I’m blown away, the targets are placed at one end of an arena, and the archers take up a position on the Mongolian border.
6. Commentators Swap Shifts
I can only assume that this is the reason why silver spoon gargling voice of equestrian Michael Tucker was to be found commentating on the Water Polo. Unless of course at a BBC planning meeting a typo omitted the word ‘water’. The result was pure Alan Partridge as Tucker morphed every statement into a question for his expert co-commentator; “Oh, and that was a great... er... lob shot, was it?”
7. World Sport Needs More James DeGales
Appearing on the BBC’s final Games Today show after his Boxing Gold James DeGale took Gabby Logan a flower from his winners’ bouquet, his delivery, not quite as chivalrous. “You’re a pretty girl innit, you get things like that”
As a result I can subsequently justify the hours spent using the red button to follow everything from Handball to the Heptathlon as an educational venture. The Olympic Games has taught me things, and here are just a few of them;
1. On Their Own, Britons Aren’t That Good
However, throw in a bike, or a boat, or a horse and we’ll meet you on the podium.
2. Water Polo is Brutal
I turned it on just as the camera zoomed in to see an Italian substitute having their nose reset. Oh, and this was the women’s game.
3. Rowers are Posh
All of them, every single one. Britain takes a team of about a hundred of them and not a single dropped a ‘H’ to be found.
4. Gymnastics in Volleyball Must be the Norm
Women’s Pool Match; Brazil versus Cuba. One of the Brazilian team keeps the ball alive by simultaneously performing a ‘dig’ and the splits... the commentators are unmoved.
5. Olympic Archers are Damn Good
Coverage of the archery begins with a split screen of archer and target, and as this the same manner in which darts is televised my brain tends to compute the distance between the two objects on a similar ratio to that in darts. One panning shot later and I’m blown away, the targets are placed at one end of an arena, and the archers take up a position on the Mongolian border.
6. Commentators Swap Shifts
I can only assume that this is the reason why silver spoon gargling voice of equestrian Michael Tucker was to be found commentating on the Water Polo. Unless of course at a BBC planning meeting a typo omitted the word ‘water’. The result was pure Alan Partridge as Tucker morphed every statement into a question for his expert co-commentator; “Oh, and that was a great... er... lob shot, was it?”
7. World Sport Needs More James DeGales
Appearing on the BBC’s final Games Today show after his Boxing Gold James DeGale took Gabby Logan a flower from his winners’ bouquet, his delivery, not quite as chivalrous. “You’re a pretty girl innit, you get things like that”
Monday, August 25, 2008
Pro Set and Match
One of the best things about having a teacher as a parent is the swag. Anything half decent that my dad confiscated from his comprehensive school classes would, having failed to have been claimed at the end of the week, eventually find its way to me. My contraband included bouncy balls, rubic cubes and most memorably a vast stash of Shooting Star football cards circa 1992.
This element of my youth was returned last week when, for reasons too long and dull to explain, I received a job lot of Pro Set football cards from the same era. As precious as my ‘acquired’ Shooting Star collection was to me, there was no denying that Pro Set were the collection that really mattered. They covered the other divisions, and they even had the England badge on.
So, at the age of twenty-five I had finally made it as the nine-year-old I never was, and was plunged into a nostalgia induced coma at the same time. Robert Fleck, Tony Daley, Glenn Hysen, Sheffield United sponsored by Laver, references to Plough Lane and Ayresome Park. The last fifteen years has been a very long time in football. In fact, of the 250 or so cards the nearest to a current player are the recently retired duo of Dion Dublin and Teddy Sheringham, of Cambridge and Millwall respectively in the world of Pro Set.
These cards are from the 1991-92 season, the last season before the Premier League but it’s a world away from the TV savvy hyperbole of the Sky generation. In fact two graduates of Match of the Day’s ‘state the obvious’ school of punditry are in this collection; what looks like a thirteen year old Lee Dixon and an even younger Alan Shearer. And even Alfe Inge Haaland could find a touch of affection for the gawky looking twenty-year-old Roy Keane.
What makes the cards is the player biogs printed on the reverse; whole careers in no more than fifty words. In amongst the seemingly archaic five figure transfer fees (and less; I could have bought Derby’s Phil Gee with my student loan) are some great descriptions. Tottenham’s Gudni Bergsson is described as being ‘upright’, whilst the profile of QPR’s Jan Stejskal is strangely anecdotal; “Manager Don Howe wanted an experienced goalkeeper and remembered Jan’s fine displays for Czechoslovakia in the World Cup. He negotiated the deal and the big man from Prague made his debut in October 1990 against Leeds United”. That’s all of it.
The contrast between the pre-Premier League football world suspended on these cards, and the subsequent Sky spawned product is staggering. 1992, just four years before David Beckham lobbed Neil Sullivan, and football shorts are still so obscenely short that in the present day only the Pussycat Dolls would wear garments of a similar length. Thanks in part to Derek Mountfield, Tony Coton, Eddie McGoldrick and the Snodin brothers moustaches are still rampant across the top flight. And most tellingly of all, parts of Steve Ogrizovic’s nose are still pointing the same way as the rest of his face. Ah, the memories
This element of my youth was returned last week when, for reasons too long and dull to explain, I received a job lot of Pro Set football cards from the same era. As precious as my ‘acquired’ Shooting Star collection was to me, there was no denying that Pro Set were the collection that really mattered. They covered the other divisions, and they even had the England badge on.
So, at the age of twenty-five I had finally made it as the nine-year-old I never was, and was plunged into a nostalgia induced coma at the same time. Robert Fleck, Tony Daley, Glenn Hysen, Sheffield United sponsored by Laver, references to Plough Lane and Ayresome Park. The last fifteen years has been a very long time in football. In fact, of the 250 or so cards the nearest to a current player are the recently retired duo of Dion Dublin and Teddy Sheringham, of Cambridge and Millwall respectively in the world of Pro Set.
These cards are from the 1991-92 season, the last season before the Premier League but it’s a world away from the TV savvy hyperbole of the Sky generation. In fact two graduates of Match of the Day’s ‘state the obvious’ school of punditry are in this collection; what looks like a thirteen year old Lee Dixon and an even younger Alan Shearer. And even Alfe Inge Haaland could find a touch of affection for the gawky looking twenty-year-old Roy Keane.
What makes the cards is the player biogs printed on the reverse; whole careers in no more than fifty words. In amongst the seemingly archaic five figure transfer fees (and less; I could have bought Derby’s Phil Gee with my student loan) are some great descriptions. Tottenham’s Gudni Bergsson is described as being ‘upright’, whilst the profile of QPR’s Jan Stejskal is strangely anecdotal; “Manager Don Howe wanted an experienced goalkeeper and remembered Jan’s fine displays for Czechoslovakia in the World Cup. He negotiated the deal and the big man from Prague made his debut in October 1990 against Leeds United”. That’s all of it.
The contrast between the pre-Premier League football world suspended on these cards, and the subsequent Sky spawned product is staggering. 1992, just four years before David Beckham lobbed Neil Sullivan, and football shorts are still so obscenely short that in the present day only the Pussycat Dolls would wear garments of a similar length. Thanks in part to Derek Mountfield, Tony Coton, Eddie McGoldrick and the Snodin brothers moustaches are still rampant across the top flight. And most tellingly of all, parts of Steve Ogrizovic’s nose are still pointing the same way as the rest of his face. Ah, the memories
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Gold Weighted
Death in a car crash is not the opening five words you expect from a blog that perturbs to be a less than serious look at sport, but please stick with me, it gets a lot less dark. The death in question occurred last year and it is that of Susann Steiner, the wife of German weightlifter Matthias Steiner. After his wife’s passing Matthias made it his destiny to win the Olympic +105kg weightlifting title in her honour.
A year on, and with just one lift remaining Steiner sat in second place. To win the Gold he needed to clean-and-jerk eight kilograms more than the leading Russian lifter. Steiner made the lift and as the buzzer sounded he dropped the weight to the floor and both he and the crowd erupted. Steiner’s incredible emotional celebrations lasted for nearly five minutes as he tore of his vest and dropped to his knees. Upright again he danced and yelled and hugged seemingly every coach in the arena, he was but a crowd dive away from scoring the perfect 10 celebration.
When he stepped up to the podium to receive the Gold medal he had strived for Steiner held a picture of Susann. The word love is often referenced in the context of sport, but in the modern era it is unlikely to have a more fitting occasion than Steiner’s Gold. These Games which be remembered historically for the achievements of Phelps and Bolt, but I don’t think there could have been a more Olympic story nor a more deserved gold medal than Matthias Steiner’s.
A year on, and with just one lift remaining Steiner sat in second place. To win the Gold he needed to clean-and-jerk eight kilograms more than the leading Russian lifter. Steiner made the lift and as the buzzer sounded he dropped the weight to the floor and both he and the crowd erupted. Steiner’s incredible emotional celebrations lasted for nearly five minutes as he tore of his vest and dropped to his knees. Upright again he danced and yelled and hugged seemingly every coach in the arena, he was but a crowd dive away from scoring the perfect 10 celebration.
When he stepped up to the podium to receive the Gold medal he had strived for Steiner held a picture of Susann. The word love is often referenced in the context of sport, but in the modern era it is unlikely to have a more fitting occasion than Steiner’s Gold. These Games which be remembered historically for the achievements of Phelps and Bolt, but I don’t think there could have been a more Olympic story nor a more deserved gold medal than Matthias Steiner’s.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Frankly Exorbitant
I am an educated man, but I would very much like to punch Frank Lampard in the face. Daily. I make no apologies for this irrational desire, mainly because it’s not irrational. It started with that horrific advert for The Sun (“there are Supergoals like this”) when even in the world of professional footballers Lampard managed to sound remarkably dumb, and continued in ascendency this week when I found out just how much the man earns.
During the Chelsea, Portsmouth match at the weekend the commentators made a worryingly blasé reference to Lampard’s pay packet of £34million over five years. A figure as staggering as it is ludicrous. If I were to pay a footballer that much money then I would demand goals. Not just one or two a game, but for £34million I would expect a goal every time that player touched the ball. If so much as a defensive header failed to fly into the top corner I’d be demanding my money back.
Footballers used to justify their high earnings with the facts that their careers were comparatively shorter than the average worker. A fact I don’t dispute. However such are Lampard’s earnings that his career could last less than a month and he would be set for life. And thus comes another reason for a well delivered right hook; when this contract was finalised Lampard had the cheek to say; “...there has been a bit of a compromise on both sides”. Presumably initial talks broke down after Roman Abramovich failed to purchase both the moon and a particularly large stick.
Can a week’s worth of a game such as football really be worth as much as six years of being a doctor? I don’t like to brag, but I’m particularly handy at Guess Who (so much so that, owing to a triumphant identification of Pete with eight cards remaining, my girlfriend refuses to play me again), and as anyone knows the board game playing circuit is notoriously short (involving just family Christmases, rain soaked holidays in a static caravan, and chance finds during a house clearance). However, even when you take into account the potential repetitive finger strain injuries, I wouldn’t have the gall to demand a bigger pay packet than a nurse for my illustrious MB Games career.
To gain even more annoyance at Frank Lampard’s earnings you simply need to cast a look at the foot of the English League Two table. AFC Bournemouth, Luton Town and Rotherham United occupy the bottom three places thanks to a cumulative starting total of minus sixty-four points. The majority of these point deductions could have been avoided with just a week’s earnings of Fat (Cat) Frank. If this much money must exist in football then surely the plight of three community football clubs should be more deserving than one irritating midfielder.
During the Chelsea, Portsmouth match at the weekend the commentators made a worryingly blasé reference to Lampard’s pay packet of £34million over five years. A figure as staggering as it is ludicrous. If I were to pay a footballer that much money then I would demand goals. Not just one or two a game, but for £34million I would expect a goal every time that player touched the ball. If so much as a defensive header failed to fly into the top corner I’d be demanding my money back.
Footballers used to justify their high earnings with the facts that their careers were comparatively shorter than the average worker. A fact I don’t dispute. However such are Lampard’s earnings that his career could last less than a month and he would be set for life. And thus comes another reason for a well delivered right hook; when this contract was finalised Lampard had the cheek to say; “...there has been a bit of a compromise on both sides”. Presumably initial talks broke down after Roman Abramovich failed to purchase both the moon and a particularly large stick.
Can a week’s worth of a game such as football really be worth as much as six years of being a doctor? I don’t like to brag, but I’m particularly handy at Guess Who (so much so that, owing to a triumphant identification of Pete with eight cards remaining, my girlfriend refuses to play me again), and as anyone knows the board game playing circuit is notoriously short (involving just family Christmases, rain soaked holidays in a static caravan, and chance finds during a house clearance). However, even when you take into account the potential repetitive finger strain injuries, I wouldn’t have the gall to demand a bigger pay packet than a nurse for my illustrious MB Games career.
To gain even more annoyance at Frank Lampard’s earnings you simply need to cast a look at the foot of the English League Two table. AFC Bournemouth, Luton Town and Rotherham United occupy the bottom three places thanks to a cumulative starting total of minus sixty-four points. The majority of these point deductions could have been avoided with just a week’s earnings of Fat (Cat) Frank. If this much money must exist in football then surely the plight of three community football clubs should be more deserving than one irritating midfielder.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Lines in the Sand
Like 1990s Childrens television favourites Bodger and Badger sport and politics ‘are never far away’. Not so much hurling mashed potato at an uppity landlady, but certainly getting into general mischief together whilst one has its hand firmly up the arse of the other. Be it in positive terms, such as the infamous ‘ping-pong’ diplomacy that warmed relations between the USA and China in the 1970s or in negative like the infamous war between Honduras and El Salvador which was sparked after a World Cup qualifier.
Far from this being a phenomenon of a simpler age, I believe that this interaction can only get stronger, particularly given the amount of money governments now plough into achieving sporting success, or hosting events such as the Olympics, and equally how much they invest in their armed forces. Why fund two operations when one can serve both purposes? In a world governed by PR and spin surely it’s only a matter of time before the slogan Medals Good; Air Strikes Bad reaches the Government Communications offices of the world and a nation gathers its generals into the war briefing room to listen to the spiel of some over paid PR consultant.
“I hear what you’re saying gentlemen, but I’m sure you’ll agree tanks and helicopters present a very old fashioned image of war. Dying children is not the image we want here. Ninety per cent of those we surveyed said they would not support a dictatorship that committed genocide, however eighty per cent were prepared to forego their basic human rights for a regime with a catchy theme tune, ideally ‘something by the Pussycat Dolls and a political broadcast featuring David Beckham. We need to show the people we’re in tune with the present, that we’re as hip as the hippest demographic”.
And before you know it trenches have been swapped for fine sand, peacekeepers traded for dancing girls, the sound of helicopters and artillery exchanged for generic pop music blasts and heavily armed soldiers replaced by athletic women in bikinis. And so there you have it, today’s womens beach volleyball match in Beijing between Georgia and Russia was the South Ossesian conflict of ten years from now.
Faced with the choice of footage of horrific shell damage to civilian buildings or a bespectacled Chinese man dancing in the stands to the Las Ketchup Song it doesn’t make me feel any less human to say I’d take option two... every time. The future of political peace does not lie in the corridors of the UN, it stands here, wearing very little, dusting sand from firm tanned buttocks in gratuitous slow motion.
Far from this being a phenomenon of a simpler age, I believe that this interaction can only get stronger, particularly given the amount of money governments now plough into achieving sporting success, or hosting events such as the Olympics, and equally how much they invest in their armed forces. Why fund two operations when one can serve both purposes? In a world governed by PR and spin surely it’s only a matter of time before the slogan Medals Good; Air Strikes Bad reaches the Government Communications offices of the world and a nation gathers its generals into the war briefing room to listen to the spiel of some over paid PR consultant.
“I hear what you’re saying gentlemen, but I’m sure you’ll agree tanks and helicopters present a very old fashioned image of war. Dying children is not the image we want here. Ninety per cent of those we surveyed said they would not support a dictatorship that committed genocide, however eighty per cent were prepared to forego their basic human rights for a regime with a catchy theme tune, ideally ‘something by the Pussycat Dolls and a political broadcast featuring David Beckham. We need to show the people we’re in tune with the present, that we’re as hip as the hippest demographic”.
And before you know it trenches have been swapped for fine sand, peacekeepers traded for dancing girls, the sound of helicopters and artillery exchanged for generic pop music blasts and heavily armed soldiers replaced by athletic women in bikinis. And so there you have it, today’s womens beach volleyball match in Beijing between Georgia and Russia was the South Ossesian conflict of ten years from now.
Faced with the choice of footage of horrific shell damage to civilian buildings or a bespectacled Chinese man dancing in the stands to the Las Ketchup Song it doesn’t make me feel any less human to say I’d take option two... every time. The future of political peace does not lie in the corridors of the UN, it stands here, wearing very little, dusting sand from firm tanned buttocks in gratuitous slow motion.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Opening Shot
I know it’s wrong, but I find it really hard to watch any kind of opening ceremony without thinking of Nuremburg. A stadium full of organised propaganda, albeit with a little more emphasis on choreography than that managed by the Third Reich. It’s probably my fault for turning on the television when I did. In amongst all the historically symbolic dance and elaborate firework displays I managed to switch on to this year’s Olympics at the point of the hoisting of the Chinese flag. Not a grumpy face in sight; this is China as China sees it, all smiles, dancing and efficiency.
I blame the media obviously and their fascination, in the lead up to these Games, of the political aspects of the Olympics. In view of China’s human rights record and the oppression of the Tibetan people it is of course natural that the reputation of the host nation is brought under scrutiny. Parallels have been drawn to the 1936 Berlin Games which were used as a political platform for the Nazi Party. Whilst modern day China may not be in a league with Nazi Germany, there is no doubt that the Olympics offers the host country to choose the identity it wishes to portray to the rest of the world.
With that in mind perhaps more thought should have been given to the next segment; a representation of China’s foundation of the world’s first movable type system in which a multitude of type symbols undulated in formation. For a country whose human rights record is under scrutiny going into these Games perhaps they could have found an alternate way to represent this rather than have a large number of Chinese men confined inside tiny boxes.
I consider myself an educated man, open to all manner of cultural offerings, however there is only so much representative dance I can take in an hour. Let’s face it, China has a lot of history. And so with numerous dynasty’s still to go I bailed out, but not before the BBC had added a small caption at the bottom of the screen that said ‘Live from The Birds Nest’, the omission of the word ‘stadium’ suggesting this was not the opening ceremony at all, simply an incredibly elaborate main act in a Beijing cabaret bar.
I blame the media obviously and their fascination, in the lead up to these Games, of the political aspects of the Olympics. In view of China’s human rights record and the oppression of the Tibetan people it is of course natural that the reputation of the host nation is brought under scrutiny. Parallels have been drawn to the 1936 Berlin Games which were used as a political platform for the Nazi Party. Whilst modern day China may not be in a league with Nazi Germany, there is no doubt that the Olympics offers the host country to choose the identity it wishes to portray to the rest of the world.
With that in mind perhaps more thought should have been given to the next segment; a representation of China’s foundation of the world’s first movable type system in which a multitude of type symbols undulated in formation. For a country whose human rights record is under scrutiny going into these Games perhaps they could have found an alternate way to represent this rather than have a large number of Chinese men confined inside tiny boxes.
I consider myself an educated man, open to all manner of cultural offerings, however there is only so much representative dance I can take in an hour. Let’s face it, China has a lot of history. And so with numerous dynasty’s still to go I bailed out, but not before the BBC had added a small caption at the bottom of the screen that said ‘Live from The Birds Nest’, the omission of the word ‘stadium’ suggesting this was not the opening ceremony at all, simply an incredibly elaborate main act in a Beijing cabaret bar.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Friendly Fire
I know a lot of people who are adamant in their support of their football club, but who have never been to a pre-season friendly. This is by no means a bad thing, in effect, I suppose it is simply the same as avoiding trailers to retain the element of surprise when watching a film. And to be honest in the same way a snippet of a nonsensical action sequence doesn’t quite match up to the whole story, watching your team play in un-numbered shirts, their shouts echoing across empty seats can dampen the enigma thrown at you via the flash graphics of satellite television.
However, for all the unfamiliarity in atmosphere, I maintain that these people are missing out on some of the glorious oddities of football. For starters there is the fixtures themselves.
Middlesborough versus Norton and Stockton Ancients, Queens Park Rangers versus China, or Doncaster Rovers versus Real Sociedad is the footballing equivalent of a burning camper van on the hard shoulder, you know you shouldn’t be intrigued, but you just can’t help but slow down and have a good old nosey.
This heady mix can get to even the most subdued of football fans. I know this first hand because my one and only pitch invasion came at a pre-season friendly. In the abridged version of a long story it came about due to one too many seafront beers and ended with a friend of mine rugby tackling a ballboy on the halfway line of Scarborough’s McCain Stadium in order to retrieve my beachball.
Lackadaisical stewarding played a significant part in this discretion (they’d all gone off duty for a half-time cuppa) and such relaxed organisation is another pre-season speciality. Two summers ago I was at Meadow Lane the PA system relentlessly played the opening of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ for ten minutes despite a scratched CD meaning the chorus never once came into sight. It took the booming voice of a Yorkshireman in the away end yelling “Its stuck!” to prompt a member of Notts County staff to investigate.
Such is the overhyped media savvy world of domestic football in the UK that what was once a game has now become an experience. As such, its planned with slick precision that does not allow for an on pitch pursuit of an inflatable nor a faulty CD player. Pre-season friendlies may not have the noise and excitement of competitive matches, but for me at least its a much closer experience of the real world of football.
However, for all the unfamiliarity in atmosphere, I maintain that these people are missing out on some of the glorious oddities of football. For starters there is the fixtures themselves.
Middlesborough versus Norton and Stockton Ancients, Queens Park Rangers versus China, or Doncaster Rovers versus Real Sociedad is the footballing equivalent of a burning camper van on the hard shoulder, you know you shouldn’t be intrigued, but you just can’t help but slow down and have a good old nosey.
This heady mix can get to even the most subdued of football fans. I know this first hand because my one and only pitch invasion came at a pre-season friendly. In the abridged version of a long story it came about due to one too many seafront beers and ended with a friend of mine rugby tackling a ballboy on the halfway line of Scarborough’s McCain Stadium in order to retrieve my beachball.
Lackadaisical stewarding played a significant part in this discretion (they’d all gone off duty for a half-time cuppa) and such relaxed organisation is another pre-season speciality. Two summers ago I was at Meadow Lane the PA system relentlessly played the opening of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ for ten minutes despite a scratched CD meaning the chorus never once came into sight. It took the booming voice of a Yorkshireman in the away end yelling “Its stuck!” to prompt a member of Notts County staff to investigate.
Such is the overhyped media savvy world of domestic football in the UK that what was once a game has now become an experience. As such, its planned with slick precision that does not allow for an on pitch pursuit of an inflatable nor a faulty CD player. Pre-season friendlies may not have the noise and excitement of competitive matches, but for me at least its a much closer experience of the real world of football.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
1992 and all that
In the run up to the Beijing Games and the start of Final Third’s Olympic Diary I thought it might be apt to kick start the sports blog with my first ever Olympic memories.
Whilst Seoul 1988 exists somewhere in my conscience as hazy as the Beijing smog tainted daylight the first Olympic Games which I genuinely remember are those of Barcelona in 1992. I think the main reason for these game sticking in my mind is that as far as Olympics go it certainly had the best theme tune courtesy of Freddie Mercury and that other woman whose name escapes everyone. As such for those who remember 1992 these Games took place not in Barcelona, but in BAARCALO-O-O-NAA!
And it was not just the theme music that stuck in the memory, there was the health and safety nightmare of the Olympic torch lit by flaming bow and arrow, the, for that time, fancy score graphics with the yellow numbers in a grey oblong box. And even in fashion’s nuclear winter which was the late 1980s and early 1990s the British team managed to produce a classic kit with a band of mini union jacks running down the sides of the athletic vests.
And of course there were British Golds, which as a sports obsessed nine year old, seemed for me the only possible outcome. Despite the achievements of Pinsent and Redgrave all my key memories come from the athletics track, each one of them accompanied by the almost sepia tones of David Coleman’s commentary; “Gunnell leads and goes for it. Gunnell goes for gold and Gunnell gets the gold”. Sixteen years on I still remember this word for word, not to mention; “And Christie comes storming through... its Linford Christie”.
It would not be Britain though if glory were not framed by triumphant failure. I speak of course of Derek Redmond. In his semi-final he pulled up on the back straight with a hamstring injury, but determined to finish he hobbled the remaining 200metres, the last one hundred with the help of his dad, to cross the line in tears. A very personal moment played out in as public a setting as there can be. It’s a shame for Derek Redmond that he was born British and not American; in the US the ensuing ‘triumph over adversity’ style media could have been enough to see him become their first Black president; in the UK he only made it as far as the first black referee on Gladiators.
Whilst Seoul 1988 exists somewhere in my conscience as hazy as the Beijing smog tainted daylight the first Olympic Games which I genuinely remember are those of Barcelona in 1992. I think the main reason for these game sticking in my mind is that as far as Olympics go it certainly had the best theme tune courtesy of Freddie Mercury and that other woman whose name escapes everyone. As such for those who remember 1992 these Games took place not in Barcelona, but in BAARCALO-O-O-NAA!
And it was not just the theme music that stuck in the memory, there was the health and safety nightmare of the Olympic torch lit by flaming bow and arrow, the, for that time, fancy score graphics with the yellow numbers in a grey oblong box. And even in fashion’s nuclear winter which was the late 1980s and early 1990s the British team managed to produce a classic kit with a band of mini union jacks running down the sides of the athletic vests.
And of course there were British Golds, which as a sports obsessed nine year old, seemed for me the only possible outcome. Despite the achievements of Pinsent and Redgrave all my key memories come from the athletics track, each one of them accompanied by the almost sepia tones of David Coleman’s commentary; “Gunnell leads and goes for it. Gunnell goes for gold and Gunnell gets the gold”. Sixteen years on I still remember this word for word, not to mention; “And Christie comes storming through... its Linford Christie”.
It would not be Britain though if glory were not framed by triumphant failure. I speak of course of Derek Redmond. In his semi-final he pulled up on the back straight with a hamstring injury, but determined to finish he hobbled the remaining 200metres, the last one hundred with the help of his dad, to cross the line in tears. A very personal moment played out in as public a setting as there can be. It’s a shame for Derek Redmond that he was born British and not American; in the US the ensuing ‘triumph over adversity’ style media could have been enough to see him become their first Black president; in the UK he only made it as far as the first black referee on Gladiators.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Seasons in the Sun
Summer used to be a lazy time, lounging about in beer gardens and breathing in barbecue smoke in a yellowing evening sun. Although it could just be that I’ve watched one too many cider adverts I’m pretty sure that’s how my summers have been spent for more than half a decade. Conversely football was all autumn leaves, floodlights in the gloom and keeping warm through communal referee baiting.
There was a marked difference between the two; it was football or summer as binary opposed as day and night or good and Mark Lawrenson. I use these past participles deliberately because it seems, like those arrows on the Dads Army title sequence, summer has been gradually and steadily penned in by football. The close season is almost no more, football is steadily becoming a year round game which is never out of season, like badminton or Connect Four. In fact the close season was so small this year that it did not begin until 1:00am on Monday 30th June, and it finished just thirty seven minutes later.
The excellent Euro 2008 was a key factor in this particular summer’s football (or should that be football’s summer?). However, major international tournaments aside, the media have worked hard in recent years to blur football and summer as one. You see when you’ve spent nine months of the year hyping up your football coverage it would be bad marketing to subsequently admit the fact that there actually isn’t any football to cover. So instead we get a succession of stories on non-news, wall to wall, screen to page coverage about players who have not gone anywhere.
The thing is, as you may have guessed, I really like football. But then I also like a nice Mint Feast, and as nice as the Feast is, if I was given one every day of the year I would eventually crack and inevitably be found on a roadside somewhere reciting all those poor jokes off the lolly sticks at passing traffic. I like having a break from football, I want to have a break from football so please bring back the close season. Stop squabbling over the television rights to show obscure pre-season tours and in the words of Peter Kay; “Have a Solero and shut the f*** up”.
There was a marked difference between the two; it was football or summer as binary opposed as day and night or good and Mark Lawrenson. I use these past participles deliberately because it seems, like those arrows on the Dads Army title sequence, summer has been gradually and steadily penned in by football. The close season is almost no more, football is steadily becoming a year round game which is never out of season, like badminton or Connect Four. In fact the close season was so small this year that it did not begin until 1:00am on Monday 30th June, and it finished just thirty seven minutes later.
The excellent Euro 2008 was a key factor in this particular summer’s football (or should that be football’s summer?). However, major international tournaments aside, the media have worked hard in recent years to blur football and summer as one. You see when you’ve spent nine months of the year hyping up your football coverage it would be bad marketing to subsequently admit the fact that there actually isn’t any football to cover. So instead we get a succession of stories on non-news, wall to wall, screen to page coverage about players who have not gone anywhere.
The thing is, as you may have guessed, I really like football. But then I also like a nice Mint Feast, and as nice as the Feast is, if I was given one every day of the year I would eventually crack and inevitably be found on a roadside somewhere reciting all those poor jokes off the lolly sticks at passing traffic. I like having a break from football, I want to have a break from football so please bring back the close season. Stop squabbling over the television rights to show obscure pre-season tours and in the words of Peter Kay; “Have a Solero and shut the f*** up”.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Euro 2008 Diary [day19]
Germany 0-1 Spain
When he first began at the BBC John Motson surely could not have imagined he would begin his last international commentary by introducing Enrique Iglesias on stage. Anyway, cringe-fest of a closing ceremony over; on with the football and as the game gets under way Germany look in control. Miroslav Klose is given an early opportunity courtesy of a lazy Sergio Ramos back-pass, but alas his touch is too heavy. Spain's only effort on target in the opening ten minutes comes from a hefty clearance by Iker Casillas.
Fifteen minutes in and the match's balance of power shifts to the red as Iniesta is fed by Xavi and his pull back is deflected goalwards by Christoph Metzelder only to be turned away by a brilliant reaction stop from Jens Lehman. Spain now begin to control the game and Fernando Torres hits the post with a header, two minutes after heading a similar effort wide. Cesc Fabregas and Joan Capdevilla also come close before the Spanish take the lead after half an hour; Torres is played in by Xavi and with "just a little dink" (Mark Lawrenson) lifts the ball over Lehman and into the far corner of the net.
On the German side Michael Ballack has seemingly lost tolerance of his team-mates and is trying to take on the Spanish on his own. His frustrations aren't helped by being repeatedly ordered off for further treatment on a facial wound, and he inevitably finds his way into a booking after a scuffle with Puyol just before the break. At half-time it's clear Spain have impressed all... except Marcel Desailly, who thinks the Spanish should bring on another forward. "He's much bigger than me, and I wouldn't want to fight him, but I have to disagree" says Martin O'Neil.
The second half begins with an uncomfortable looking injury for Miroslav Klose who receives a kick in the Osterreich. At the other end of the field Jens Lehman is understandably angry at some haphazard German defending; "That's a contradiction in terms isn't it, an angry Lehman?" asks Mark Lawrenson as Motson chooses wisely to ignore him. Germany brink on Kevin Kuranyi for Thomas Hitzelsperger and enjoy their best spell of the game as Michael Ballack volleys just wide and Casillas comes out smartly to prevent Kuranyi meeting a cross.
Torres is over again after very little contact from Metzelder and Bastian Shweinsteiger pauses mid-dribble to offer a brief medical assessment before continuing with the game. Despite that brief flurry from Germany Spain are soon back in control and almost take advantage of desperate German defending to double their lead, firstly Sergio Ramos is unmarked from a Xavi free-kick, but his header is well turned over by Lehman. Then from the resulting corner Iniesta is left alone to run freely toward goal and hit a shot that is blocked on the line by Torsten Frings.
Iker Casillas is given little to do, but is the focus of the strangest close-up of the tournament as the camera hovers over his groin for an uncomfortably long time. Germany throw on Mario Gomez, although the straight swap only confuses Lawrenson and the Spanish merely continue their assault. Marcos Senna is next to come close breaking forward before feeding Santi Cazorla who crosses for Danny Guiza, but his nod down is agonisingly out of reach for Senna. In the closing minutes Germany almost orchestrate a fleeting chance, but Capdevilla is fouled by Gomez and Spain see out the remaining time. "The senors have become the seniors" closes Motson as a footballing cliché bites the dust; Spain are 'perennial underachievers' no more
When he first began at the BBC John Motson surely could not have imagined he would begin his last international commentary by introducing Enrique Iglesias on stage. Anyway, cringe-fest of a closing ceremony over; on with the football and as the game gets under way Germany look in control. Miroslav Klose is given an early opportunity courtesy of a lazy Sergio Ramos back-pass, but alas his touch is too heavy. Spain's only effort on target in the opening ten minutes comes from a hefty clearance by Iker Casillas.
Fifteen minutes in and the match's balance of power shifts to the red as Iniesta is fed by Xavi and his pull back is deflected goalwards by Christoph Metzelder only to be turned away by a brilliant reaction stop from Jens Lehman. Spain now begin to control the game and Fernando Torres hits the post with a header, two minutes after heading a similar effort wide. Cesc Fabregas and Joan Capdevilla also come close before the Spanish take the lead after half an hour; Torres is played in by Xavi and with "just a little dink" (Mark Lawrenson) lifts the ball over Lehman and into the far corner of the net.
On the German side Michael Ballack has seemingly lost tolerance of his team-mates and is trying to take on the Spanish on his own. His frustrations aren't helped by being repeatedly ordered off for further treatment on a facial wound, and he inevitably finds his way into a booking after a scuffle with Puyol just before the break. At half-time it's clear Spain have impressed all... except Marcel Desailly, who thinks the Spanish should bring on another forward. "He's much bigger than me, and I wouldn't want to fight him, but I have to disagree" says Martin O'Neil.
The second half begins with an uncomfortable looking injury for Miroslav Klose who receives a kick in the Osterreich. At the other end of the field Jens Lehman is understandably angry at some haphazard German defending; "That's a contradiction in terms isn't it, an angry Lehman?" asks Mark Lawrenson as Motson chooses wisely to ignore him. Germany brink on Kevin Kuranyi for Thomas Hitzelsperger and enjoy their best spell of the game as Michael Ballack volleys just wide and Casillas comes out smartly to prevent Kuranyi meeting a cross.
Torres is over again after very little contact from Metzelder and Bastian Shweinsteiger pauses mid-dribble to offer a brief medical assessment before continuing with the game. Despite that brief flurry from Germany Spain are soon back in control and almost take advantage of desperate German defending to double their lead, firstly Sergio Ramos is unmarked from a Xavi free-kick, but his header is well turned over by Lehman. Then from the resulting corner Iniesta is left alone to run freely toward goal and hit a shot that is blocked on the line by Torsten Frings.
Iker Casillas is given little to do, but is the focus of the strangest close-up of the tournament as the camera hovers over his groin for an uncomfortably long time. Germany throw on Mario Gomez, although the straight swap only confuses Lawrenson and the Spanish merely continue their assault. Marcos Senna is next to come close breaking forward before feeding Santi Cazorla who crosses for Danny Guiza, but his nod down is agonisingly out of reach for Senna. In the closing minutes Germany almost orchestrate a fleeting chance, but Capdevilla is fouled by Gomez and Spain see out the remaining time. "The senors have become the seniors" closes Motson as a footballing cliché bites the dust; Spain are 'perennial underachievers' no more
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Euro 2008 Diary [day18]
Russia 0-3 Spain
During the national anthems Andrei Arshavin stares into the camera as if it is his first encounter with technology. Sadly, for a player who has been so key in his team's progress it is as focussed as he'll look all evening. Spain make the early headway and Igor Akinfeev is forced into two decent saves, firstly using his feet to prevent Fernando Torres, the second getting down to his right after David Villa cuts in from the left. For all his talent Torres continues to go down theatrically at opportune moments, thankfully this referee, like most so far, is having none of it.
Russia forge few chances in the first half, but those that do come their way fall to Roman Pavlyuchenko. The forward strikes a free-kick over the bar and curls another effort wide before his best chance as he looks to have found space beyond the Spanish defence, however he is crowded out as he shoots and can only direct the ball wide. Goalless at half-time, but Spain have been forced to take off top scorer David Villa.
Five minutes into the second half the Spanish take the lead from a break down the left. Iniesta holds the ball up before delivering a chipped ball across the six yard box that is poked home by the on rushing Xavi. "Where did he come from?" asks Clive Tyldsley and presumably much of the Russian defence too. On the hour mark Spain are in control and Torres comes close to doubling their lead on two occasions. Cesc Fabregas is described as a "cunning little passer" by David Pleat and lives up to his moniker by chipping a pass in for Danny Guiza to finish for the second goal. "Spain are coming back here on Sunday" yells Tyldsley, possibly tempting fate given how the tournament has gone so far.
However, but for a Sychev header from an Arshavin free-kick that is well saved by Iker Casillas the final fifteen minutes belong to Spain just as emphatically as the preceding seventy-five, and they add a third ten minutes from time. Fabregas gets down the left and feeds David Silva who finishes well. "Ole" says Tyldsley as Spain deservedly progress.
During the national anthems Andrei Arshavin stares into the camera as if it is his first encounter with technology. Sadly, for a player who has been so key in his team's progress it is as focussed as he'll look all evening. Spain make the early headway and Igor Akinfeev is forced into two decent saves, firstly using his feet to prevent Fernando Torres, the second getting down to his right after David Villa cuts in from the left. For all his talent Torres continues to go down theatrically at opportune moments, thankfully this referee, like most so far, is having none of it.
Russia forge few chances in the first half, but those that do come their way fall to Roman Pavlyuchenko. The forward strikes a free-kick over the bar and curls another effort wide before his best chance as he looks to have found space beyond the Spanish defence, however he is crowded out as he shoots and can only direct the ball wide. Goalless at half-time, but Spain have been forced to take off top scorer David Villa.
Five minutes into the second half the Spanish take the lead from a break down the left. Iniesta holds the ball up before delivering a chipped ball across the six yard box that is poked home by the on rushing Xavi. "Where did he come from?" asks Clive Tyldsley and presumably much of the Russian defence too. On the hour mark Spain are in control and Torres comes close to doubling their lead on two occasions. Cesc Fabregas is described as a "cunning little passer" by David Pleat and lives up to his moniker by chipping a pass in for Danny Guiza to finish for the second goal. "Spain are coming back here on Sunday" yells Tyldsley, possibly tempting fate given how the tournament has gone so far.
However, but for a Sychev header from an Arshavin free-kick that is well saved by Iker Casillas the final fifteen minutes belong to Spain just as emphatically as the preceding seventy-five, and they add a third ten minutes from time. Fabregas gets down the left and feeds David Silva who finishes well. "Ole" says Tyldsley as Spain deservedly progress.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Euro 2008 Diary [day17]
Germany 3-2 Turkey
With Turkey laden with injury and suspension the BBC's panel have opted for Germany en masse in this first semi final. Before the football though both team captains take the microphone to read a message about racism to their respective supporters, and we can only be thankful that England haven't reached this stage given the articulation of their captaincy candidates. With little action in the first five minutes John Motson embarks on a one man statisticathon. Mehmet Topal is probably the tallest play for Turkey... Hakan Balta was born in Berlin... Hamit Altintop was born in Gelsenkirchen... Joachim Low managed two clubs in Turkey... and probably has more than one white shirt.
Despite all their pre-match setbacks Turkey take control of the first half and are unlucky not to score when Colin Kazim-Richards whacks a shot against Jens Lehman's crossbar. Within minutes Kazim-Richards strikes the bar again as he meets Sabri Sarioglu's low cross and directs a looping effort over Lehman, however this time it falls to Ugur Borul and he pokes it beneath Lehman for the opening goal. Turkey have only led for three minutes so far in this tournament and that figure is only extended by four here as Lukas Podolski gets down the left and his low cross is turned in by Bastian Schweinsteiger for an arguably undeserved equaliser. Turkey continue to threaten, and a free-kick from Borul is beaten out by Lehman "The wall isn't very good," comments Mark Lawrenson, "You'd expect more efficient organisation from Germany" suggests Motson, embracing a lazy stereotype as if it were a long lost family member.
Lawrenson appears to be using this tournament to cement his own catchphrase and continues to use the phrase 'by the way' at every opportunity. He does so most unnecessarily when Philipp Lahm is flattened on the edge of the Turkish box and the referee decides to give nothing; "How is that not a penalty by the way?" This is the last action the world sees for a while with a huge thunderstorm in Vienna the apparent reason for a loss of feed, however the BBC overt a crisis by quickly switching to the Radio Five Live commentary. The thought of Andy Townsend desperately padding had ITV had the rights to this match is enough to give you nightmares.
Towards the end of one of these blackouts Germany take the lead, and pictures re-appear just in time to see a replay of Miroslav Klose heading home from a cross that Rustu Recbar, the Turkish keeper, mistakenly tried to intercept. With time running out Germany look to have secured an unlikely victory only for Turkey to do what they do best and score a late goal. Sabri leaves Lahm for dead with a neat turn and his low cross is flicked in at the near post by Semih Senturk.
However, after delivering a succession of sucker punches Popeye would be proud of throughout the tournament Turkey receive one of their own in the final minute. Lahm breaks down the left and exchanges passes with Thomas Hitzelsperger before placing a fine finish into the top corner to win it for Germany. Down on the touchline "Fatih Terim is making all the hand gestures in the world" according to Lawrenson, but sadly this entertaining spectacle isn't picked up by the cameras and Turkey are undeservedly out.
With Turkey laden with injury and suspension the BBC's panel have opted for Germany en masse in this first semi final. Before the football though both team captains take the microphone to read a message about racism to their respective supporters, and we can only be thankful that England haven't reached this stage given the articulation of their captaincy candidates. With little action in the first five minutes John Motson embarks on a one man statisticathon. Mehmet Topal is probably the tallest play for Turkey... Hakan Balta was born in Berlin... Hamit Altintop was born in Gelsenkirchen... Joachim Low managed two clubs in Turkey... and probably has more than one white shirt.
Despite all their pre-match setbacks Turkey take control of the first half and are unlucky not to score when Colin Kazim-Richards whacks a shot against Jens Lehman's crossbar. Within minutes Kazim-Richards strikes the bar again as he meets Sabri Sarioglu's low cross and directs a looping effort over Lehman, however this time it falls to Ugur Borul and he pokes it beneath Lehman for the opening goal. Turkey have only led for three minutes so far in this tournament and that figure is only extended by four here as Lukas Podolski gets down the left and his low cross is turned in by Bastian Schweinsteiger for an arguably undeserved equaliser. Turkey continue to threaten, and a free-kick from Borul is beaten out by Lehman "The wall isn't very good," comments Mark Lawrenson, "You'd expect more efficient organisation from Germany" suggests Motson, embracing a lazy stereotype as if it were a long lost family member.
Lawrenson appears to be using this tournament to cement his own catchphrase and continues to use the phrase 'by the way' at every opportunity. He does so most unnecessarily when Philipp Lahm is flattened on the edge of the Turkish box and the referee decides to give nothing; "How is that not a penalty by the way?" This is the last action the world sees for a while with a huge thunderstorm in Vienna the apparent reason for a loss of feed, however the BBC overt a crisis by quickly switching to the Radio Five Live commentary. The thought of Andy Townsend desperately padding had ITV had the rights to this match is enough to give you nightmares.
Towards the end of one of these blackouts Germany take the lead, and pictures re-appear just in time to see a replay of Miroslav Klose heading home from a cross that Rustu Recbar, the Turkish keeper, mistakenly tried to intercept. With time running out Germany look to have secured an unlikely victory only for Turkey to do what they do best and score a late goal. Sabri leaves Lahm for dead with a neat turn and his low cross is flicked in at the near post by Semih Senturk.
However, after delivering a succession of sucker punches Popeye would be proud of throughout the tournament Turkey receive one of their own in the final minute. Lahm breaks down the left and exchanges passes with Thomas Hitzelsperger before placing a fine finish into the top corner to win it for Germany. Down on the touchline "Fatih Terim is making all the hand gestures in the world" according to Lawrenson, but sadly this entertaining spectacle isn't picked up by the cameras and Turkey are undeservedly out.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Euro 2008 Diary [day16]
Italy 0-0 Spain (2-4 on penalties)
"Don't mention June 22nd to the Spanish" begins John Motson before doing so at length as he reels off a list of Spanish penalty shoot-out defeats that have all come on this date. What promises to be an intriguing contest on paper, is an awful one on grass, the first shot on goal coming after twenty minutes as Simone Perotta's header is comfortably saved by Iker Casillas. Spain look the better side, but are being outmuscled by the Italian defence; "like a fourth former against a prefect" is how Mark Lawrenson describes Fabio Grosso getting the better of Andres Iniesta. The best effort of the half comes as David Silva pulls a shot just wide after an incisive Fernando Torres run. Thankfully there is just one added minute before the break.
In the second half chances remain limited and even the substitutions are made in pedestrian fashion. However both sides come closer to scoring, Mauro Camoranesi brings a great save from Casillas after Luca Toni had caused panic in the Spanish area. For Spain Marcos Senna threatens twice from long range, his first effort is beaten out by Gianluigi Buffon whilst his second strike is uncharacteristically spilt by the keeper only to spin onto the base of the goalpost. In a match of niggling half fouls and theatrics, David Villa can count himself unlucky to be booked for 'simulation' after slipping over in the Italian area.
Sadly the match labours to extra-time, the first five minutes of which produces more chances than the rest of the game put together. Silva flashes an effort just wide for Spain whilst Casillas brilliantly tips over a header from Antonio Di Natale. Mark Lawrenson is still having trouble recognising rhetorical questions, as John Motson ponders "Will penalties provide Italy with a psychological advantage?" Lawrenson chips in with a dismissive "I doubt it".
In the second half of extra time Villa almost gets in on goal but Buffon is out quickly to smother the chance. Di Natale endears himself to the Spanish fans by rolling back on to the pitch whilst injured so a Spanish attack is halted, he is subsequently booed every time he comes close to the ball. In the final minute Santi Cazorla drives a shot wide and so the match heads to its inevitable penalty shoot-out climax.
Curiously the BBC choose this moment to show a montage of Spanish penalty shoot-out losses, but it seems they are not tempting fate as Villa and Cazorla score Spain's opening kicks. Grosso does likewise for Italy before Daniele De Rossi's effort is brilliantly saved by Casillas. With Senna and Camoranesi also finding the net Dani Guiza briefly makes it interesting as Buffon saves his kick, however the next Italian effort from the unpopular Di Natale is also saved by Casillas to put Spain back in control. It falls to Cesc Fabregas to strike the winning spot-kick and send Spain through.
"Don't mention June 22nd to the Spanish" begins John Motson before doing so at length as he reels off a list of Spanish penalty shoot-out defeats that have all come on this date. What promises to be an intriguing contest on paper, is an awful one on grass, the first shot on goal coming after twenty minutes as Simone Perotta's header is comfortably saved by Iker Casillas. Spain look the better side, but are being outmuscled by the Italian defence; "like a fourth former against a prefect" is how Mark Lawrenson describes Fabio Grosso getting the better of Andres Iniesta. The best effort of the half comes as David Silva pulls a shot just wide after an incisive Fernando Torres run. Thankfully there is just one added minute before the break.
In the second half chances remain limited and even the substitutions are made in pedestrian fashion. However both sides come closer to scoring, Mauro Camoranesi brings a great save from Casillas after Luca Toni had caused panic in the Spanish area. For Spain Marcos Senna threatens twice from long range, his first effort is beaten out by Gianluigi Buffon whilst his second strike is uncharacteristically spilt by the keeper only to spin onto the base of the goalpost. In a match of niggling half fouls and theatrics, David Villa can count himself unlucky to be booked for 'simulation' after slipping over in the Italian area.
Sadly the match labours to extra-time, the first five minutes of which produces more chances than the rest of the game put together. Silva flashes an effort just wide for Spain whilst Casillas brilliantly tips over a header from Antonio Di Natale. Mark Lawrenson is still having trouble recognising rhetorical questions, as John Motson ponders "Will penalties provide Italy with a psychological advantage?" Lawrenson chips in with a dismissive "I doubt it".
In the second half of extra time Villa almost gets in on goal but Buffon is out quickly to smother the chance. Di Natale endears himself to the Spanish fans by rolling back on to the pitch whilst injured so a Spanish attack is halted, he is subsequently booed every time he comes close to the ball. In the final minute Santi Cazorla drives a shot wide and so the match heads to its inevitable penalty shoot-out climax.
Curiously the BBC choose this moment to show a montage of Spanish penalty shoot-out losses, but it seems they are not tempting fate as Villa and Cazorla score Spain's opening kicks. Grosso does likewise for Italy before Daniele De Rossi's effort is brilliantly saved by Casillas. With Senna and Camoranesi also finding the net Dani Guiza briefly makes it interesting as Buffon saves his kick, however the next Italian effort from the unpopular Di Natale is also saved by Casillas to put Spain back in control. It falls to Cesc Fabregas to strike the winning spot-kick and send Spain through.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Euro 2008 Diary [day15]
Russia 3-1 Netherlands (aet)
"If you took an aerial photo of this city today it would look like a piece of toast... covered in marmalade" is Peter Drury's way of saying there are a lot of Dutch fans in Basel for this quarter final. Despite overwhelming Dutch support it's Russia who have the best of the opening fifteen minutes with Yuri Zhirkov testing Edwin Van der Sar with a near post free-kick. The Dutch keeper is the busier of the two and he also gets down well to turn an Andrei Arshavin effort round the post as well as turning the longest of long range efforts from Denis Kolodin over the bar.
The Netherlands' best chances are coming from set pieces, most notably Rafael Van der Vaart's vicious inswinging delivery that just evades Ruud Van Nistelrooy and Nigel de Jong. It is Van Nistelrooy who first tests Akinfeev as he rolls his marker before striking a low shot that the Russian keeper turns away. Van der Varrt also has a chance, firing straight at Igor Akinfeev after being played in by what Jim Beglin terms "a Titus Bramble moment" from Kolodin, causing at least one television in the Wigan area to be struck by a remote control... well perhaps the fireplace to the side of the television anyway.
In the second half Khalid Boulahrouz is booked for what Drury calls 'a meat-eaters tackle' although that sounds strangely like an unfortunate Victorian ailment. The Dutch defender is subbed soon after, receiving a standing ovation from the ground in view of his recent bereavement. Within minutes the Russians are in front; Sergei Semak gets down the left flank and crosses for Roman Pavluchenko to volley home. Russia are in control and have chances to double their lead as Aleksandr Anyukov is denied by Van der Sar, and then as they fail in an attempt to walk an attack into the Dutch goal.
Instead, their failure to make the game safe, along with their failure to defend set-pieces costs them as five minutes from time Van Nistelrooy heads home Wesley Sneijder's cross for the equaliser; "Orange is bright again, and has a future" yells Drury. In the final minutes there is still time for further drama as Kolodin is shown a second yellow card for a foul on Sneijder, however after consultation with his linesman, Lubos Michel quickly rescinds his decision to a goal-kick, so it remains eleven-a-side for extra-time.
Both sides forge chances in the opening half of extra time, Van Nistelrooy threatening for the Dutch but Russia have the better chances; Pavlyuchenko rattling the crossbar as he cuts inside. Russia finally get their reward in the second period as Arshavin manages to dink a high cross over Van der Sar and Dmitri Torbinski wins the race to knock it over the line and spark a good old fashioned twenty-two man pile on by the corner flag. Within two minutes Russia double their advantage as Arshavin reacts quicker than anyone to a long throw and via a deflection pokes the ball through Van der Sar's legs. Russia progress and Gus Hiddink skips onto the field in celebration like an oversized child heading to the zoo.
"If you took an aerial photo of this city today it would look like a piece of toast... covered in marmalade" is Peter Drury's way of saying there are a lot of Dutch fans in Basel for this quarter final. Despite overwhelming Dutch support it's Russia who have the best of the opening fifteen minutes with Yuri Zhirkov testing Edwin Van der Sar with a near post free-kick. The Dutch keeper is the busier of the two and he also gets down well to turn an Andrei Arshavin effort round the post as well as turning the longest of long range efforts from Denis Kolodin over the bar.
The Netherlands' best chances are coming from set pieces, most notably Rafael Van der Vaart's vicious inswinging delivery that just evades Ruud Van Nistelrooy and Nigel de Jong. It is Van Nistelrooy who first tests Akinfeev as he rolls his marker before striking a low shot that the Russian keeper turns away. Van der Varrt also has a chance, firing straight at Igor Akinfeev after being played in by what Jim Beglin terms "a Titus Bramble moment" from Kolodin, causing at least one television in the Wigan area to be struck by a remote control... well perhaps the fireplace to the side of the television anyway.
In the second half Khalid Boulahrouz is booked for what Drury calls 'a meat-eaters tackle' although that sounds strangely like an unfortunate Victorian ailment. The Dutch defender is subbed soon after, receiving a standing ovation from the ground in view of his recent bereavement. Within minutes the Russians are in front; Sergei Semak gets down the left flank and crosses for Roman Pavluchenko to volley home. Russia are in control and have chances to double their lead as Aleksandr Anyukov is denied by Van der Sar, and then as they fail in an attempt to walk an attack into the Dutch goal.
Instead, their failure to make the game safe, along with their failure to defend set-pieces costs them as five minutes from time Van Nistelrooy heads home Wesley Sneijder's cross for the equaliser; "Orange is bright again, and has a future" yells Drury. In the final minutes there is still time for further drama as Kolodin is shown a second yellow card for a foul on Sneijder, however after consultation with his linesman, Lubos Michel quickly rescinds his decision to a goal-kick, so it remains eleven-a-side for extra-time.
Both sides forge chances in the opening half of extra time, Van Nistelrooy threatening for the Dutch but Russia have the better chances; Pavlyuchenko rattling the crossbar as he cuts inside. Russia finally get their reward in the second period as Arshavin manages to dink a high cross over Van der Sar and Dmitri Torbinski wins the race to knock it over the line and spark a good old fashioned twenty-two man pile on by the corner flag. Within two minutes Russia double their advantage as Arshavin reacts quicker than anyone to a long throw and via a deflection pokes the ball through Van der Sar's legs. Russia progress and Gus Hiddink skips onto the field in celebration like an oversized child heading to the zoo.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Euro 2008 Diary [day14]
Croatia 1-1 Turkey (1-3 on penalties)
"Last time Turkey descended on Austria like this was the Ottoman Empire" is Gary Lineker's opening gambit to what proves a slow but enthralling game none the less. Croatia are the better side early on, but they are contained by Turkey whose most experienced player, the stand-in goalkeeper Rustu Recber, is widely acknowledged as the side's weakest link, despite over one hundred caps.
Croatia should take the lead midway through the half as Luka Modric cross for Ivica Olic who should score, but with the Croatian bench already celebrating he can only rattle the bar from four yards out. On the Turkish bench coach Fatih Terim is steadily disrobing like a newspaper editor trying to reach a deadline; resplendent in suit at kick-off he is already tie-less with sleeves rolled up by the time Mehmet Topal flashes a long range effort inches wide ten minutes from half-time. Just before the break, with Tuncay down injured, Danijel Pranjic takes the opportunity to get medical attention, but instead seems to be on the receiving end of a selection of wrestling holds from one of Slavan Bilic's roadies.
In the second half Croatia continue to control the game and are almost gifted a goal by the combined efforts of Rustu and Emre Asik, it's "like the keystone cops at the back for Turkey" says Steve Wilson, but Olic can't capitalise. All the chances are falling to Croatia, but Rustu is keeping them at bay, blocking another Olic effort and brilliantly turning away a Darijo Srna free-kick. When he is beaten it is only by a very offside Olic with the whistle already blown. Glimpses of the Croatian goalmouth are rare, but when they do occur each shows more and more stewards crowded on the running track, like a bizarre luminous tabard clad remake of 'The Birds'.
The game moves into extra-time and Turkey, players and fans alike, wake up. "The Turkish fans are making a right racket" comments Wilson and they've every right to as their team dominate the opening fifteen minutes, Tuncay comes close to beating Stipe Pletikosa twice, whilst Semih Senturk also shoots over.
After the break its the Croat fans turn to rally their side and it eventually pays off in the final minute. Rustu inexplicably gives chase to Corluka's blocked cross but he is beaten to it by Modric and with the keeper stranded he chips the ball across for Ivan Klasnic to head home. The player is duly mobbed by the entire Croat bench, including Slavan Bilic who has made a David Pleat-esque run down the touchline. Already in injury time Turkey get one last throw of the dice, and they somehow roll a seven; Rustu hoofs the ball into the Croat box and it falls to Semih, who hits and hopes towards goal, and via a deflection finds the top corner with the game's very last kick.
Penalties then, a dejected Croatia against a buoyant Turkey, tension added to by the lack of a matchball. With Modric missing the opening Croatian penalty it's already 2-1 to Turkey as Ivan Rakitic steps up for the third round of kicks. "He's just a boy" intones Wilson sympathetically, but like Modric before him Rakitic too pulls his kick wide. Hamit Altintop makes it 3-1 leaving the pressure on Mladen Petric who must score to keep Croatia in the tournament. Inevitably Rustu saves and Croatia are undeservedly out. "Never ever ever write off the Turks," summarises Wilson, perhaps confusing prospective semi-final opponents.
"Last time Turkey descended on Austria like this was the Ottoman Empire" is Gary Lineker's opening gambit to what proves a slow but enthralling game none the less. Croatia are the better side early on, but they are contained by Turkey whose most experienced player, the stand-in goalkeeper Rustu Recber, is widely acknowledged as the side's weakest link, despite over one hundred caps.
Croatia should take the lead midway through the half as Luka Modric cross for Ivica Olic who should score, but with the Croatian bench already celebrating he can only rattle the bar from four yards out. On the Turkish bench coach Fatih Terim is steadily disrobing like a newspaper editor trying to reach a deadline; resplendent in suit at kick-off he is already tie-less with sleeves rolled up by the time Mehmet Topal flashes a long range effort inches wide ten minutes from half-time. Just before the break, with Tuncay down injured, Danijel Pranjic takes the opportunity to get medical attention, but instead seems to be on the receiving end of a selection of wrestling holds from one of Slavan Bilic's roadies.
In the second half Croatia continue to control the game and are almost gifted a goal by the combined efforts of Rustu and Emre Asik, it's "like the keystone cops at the back for Turkey" says Steve Wilson, but Olic can't capitalise. All the chances are falling to Croatia, but Rustu is keeping them at bay, blocking another Olic effort and brilliantly turning away a Darijo Srna free-kick. When he is beaten it is only by a very offside Olic with the whistle already blown. Glimpses of the Croatian goalmouth are rare, but when they do occur each shows more and more stewards crowded on the running track, like a bizarre luminous tabard clad remake of 'The Birds'.
The game moves into extra-time and Turkey, players and fans alike, wake up. "The Turkish fans are making a right racket" comments Wilson and they've every right to as their team dominate the opening fifteen minutes, Tuncay comes close to beating Stipe Pletikosa twice, whilst Semih Senturk also shoots over.
After the break its the Croat fans turn to rally their side and it eventually pays off in the final minute. Rustu inexplicably gives chase to Corluka's blocked cross but he is beaten to it by Modric and with the keeper stranded he chips the ball across for Ivan Klasnic to head home. The player is duly mobbed by the entire Croat bench, including Slavan Bilic who has made a David Pleat-esque run down the touchline. Already in injury time Turkey get one last throw of the dice, and they somehow roll a seven; Rustu hoofs the ball into the Croat box and it falls to Semih, who hits and hopes towards goal, and via a deflection finds the top corner with the game's very last kick.
Penalties then, a dejected Croatia against a buoyant Turkey, tension added to by the lack of a matchball. With Modric missing the opening Croatian penalty it's already 2-1 to Turkey as Ivan Rakitic steps up for the third round of kicks. "He's just a boy" intones Wilson sympathetically, but like Modric before him Rakitic too pulls his kick wide. Hamit Altintop makes it 3-1 leaving the pressure on Mladen Petric who must score to keep Croatia in the tournament. Inevitably Rustu saves and Croatia are undeservedly out. "Never ever ever write off the Turks," summarises Wilson, perhaps confusing prospective semi-final opponents.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Euro 2008 Diary [day13]
Germany 3-2 Portugal
Basel's hastily relayed pitch is the venue for the first quarter final as Germany take on Portugal. In the corner of the stadium a large section of the German support have come dressed as the national flag in an effort to look patriotic, but alas they've just fallen into a stereotype of clinical and efficient organisation. On the pitch both teams create opportunities in the opening fifteen minutes, but then for Thomas Hitzelsperger just entering the opposition half is considered an opportunity.
Midway through the half comes the opening goal as Germany break down the left hand side; Lucas Podolski exchanges passes with Michael Ballack and his low cross is finished by Bastian Schweinsteiger; "Germany at their very best" yells Clive Tyldsley, hitting the nail square on for once. Within two minutes its 2-0, Portugal's defence look shell-shocked by the prospect of clearing an inswinging set-piece and Miroslav Klose takes advantage to head home Schweinsteiger's cross.
Portugal edge their way back into contention and set up a potentially great second half as they pull a goal back five minutes before the break. Cristian Ronaldo finds space on the left, and although Jens Lehman saves his shot, Nuno Gomes is on hand to squeeze the rebound home.
In the second half comes clear evidence of a cultural shift; the magic sponge of football past has been replaced by the magic yellow card. Arne Friedrich fouls Ronaldo who writhes and rolls until a caution is issued to the German and then gets to his feet and carries on. Pepe has a chance to equalise for the Portugese but can't prevent his reaction header from going over. From looking destined to equalise Portugal instead fall further behind from another Schweinsteiger set-piece. This time his inswinging ball draws Ricardo from his goal-line, and Ballack beats the keeper to the ball to make it 3-1.
Portugal push forward but look uncertain of how to beat the German defence, unable to pass through them, but unwilling to put crosses in they eventually pull a goal back from the latter option. "Hello! Hold on a moment" yells Tyldsley as Helder Postiga heads home Nani's cross. It sets up a frantic final five minutes, but Germany look unlikely to concede and up in the stands their manager Jogi Low lights up a cigarette.
The final whistle goes and Germany are the first team into the semi finals meaning a succession of Phil Scolari and Chelsea stories are bound for the newspapers in the days ahead and a chance to reiterate cliché for Tylsdsley; "Never, ever, ever, write them off".
Basel's hastily relayed pitch is the venue for the first quarter final as Germany take on Portugal. In the corner of the stadium a large section of the German support have come dressed as the national flag in an effort to look patriotic, but alas they've just fallen into a stereotype of clinical and efficient organisation. On the pitch both teams create opportunities in the opening fifteen minutes, but then for Thomas Hitzelsperger just entering the opposition half is considered an opportunity.
Midway through the half comes the opening goal as Germany break down the left hand side; Lucas Podolski exchanges passes with Michael Ballack and his low cross is finished by Bastian Schweinsteiger; "Germany at their very best" yells Clive Tyldsley, hitting the nail square on for once. Within two minutes its 2-0, Portugal's defence look shell-shocked by the prospect of clearing an inswinging set-piece and Miroslav Klose takes advantage to head home Schweinsteiger's cross.
Portugal edge their way back into contention and set up a potentially great second half as they pull a goal back five minutes before the break. Cristian Ronaldo finds space on the left, and although Jens Lehman saves his shot, Nuno Gomes is on hand to squeeze the rebound home.
In the second half comes clear evidence of a cultural shift; the magic sponge of football past has been replaced by the magic yellow card. Arne Friedrich fouls Ronaldo who writhes and rolls until a caution is issued to the German and then gets to his feet and carries on. Pepe has a chance to equalise for the Portugese but can't prevent his reaction header from going over. From looking destined to equalise Portugal instead fall further behind from another Schweinsteiger set-piece. This time his inswinging ball draws Ricardo from his goal-line, and Ballack beats the keeper to the ball to make it 3-1.
Portugal push forward but look uncertain of how to beat the German defence, unable to pass through them, but unwilling to put crosses in they eventually pull a goal back from the latter option. "Hello! Hold on a moment" yells Tyldsley as Helder Postiga heads home Nani's cross. It sets up a frantic final five minutes, but Germany look unlikely to concede and up in the stands their manager Jogi Low lights up a cigarette.
The final whistle goes and Germany are the first team into the semi finals meaning a succession of Phil Scolari and Chelsea stories are bound for the newspapers in the days ahead and a chance to reiterate cliché for Tylsdsley; "Never, ever, ever, write them off".
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Euro 2008 Diary [day12]
Sweden 0-2 Russia / Spain 2-1 Greece
John Champion is perhaps the only commentator who will ever use the line "surrounded by fields of cows" when building up the atmosphere to a crucial international match. With Spain already through and holders Greece already out the focus is on Innsbruck, home of cows seemingly, but also venue for the winner-goes-through match between Sweden and Russia. As a brief aside here, has anyone else noticed the similarity between the Russian National anthem and the music from Police Academy? No?
The Russians have welcomed back playmaker Andrei Arshavin after a two match ban, and he is proving to be the missing link for an impressive team. Methodical and controlled in possession the "red army" as Champion lazily references them, look much more accomplished than their Scandinavian opponents. Arshavin almost catches out Andreas Isaksson with a high cross-cum-shot whilst Yuri Zhirkov also flashes a volley just wide from a corner before Russia deservedly break the deadlock after twenty-four minutes. A well-worked move down the right flank orchestrated by the impressive Aleksandr Anyukov ends with Roman Pavlyuchenko finally breaking his tournament duck with a well placed low shot.
Pavlyuchenko could have another goal within minutes, but this time he ends a similar flowing move with a chipped shot onto the crossbar. Despite Russia's early dominance Sweden start to find their feet toward the end of the half with Mikael Nilsson and Freddie Ljunberg threatening, but their best effort is a flicked Henrik Larsson header that strikes the bar.
Like their fellow early qualifiers Spain have rested players for their match with Greece, but unlike the others it appears to have made a difference. Despite a range of spectacular close efforts from Xabi Alonso the Spanish trail to Greece's first goal of the tournament, a well placed powerful header from Angelos Charisteas.
Back in Innsbruck and Russia look to have confirmed their place in the quarter finals just five minutes into the second half. Arshavin plays in Zhirkov down the left and then makes it into the box to slide the return pass past Isaksson. Sweden could boast the better possession for the remainder of the match, but they failed to make anything from it and were left open to Russian counter-attacks. Konstantin Zyrianov only prevented from making it 3-0 by the upright, as Russia move on to face the Netherlands in the quarter finals. "First Eurovision, now this" is Champion's strangely prioritised summary.
In Salzburg Russia's fellow Group D quarter finalists have returned from a goal down to defeat Greece 2-1 and qualify with maximum points. Ruben de la Red equalised on the hour mark with the sort of shot Hot Shot Hamish would have been proud off, cannoning the ball home via Antonios Nikopolidis' now probably broken hand and the crossbar. With two minutes to go the Spanish complete their come back as Daniel Gueza wanders freely beyond a terrible offside trap to head home a Sergio Garcia cross.
John Champion is perhaps the only commentator who will ever use the line "surrounded by fields of cows" when building up the atmosphere to a crucial international match. With Spain already through and holders Greece already out the focus is on Innsbruck, home of cows seemingly, but also venue for the winner-goes-through match between Sweden and Russia. As a brief aside here, has anyone else noticed the similarity between the Russian National anthem and the music from Police Academy? No?
The Russians have welcomed back playmaker Andrei Arshavin after a two match ban, and he is proving to be the missing link for an impressive team. Methodical and controlled in possession the "red army" as Champion lazily references them, look much more accomplished than their Scandinavian opponents. Arshavin almost catches out Andreas Isaksson with a high cross-cum-shot whilst Yuri Zhirkov also flashes a volley just wide from a corner before Russia deservedly break the deadlock after twenty-four minutes. A well-worked move down the right flank orchestrated by the impressive Aleksandr Anyukov ends with Roman Pavlyuchenko finally breaking his tournament duck with a well placed low shot.
Pavlyuchenko could have another goal within minutes, but this time he ends a similar flowing move with a chipped shot onto the crossbar. Despite Russia's early dominance Sweden start to find their feet toward the end of the half with Mikael Nilsson and Freddie Ljunberg threatening, but their best effort is a flicked Henrik Larsson header that strikes the bar.
Like their fellow early qualifiers Spain have rested players for their match with Greece, but unlike the others it appears to have made a difference. Despite a range of spectacular close efforts from Xabi Alonso the Spanish trail to Greece's first goal of the tournament, a well placed powerful header from Angelos Charisteas.
Back in Innsbruck and Russia look to have confirmed their place in the quarter finals just five minutes into the second half. Arshavin plays in Zhirkov down the left and then makes it into the box to slide the return pass past Isaksson. Sweden could boast the better possession for the remainder of the match, but they failed to make anything from it and were left open to Russian counter-attacks. Konstantin Zyrianov only prevented from making it 3-0 by the upright, as Russia move on to face the Netherlands in the quarter finals. "First Eurovision, now this" is Champion's strangely prioritised summary.
In Salzburg Russia's fellow Group D quarter finalists have returned from a goal down to defeat Greece 2-1 and qualify with maximum points. Ruben de la Red equalised on the hour mark with the sort of shot Hot Shot Hamish would have been proud off, cannoning the ball home via Antonios Nikopolidis' now probably broken hand and the crossbar. With two minutes to go the Spanish complete their come back as Daniel Gueza wanders freely beyond a terrible offside trap to head home a Sergio Garcia cross.
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