Freedom For Our People

Freedom is a strange thing. Blood, and drinks, may be spilt over it, but sometimes it can be, quite literally, at your fingertips. Last week I was gaily walking to the tube from work, basking in the late afternoon sunset, when I absent-mindedly put my hands into my trouser pockets. A small act, you might think – and you'd surely be right: inconsequential to even the most expansive of minds, and yet one which suddenly took on great personal significance. As my digits rested against the cushiony linen lining, I experienced one of those moments of stratospheric self-awareness, my mind crashing back to my school days and the shrill tone of prim teachers telling me to stop doing such a thing at once, while tersely enquiring as to where exactly I had left my manners.

Back in the present, this laughably unimportant act of hand-pocketing all of a sudden became (in my own head, at least) a mind-blowing feat of defiance and liberty; a realisation that I was my own person – an adult, yes, but a free one too, understanding that no harm comes from putting one’s hand in one’s pocket, so long as you’re not about to retrieve a knife and lunge at the nearest pensioner. I felt like a weight had been lifted, the albatross of expectation resuscitated and set free. Which brings me neatly (I'd argue) to the football…

While I was busy marvelling at the wondrous synchronicity between enlightenment and boot-cut M&S slacks, something tells me that England’s four Champions League managers were going through their usual routines of expectation management and set-piece trial and error. With Tottenham travelling to Milan and Arsenal facing a daunting rematch against Barcelona, their conquerors last time out, last week was about as mouth-watering as a second round knockout stage gets. This week we witnessed two rather more prosaic encounters, with Chelsea travelling to Copenhagen while Manchester United took in the glories of southern France with a brief sojourn to Marseille. Tricky ties all round then, except for possibly Carlo Ancelotti’s men, although with the kind of pressure currently weighing on his big spending shoulders, any opponent capable of successfully taking a thrown in seems to pose a very clear and present form of danger.

For the first time since all four English sides escaping the group stage became a regular occurrence, Liverpool were nowhere to be seen, replaced – seamlessly and, frankly, far more entertainingly – by Harry Redknapp’s Spurs. While they struggle to decide whether domestically they’re title challengers or fourth place scrappers, the North Londoners have been a breath of fresh air in this year’s competition, playing with an attacking verve and an (occasionally naïve) disregard for their opponents’ qualities that belie their Champions League inexperience.

If you look over the fortnight's results, a couple of notable things jump off of the page. Perhaps most impressively, our three sides playing their opening legs away on the continent conceded not a single goal between them. Indeed, the only success had in front of goal by an opposition team was a solitary strike by Barcelona – a chance created by Lionel Messi and finished by David Villa. Which is fair enough, really. Even more surprising is just how little our continental brethren tested the English rearguards. Milan forced two fine second half saves from Heurelho Gomes but otherwise threatened very little, an eyebrow-raising state of affairs for a team hitting the domestic net with such regularity.

Speaking of eyebrows, Chelsea went about their first leg task with cruel efficiency, dispatching Jesper Gronkjaer and co with relative ease. That Fernando Torres again linked up well with hero-of-the night Nicolas Anelka will please Signore Ancelotti, but the result itself will be of far more satisfaction to him right now, considering the pre-game rumours of impending personal doom should his side have suffered another embarrassment.

Unless you consider White Hart Lane 'home', the one everyone was waiting for took place at the Emirates and whilst last year's contender for game of the season could never be repeated, we were again treated to some delicious fare. Two sides who only really know how to attack did just that; Arsene Wenger's men exhibiting far more gusto and taking the game to the Catalans. As Clive Tyldesley was so achingly eager to remind us, twelve months ago Arsenal barely touched the ball before half time as they somehow went in level, and yet this time around, for all their vigour, they trailed at the interval. But with Young Jack Wilshire in the kind of form that makes you start to believe he might just be our great white hope after all, and Laurent Koscielny putting in the ninety minutes of his life, they turned the match around. The tie sits on the most precarious of knife edges.

The only real disappointment of the four were United, held to a stalemate in the Stade Vélodrome, and in all honesty lucky to score 'nil'. You'd believe they have the power to overwhelm Didier Deschamps' side at Old Trafford, but you can rest assured that the haunting visages of David Trezeguet, Lars Ricken and Fernando Redondo will sit uneasily at the peripheries of their supporters' mind's eyes until they do precisely that.

All of which cleansheet-keeping and advantage-grabbing makes me wonder if English teams have experienced some collective hand-in-pocket moment all of their own. Not that it has necessarily occurred out of the blue this season – our teams have been smashing the crockery at Europe’s top table for a good few years now – but somewhere along the way our teams have coupled the ability of their players with a belief that they can be the equal of the Milans and Barcelonas of this world. As Champions League debutants, Tottenham should have had no earthly right to go to the San Siro and turn over the Serie A leaders (and seven time European Cup lifters) but that’s exactly what they did, playing without fear, defending resolutely when they had to, and causing Rino Gattuso to very publicly lose his shit. In short: the perfect European away performance.

When they weren't busying themselves liveblogging the download progress of a zip file, the Guardian managed to touch upon such a notion themselves, suggesting that Redknapp's troupe has nothing to fear from even Europe's most battle-hardened warriors. That may be a little generous at what is only the mid-point of the round (and let's not turn a blind eye completely to their first half mauling from Internazionale's jaws late last year) but the sentiment certainly rings true. Credit where it's due to Mr Redknapp: his resurrection of Spurs in a shade over two years has been little short of miraculous, and if nothing else has begun to cement some solid England management credentials. His star, like that of his team, is in its ascent and you'd think that only off-field matters stand between him and a shot at World Cup qualification. He must be praying Joe Jordan has a law degree.

One of Redknapp's strengths has always been his desire to let his teams express themselves, recruiting creative types like Eyal Berkovic, Paul Merson and Rafael Van Der Vaart to add guile and artistry to his overachieving projects. Received wisdom states that going blow-for-blow with the best in Europe requires something more than gung-ho bravado, and understanding what this involves has been an arduous process for many of his peers. It took Manchester United several disappointments and a failed experiment involving Juan Sebastien Veron and a shoehorn for Sir Alex to come up with a working, long-term European away formula, one which has since taken them to two of the past three competition finals. The constituent parts appear simple in hindsight: sit and soak up the pressure, push when possible, hit when you can, pay respect to the opponent, but never overly so. It worked in Rome and the Nou Camp in 2008, at the Emirates the following year and against Milan last season, but it was a long time coming.

By contrast, Tottenham's elite learning curve has been a dramatically hurtling and zigzagging one, but they've shown themselves to be fast learners. Their hands may be casually tucked in their pockets but it seems this is no bad thing, as they've happened, by design or otherwise, upon a level of freedom that others have taken years to achieve.

~ Matt

Mutual Slump

It was late summer and things were looking fittingly rosy for all concerned. Newcastle United, West Bromwich Albion and Blackpool were three eager young things defying expectations and grabbing points from the startled hands of the mighty, like cheeky cockney pickpockets running amok on the cobbled streets of a Dickensian novella. They were fresh and fearless and causing havoc. But since the nights drew in, the law of the land has caught up with them in a jarring manner.

Back in October we spoke about how refreshing it was to see three relatively youthful managers bringing teams into the Premier League. Four months on and only one remains standing, the others victims of their superiors’ over-ambition and/or panic. Chris Hughton departed St James' Park with Newcastle resting in 11th place going into the Christmas schedule. What a shame he, like now-ex-WBA honcho Roberto Di Matteo, won’t get the chance to see his good work from last season through to its conclusion, whatever that may be. Not only did they drag their teams out of the notoriously closely contested Championship but they also, especially in Hughton's case, made vital contributions to the futures of their former employers. Di Matteo worked under a technical director at WBA, an echo of the failed “continental-style” management structure used to such disastrous effect by Mike Ashley when he first arrived in Tyneside pint-in-hand, and bought into the club's ideology of attractive football in the face of more feted opponents. Hughton, meanwhile, played a key role in Andy Carroll's remarkable ascent, progressing to first choice centre-forward under his and Steve Clarke’s watchful eyes. With Alan Pardew at the helm Newcastle will be fine, but when Ashley opens his next bank statement, he’d do well to pay a personal note of appreciation to Hughton when he sees a rather sizeable deposit dated “Jan 31st”.

As far as Blackpool are concerned, it isn't just their form that is gradually deserting them – the wave of goodwill that swelled beneath Ian Holloway at the beginning of the season seems to be steadily breaking. In the autumn his unique brand of homely metaphor and gritty, us-against-the-world combativeness appeared to charm all and sundry. Recently though, there’s a creeping sense that where once his party-crashing was exciting and cool, it’s now become a little worn. Instead of barging in unannounced, pouring drinks for Fleet Street revellers and regaling them with stories from the road, he’s now merely making unfocused noise in the hope that someone is listening. He was new and dangerous; now he’s just drunk in the corner.

Admittedly much of this indifference has come from the press and not the public, and just because the hacks may have lost interest doesn't mean that ordinary football folk are drawing any less pleasure from his seemingly bottomless well of chirpy bravura. After all, the precedents for witnessing good men broken down by the glare of the media lens are there for all to see, and the media loves nothing more than to see a good man broken. Maybe it’s the rather gruelling Charlie Adam saga that has chipped away at this particular rockface, because on the field his team – despite having about as much success since Christmas as President Mubarak – have continued to enthral. In footballing terms at least, Holloway’s swashbuckling philosophy is keeping his admirers satiated.

In general it pleases me that Holloway continues to speak his mind, yet beneath the bravado lays an underrated footballing mind. His is not a reputation forged overnight, as colourful spells at Bristol Rovers and QPR will tell you, and his much-adored bar room zen wisdom has always undersold his tactical acumen and eye for raw and misunderstood talent. Adam is the perfect example: drifting at Glasgow Rangers, he now finds himself painted as the next Xabi Alonso. When you study the career trajectories of the likes of DJ Campbell, Gary Taylor-Fletcher and Matthew Gilks, it's hard not to admire Holloway's knack for unearthing buried gems.

But it's tricky to deny that the whole 'will-he-won't-he-oh-who-cares' farrago surrounding Adam did begin to grate and Holloway has worryingly started to resemble an overprotective parent of late, reluctantly acknowledging that his boy must soon fly the nest and make his own way in the world, but still struggling to let him go. How he savours every wash of junior’s dirty kit; the misty-eyed tackling of those tough, ground-in grass stains, making sure his protégé’s whites are whiter-than-white and ready for training. Let’s all eat as a family tonight, Charlie – like we used to. How about a bedtime story, Charlie? You know, just for old time’s sake?

When it comes to the bigger picture I fear for Blackpool, not due to some patronising desire to see the underdog have his day, but because they have genuinely entertained and gone about their campaign, for the most part, as thoughtfully as they have courageously. Unfortunately (but perhaps inevitably) their blunderbuss start has vanished, replaced by the kind of form which in recent years did for Burnley and (despite somehow hanging on for another a year) Hull City. Now the adrenaline has run a little drier and results have started to turn, Blackpool find themselves with a coach and a group of players who between them have next-to-zero experience at mooring a sinking top flight ship. They need to rediscover their sea legs quickly. West Brom, by comparison, have acted to replace Di Matteo, the vibrant, young, strangely-headed coach that took them back up at the first time of asking, no doubt to bring in a man of experience with a suitably old school, no-nonsense mentality – a battler, perhaps, who has been there, done it and bought the “17th place finish” t-shirt. Holloway, despite the threats to resign over weakened team-fielding, will be there at the end and hopefully beyond, wherever they sit come the thirty-eighth final whistle.

Make no mistake, Holloway's task is immense; the effort required to pull it off Herculean. After showing he has the makings of a mate, a mentor, a talent spotter and an inspirational coach when the going stays good, he now needs to prove he possesses the mettle and the aptitude to save Blackpool. It’ll be one of the league’s greatest ever feats if he does.

~ Matt

Red All Over: A Tribute To Gary Neville

Saturday 15^th June, 1996. Something magical has permeated the English air and it isn't the dazzling sunshine. Seven days previously England had kicked off the European Championships, the first major international tournament on British soil since 1996 and all that. As “thirty years of hurt” became the self-fulfilling mantra of the summer, Terry Venables' England re-emerged from the Wembley tunnel halfway through their group stage program with only a single goal and a solitary point in the bag. Having been held by the Swiss, El Tel's men found themselves goalless at half time against Scotland, who, I'd been informed as a twelve year-old, we didn't like all that much.

The second half began with a tactical reshuffle, as Jamie Redknapp (mercifully minus the cream suit) replaced Stuart Pearce. As the clocked ticked and tension soared Steve McManaman gangled forward from midfield, a marauding fullback to his right, the prematurely barren pate of Alan Shearer waiting in the centre, glistening in the summer hue. McManaman elected to push the ball wide to the right-hand edge of the Scottish box. If you ever need to explain the phrase “put it on a plate” to an extraterrestrial daytripper, you’d do well to reach for your pencil case, sharpen a nice 2B and sketch the seconds that followed McManaman’s pass. With barely a break of his stride, the young right-back received the ball and, with a brief look up and a jab of the leg, rendered the rest history.

* * *

He may have belonged to an England era that ultimately sorely disappointed, but Gary Neville was integral to one Golden Generation that more than lived up to its promise. Barely a month had passed between that cross and Manchester United lifting their second league and cup double in three seasons, this one the first to star the kids who were so memorably told they’d never do it (and by a Scotsman too. What are they like!). Replacing Paul Parker – a double-winner himself and an unsung hero of Italia '90 – would never be an easy task, but Neville eased into the role with an on and off-field maturity that belied his fledgling years. That maturity, with no shortage of drive, ability and sheer bloody-mindedness to boot, took him to the World Cup and hung a European Cup medal around his neck, and yet while the names of David Beckham, Paul Scholes and (perhaps to a lesser extent) Phil Neville and Nicky Butt will go down in United folklore, it was Neville the elder who over time pushed himself into a higher pantheon altogether.

Old Trafford hasn't exactly had to scratch around for great armband-wearers: post-war heroes such as Foulkes, Charlton and Law through to later day leaders like Robson, Bruce and Keane, to a man gave vision and heart to the cause. That Neville found himself promoted to club captain in 2005, after 500 appearances and countless trophies, speaks volumes upon volumes for the esteem in which he was held by those not just in the game, but in the club he lived and breathed. In an age of empty, lip-to-badge gestures of loyalty, Neville stands out as a member of perhaps the last generation of one-club men. Such a heritage has no doubt been aided by his unglamorous image but you can rest assured that he was never short of suitors. And yet it's near impossible to imagine the man himself contemplated for even a solitary second pulling on another team's jersey. In his eyes it would have been an act of betrayal not only to the club but to himself. It would never have been right; it just wouldn't have done at all.

But the phrase “model professional” would, to an extent, be misleading. Neville was forthright and vociferous, politically-minded and outspoken where other leading lights simply stood faceless and mute. If he didn’t outwardly court controversy, he certainly refused to shy away when it reared its ugly head. In 2003 he publicly criticised the FA following a failed strike action by England players after team-mate Rio Ferdinand was handed an eight month ban for missing a drug test, ruling him out of Euro 2004. The fact that subsequent misdemeanours of both the celebratory and single-fingered variety occurred in the presence of Liverpool and Manchester City respectively goes a long way to highlighting the passion with which he fought for United. He was, in so many senses, the embodiment of the fan-as-player/player-as-fan dream. It was this unswerving passion, his alignment with the die-hard, which delivered him both scorn and devotion in equal measure. What better personification of football tribalism could there be?

Of course, like any defender exposed to near twenty years of highest level action, Neville experienced his fair share of unsightly moments. The ones that instantly spring to mind include a bona fide shoeing from a Romario and Edmundo-inspired Vasco De Gama side during the 2000 World Club Championship and of course the “Paul Robinson incident” against Croatia in 2006, when a poorly angled backpass, coupled with a hideous piece of turf-related misfortune, resulted in an improbable and ultimately match-killing own goal. Robinson bore the public brunt but in truth it was Neville’s ball which should have been played wide of the goal. You know that inside it killed him, but to the outside world he continued to fight, and within three months a seventh Premier League medal was added to the collection. A year later he watched from the Moscow sidelines as United lifted the European Cup/Champion’s League for the third time, his mentor’s legacy as a managerial great cast in stone.

In total Neville collected nineteen winner's medals with United, including six as captain, to go with 85 caps for his country. Yet for all the honours and the prestige, perhaps the true measuring stick of a player’s greatness is the size of the hole left gaping in the team he leaves behind. Just as Sir Alex took six long years to successfully replace Peter Schmeichel, so the task of locating a suitable successor to Neville, as he faded badly through injury, has already born almost equal frustration. Wes Brown, John O'Shea, Rafael Da Silva – good players all, the latter with his best years ahead of him, but the instability of the position places a noticeable question-mark alongside the emphatic full-stoppers of United's current backline.   

Having notched up 602 appearances for Ferguson's side (a tally most United supporters will only ever experience in those peaceful hours before waking), had a David Bowie hit adapted in his honour and attempted to build his own eco-friendly version of Teletubbyland, the question now is simply 'what next?'. Judging from the way he voiced his opinions and displayed his values throughout his playing days, a position of, if not authority, then of genuine influence, in the English game would be fitting. One wonders whether working alongside Ferguson for the beefy part of two decades has turned his head towards management or simply scared him off it for life, and frankly the Sky Sports studio would be wasted on him.

But that's for another day. Right now is the moment to appreciate the most decorated and consistent English right-back of his generation, and arguably anybody else's too. Ok, so he grew a dodgy moustache. Hand on heart, who hasn’t?

* * *

That glorious, ill-fated summer remains for many of us the emotional peak of our football supporting lives. The man providing the cross that balmy Wembley afternoon retired from professional football on Wednesday, reminding us all how quickly a decade and a half can pass by. Gary Neville was a divisive character for sure, and yet for all the memorable moments, both sublime and heartbreaking, that tournament lavished us with, it amazes me to this day that one floated ball sits so prominently in the nation’s collective footballing memory.

For all the terrace negativity aimed his way, for every facial hair-related jibe and partisan howl, each slice of abuse tended to arrive, whether spoken or merely ruefully pondered, with a side order of “yeah, but how about that cross against Scotland?”.

~ Matt

Cometh The Hour, Cometh The Carroll

Angel of the North no more, Carroll takes flight to Liverpool

This morning’s sports pages were covered in pictures of Liverpool fans torching a replica strip, using only a can of Lynx, a match and a lack of any common sense. Torres’ name was just visible above the liquefying fabric. The faces of the perpetrators looked delighted rather than crestfallen, caught up in the moment of this metaphysical lynching. Torres’ loss leaves a huge hole in Liverpool’s ego, one that once the smoke from their transfer fireworks dissipates will become more evident. Liverpool no longer have a world class player on their roster, and while Suarez and Carroll have undoubted talent, they are still to truly warrant the money laid out on them. Suarez has arrived from the Dutch Eredivisie, a division whose exports oscillate between the sublime and the ridiculous: for every Robin Van Persie there is an Afonso Alves, a player whose move from Heerenveen to Middlesbrough at £12.7 million boar only 10 goals (3 of which were in the 8-1 demolition of Manchester City that was Sven-Göran Eriksson’s abject last game managing the club). Suarez could yet prove to be majestic signing, a player coveted by Europe’s leading clubs, but it would be prudent to remember that only Liverpool and Spurs – two clubs chasing former glories – made any sort of move for the Uruguayan.

This brings us to Andrew ‘call me Andy’ Carroll. Pictures of him, clean shaven and towering over an increasingly elderly looking Kenny Dalglish are meant to take the edge off Torres’ departure. The way Carroll has attacked the Premier League this season has been a joy to behold. A classic no.9 who can lead the line, battle in the air with the roughest of centre halfs and is unafraid to lash a shot goalwards from outside the box. Carroll will operate as the fulcrum of the Anfield attack, the pivot from which a deep attacking trio of Gerrard, Kuyt and Suarez will seek to thrive. This prospect will excite Liverpool’s fans and it could well thrust them once more into the upper strata of European clubs. However, since the departure of Alonso, Liverpool’s chief problem has been swiftly transferring defence into attack. The drilled 30 yard pass that cuts through the opposition’s midfield and releases Gerrard on his famous blunderbusting runs has been lacking. The exasperation on Gerrard’s face and the dejection evident in Torres’ demeanour are symptoms of this, an ailment that the has seen the red of Liverpool slip anaemically down the table. Sadly for Liverpool the trinity of signings that could have cured then didn’t quite come off. Charlie Adam was the man earmarked for this role, and although not linked with a move to Anfield, Newcastle’s Joey Barton could seem a wise addition to a midfield lacking dynamism and incisive passing.

Adam eluded Liverpool while their attentions were more firmly focused on their strike force, and the cynic among football fans could claim that Tottenham Hotspur’s late interest in Adam could have been a ploy to stymie Liverpool’s clean sweep of January transfer targets; Tottenham never planning to actually sign Adam, but to block Liverpool from unfettered pursuit. 

With a net spent of just £1.8 million Liverpool will no doubt re-enter the transfer market in the summer, and the remainder of this season should be about proving to players such as Reina that Liverpool are a team on the up, not a team to be too long moored in the stagnant waters of midtable mediocrity. Liverpool’s clash with Chelsea this Sunday will be an enticing prospect as two wounded giants seek to stamp their authority over the league.

Most Banal Comment of the Day:

‘...with a touch that is usually beyond players of his gangly gait.’

Rob Stewart, The Independent

This is exactly the lazy type of journalism that is so regularly churned out by sports writers in the nation’s papers. It is a baseless claim that tall players should have a poor touch: the type of comment that Peter Crouch normally attracts, and one that ignores players like Ibrahimovich and Dzeko when made. It may stem from large players being promoted into teams playing above their ability for their stature alone rather than their technical ability. However, good coordination of movement is not the preserve of the impish man.   Poor touch in a Premier League footballer should never be tolerated, no mater his size, and the ability to control a football should be a prerequisite rather than an attribute to be praised.

~Ed