Triesman On The High Seas

This past Tuesday, Brazilian FA president and presumed Gilbert and Sullivan aficionado Ricardo Teixeira branded the British “a bunch of pirates”, vowing to “make their lives hell” should he ever succeed Sepp Blatter as FIFA supremo. Teixeira, lest we should somehow forget, was targeted along with several other FIFA big cheeses in the BBC's fateful Panorama broadcast of November last year. You remember that don’t you? It managed to refocus the foggy light of doubt on FIFA’s finances whilst (some would argue) simultaneously torpedoing the nation's hopes of hosting the 2018 World Cup. Having been clocked in his not-inconsiderable jaw by the full force of the Beeb’s journalistic wrath, Teixeira – one-time son in law of former FIFA president João Havelange – clearly had some swashbuckling words to get off of his chest.

It’s been an eventful week all told for Blatter and co, what with recent challenger Mohammed Bin Hammam finding himself banned from the federation for life after being found guilty of crude envelope-stuffing. The accused didn't even show up in court to hear the judgement, instead deploying a crack team of legal eagles to fight his corner. Bin Hammam explained his no-show by stating that he believed his fate was predetermined, hinting that an appeal was already being prepped long before the ruling had even been passed. Either this was a bold critique of the very concept of free will, or a simple distrust of the federation’s judicial principles. I wouldn’t like to nail my colours to the mast either way; although I will say that FIFA could probably learn a thing or two from the pirate code of conduct.

To be honest, I just don't know who to believe any more. The more criss-crossed the finger pointing becomes, the more unseemly the whole charade gets, like some endless game of drunken Cluedo: Bin Hammam, in the Hyatt Regency, with the unmarked bills. Somewhere someone important is telling fibs, but having tried to force a coup and failed, the power of many is now resolutely against Bin Hammam. It's times like these that FIFA closes ranks and rallies behind its great leader, hoping sheer strength in numbers will be enough to fight off any growing mutiny. Best of luck with the appeal, old chap.

And yet it’s possible our merry band of buccaneers may not be alone on the waves for long, as this Wednesday European Club Association (ECA) chairbod Karl-Heinze Rummenigge damned FIFA for viewing cash flow as “more important than serious and clean governance”. Sometimes I like to pretend that ExCo members aren't merely indebted to Blatter, but are in fact acting under some ungodly, mind-control hoodoo, beholden to a cunning preceptor of suggestion. They're all good-natured, morally-upstanding sorts really, it's just that Blatter has put the whammy on them. If Sepp tells you something's clean, then it's clean. Be grateful he doesn't do your windows.

Teixeira, meanwhile, went on to position himself away from any perceived wrongdoing on the ExCo's part. “Look me in the face and tell me that I'd say something as stupid as asking for a bribe in front of everyone, right there in the stands”, he insoucianced, as a thousand journalists bit their tongues in painful unison. Not that such a statement should be twisted into an arse-about-face admission of guilt, of course. It is notable, however, that he failed to deny any alleged wrongdoing on the part of his peers, his words not at all leaving open the possibility that there might exist more private places to perform such carry on, if one were so inclined. Everyone knows that the really big deals go down far way from prying eyes anyway.

In truth, Teixeira's words make me sad, and not just because of their belligerent tone. It’s more to do with their reinforcement of the grim stereotype of men in positions of power failing to shoulder equivalent responsibility. For someone hoping to one day run for head office, there's some seriously questionable logic behind brazenly bad-mouthing your electorate (something Gordon Brown would no doubt testify to).

And also: pirates? Really? Given a choice of brigandish epithet, that's surely not the dangerous, slicked-back, devil-may-care image our FA would have gone for. If FIFA must paint them as a rabble-rousing mob of no-goodniks, they could at least go for something a little more contemporary and catchy. Like 'cyberpunks'. Or 'News-Corpers'.

Regrettably, I now close my eyes at night only to dream of Richard Scudamore in a tricorne, stood high in the crow's nest of the good ship World Cup Bid, telescope pushed close to his one good eye, as David Beckham performs keepy-uppies on the poop deck with his peg leg, and David Cameron issues telegraphs from the mainland telling them everything's fine, just don't mention the bribes. All of which, were it real, would presumably make Price William the cabin boy, although I should really bring this analogy to a halt now – us Brits can still be executed for treason, you know.

In fact, what truly disheartens me is that Teixeira's denouncement is depressingly symptomatic of the ExCo's fight-fire-with-fire tactics; a supposedly harmonious “family” (Blatter's word, not mine) reduced to name calling and narrow-eyed threats of vengeance. I'm shocked no-one’s aimed a jibe at Captain Scudamore's mum. Yet.

For it's own part, the FA are usually quick to meet FIFA’s insults and inconsistencies with the always-popular tactic of stamping their feet and crying “IT'S NOT FAIR!” at the top of their lungs like a disenfranchised teen. Yes we were denied the World Cup, and while there are various aspects of FIFA’s conduct which stink like a Shoreditch gents', getting huffy won't make the problem go away. So, instead of spitting the dummy, why not be the bigger men and take a more proactive stand? Let’s revoke our membership and encourage others to follow suit. Hit FIFA where it chafes the most: in the wallet. Swipe their bounty. Bury their treasure. It's what any pirate worth his salt would do.

~ Matt

Cesc And The City

July 2011. London. As a long, football-less summer shelters from the warm rain, we find scattered across the nation's capital four successful, cosmopolitan twentysomethings, virile and gifted young men, hungry in the pursuit of happiness.

Cesc, 24, is the titular star of our show. By day he leads a respected Islington-based performance troupe, but by night yearns for his Catalan homeland. Despite his tender age, Cesc has been shouldering huge responsibility as his employees fail to meet their targets year upon year. His once-adoring public are growing doubtful of his commitment to the cause. Tellingly, so is he.

A few miles away in a Tottenham coffee shop sits Luka, the creative force behind Hotspur Productions, an up-and-coming business owned by a savvy investor and managed by a shrill Cockney, with whom Luka enjoyed a top, top relationship until recently. Over the past few weeks Luka has let it be known that he sees his future away from Hotspur Productions, not least because the local coffee is quite frankly piss-poor.

Like Cesc, Samir – a Frenchman by trade – appreciates the finer things in life, educated in the ways of life by a respected artisan tutor. He currently finds himself slumming it in a rented Asburton Grove living space as lofty as the ideas taught within. Samir creates tirelessly, but craves the tangible rewards he feels his avant-garde gifts surely merit.

Meanwhile, lying prone on a masseur’s table somewhere in Shepherd's Bush, Adel has troubles of his own. A few years ago he had a shot at the big time, but fame proved a saucy seductress and the myriad temptations of the city – the glitz and the glitterati and the Ledley King guest lists – saw his focus flounder and in a blink he was just another could've-been, knocked back down the career ladder. Adel dreams of Europe, of Paris in the spring. His boss, Neil, doesn't approve of this sort of thing at all.

While their backstories may differ, it is the here-and-now which ties these men together. Their shared dream is one of ambition, a desire to achieve and to be recognised. Whilst their lives aren't exactly barren, none of the four are truly contented; merely satisfied. One thing these glowing young ruffians have in common is a determination to exercise power over their employers, to drive forth their personal aspirations. But the institutions which nurtured their talent, which helped them become what they are today, will be the ones left behind.

Seeing all this, I couldn't help but wonder – isn't it about time clubs took the power back?

As I sit and ponder the current transfer whirlwind, I'm frantically scanning my Budweiser-stained memory-hole to recall the last time a major transfer went through strictly on the selling club’s terms. I'm coming up rather blank.

When Jean-Marc Bosman donned a pair of shackles to demonstrate (rather heavy-handedly, but that's footballers for you) the perceived unfairness of remaining bound to a club even after a contract had expired, what resulted was a legal landmark which irreversibly re-stitched the fabric of the game. And while this outcome blessed footballers with hitherto unseen freedom of movement, it also came at a time when the game's finances were starting to swell lasciviously. Sensing that the moment was right to claim their own piece of the pie, competitors at all levels did the one thing that made any sense at all: they got better agents.

Not that any of this is even news. Agents and players; players and agents – we all know the score when it comes to transfers. Frankly, imagining any major deal being concluded via “the proper channels” any more seems so naive as to render the very idea itself almost meaningless. But in notable regard to the foursome detailed above, how did players still duty bound to perform for their clubs become so fearlessly empowered? In classic Lloyd Grossman style, let's look at the evidence:

Most obviously, there's the Champions League, the Holy Grail of the club game. It's where every player wants to be. Such is the exuberant media coverage it's given, and the prestige now attached to winning it (arguably overshadowing even the World Cup), it seems that if you're not there then you're no-one.

But what about the likes of Fabregas and Nasri who are already there? Their power comes from within, flexed from a position of superiority, understanding that their God-given kicking ability is so good that any mention of moving onwards and upwards sends rival chief execs scrabbling for the expense account card, while the matchday room staff scours the sofas for lost pennies. Cesc and Samir don’t just want to be in the thing; they want to win it.

The key here is simple, dumb ambition. When a player cites it, it's because they believe – know, even – that their current employer can't match it, financially or otherwise. What's more, they'll never be able to until they break into the elite. Which they won't do without the very best players, and so begins a self-perpetuating cycle that would make even a Fleet Street editor's head spin.

On a sliding scale of “bum” to “Apprentice winner”, you'd ideally want your own favourite player's ambition levels to be hovering somewhere around the Carrie Bradshaw mark. They're driven, sure, but not enough to turn their back on their friends, no matter how many promises of Manolo Blahniks and weekends in The Hamptons Mr Big might be teasing down the phone from his waterbed on the Lower East Side. Indeed, if Sex and the City has taught us anything, it's that ambition and loyalty needn't be mutually exclusive. Your average footballer clearly isn't a fan.

So how to combat player power? Maybe clubs need to fight fire with fire and take a more uncompromising approach to contract negotiations. “A five year deal? Sure, all yours. A weekly pay packet equivalent to the GDP of Fiji? No problem – here, use my pen. Just one thing though – walk away from us before we're good and ready, and you'll invoke our new 'branding' clause, which allows the kit man to scald the word 'JUDAS' onto your forehead, broadcast live from the centre circle, before the last home game of the season. See how that plays down at Chinawhite.”

Not that ambition is intrinsically a bad thing. Where would the world be without it? I'd be writing this in quill and ink for starters, while the 'laptop' forever remained the fevered dream of some misunderstood visionary who would invent it tomorrow if he could only tear himself away from E4's Frasier marathon. For better or worse, players now own the power and clubs can but throw money at the issue.

Cesc, Luka, Samir and Adel know all this because they're modern men, wise to the times in which they live. For them the future is ripe with opportunity – each new club merely another step on the road to perfection; each career choice a cocktail with a silly name.

Like the city, football is a playboy-populated, dog-eat-dog world all of its own. There’s triumph to be found, but at what cost? Sadly for clubs, the power they want back may already have skipped town.

~ Matt

Constructive Summer

Its summer, so naturally football ceases to exist. Not if it's a World Cup year, obviously. Or a European Championship one. And of course this summer there were, and still are, women's and kid's tournaments. And Fulham have already played in Europe twice. But apart from that? Nothing. Zip.

Gotcha – of course football doesn't stop with the long hours, it merely teleports itself from the grass to the mind's eye. And it's here that potential signings begin to form fantasy starting XI's, as last season's despair is run out of town, couped by optimism and bravado and all sorts of fantastical dreams, all pulsing in that part of the brain which used to give press conferences from your own toilet seat before big Championship Manager fixtures. Glad that wasn't just me.

One of the first major summer transfers that I can recall was Chris Sutton’s leap from Norwich City to Blackburn Rovers in 1994. Sutton’s former club had been enjoying a dizzying spell in the upper echelons of the fledgling Premiership (as it was then) whilst the Lancashire side had their sights set on the title, with Sutton going on to successfully complete the puzzle. Speculation bubbled in the playground for days prior to the move. Was he going to United? Were Newcastle in for him? Money eventually spoke and to Ewood Park he headed to the surprise of many, not least the Arsenal fan in my class whose dad had assured him a deal was as good as done.

£5m may seem like small fry these days, and even now the sizes of the cheques being written tend to fluctuate from year to year, but this window looks like being an eye-wateringly expensive one all round. This frenzied activity apparently isn't to all tastes, mind. Whilst I have associates who, as I type, are trawling the message boards and the rumour pages snuffling like a feral hog for a titbit of transfer truffle, there are just as many who would rather spend the hot months hiding away from all things football, concentrating on boring stuff like socialising and being outside. I don't understand these people.

This year champions Manchester United have been quickest out of the blocks, bringing in Ashley Young, Phil Jones and David de Gea as Messrs Scholes, van der Sar and, regrettably, Hargreaves depart. Close to fifty millions big ones splashed and not an orthodox central midfielder in sight has left some supporters a little worried, especially considering the lesson in ball retention dished out by Barcelona in May. The potential arrival of Samir Nasri may go some way to satiate these fears – the lad’s a ball retainer for sure, coddling and caressing it like a favourite pet to the extent that a transfer to Crufts isn't entirely out of the question.

Keeping the ball has never been Arsenal's problem - keeping players, however, is proving far trickier, as the Emirates once again falls victim to a sweaty heat wave of discontent. First of all – as it seems every summer – there’s Cesc Fabregas, the heartsick skipper longing to roost back at his Catalan nest, to return to the bosom, reunited with the alter of his boyhood worship. The one he chose to leave eight years ago. Still, absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that, and it looks like this particularly gruelling saga is finally set to reach an end. Which will obviously put a few hacks out of a job, but then that's just par for the course these days.

I feel sorry for Arsene Wenger. Gael Clichy’s escaped and Nasri wants out too, probably to United. Or City. Or Chel… just anywhere that isn’t Arsenal, basically. The Professor taught them well and yet now, without a regular trickle of silverware, they’re playing the “I’m-ambitious-and-it’s-a-short-career” card to hang out with Patrick and Kolo and Patrice. Wenger, for all his forward thinking and idealistic maxims, sometimes appears mired in a bygone age – a disciple of long-termism, a man whose belief system dares to marry beauty and sustainability, like building a renaissance cathedral from Enviroboard. Can his guiding light be mere naivety? No, it’s something less sweet than that, something a little angry in fact – bordering on stubborn – which enforces the rigidity of his principles and offloads those whose heads have been turned by the neon allure of the bright(er) lights. Laudable or foolhardy? Perhaps a little of both, but a recipe for domestic bliss it ain’t.

In fact, both ends of the Seven Sisters Road are currently involved in bitter in-house disputes, as toothy Croat lynchpin Luka Modric seeks a move away from Tottenham. Well, actually he doesn’t. Possibly. Although he would like to play in the Champions League again. Which of course he could do with Spurs, eventually – although he’d prefer to do it with Chelsea. Jesus, no wonder Harry Redknapp spends so much of his life chatting with Sky Sports News. Jim, Sam et al wouldn’t dare mess ‘arry around – he pretty much keeps their news ticker ticking as it is – and in the world of the dumb, the one sound bite man is a top, top king. Although he’s not our king, so we wouldn’t want to talk about him.

Chelsea are having no such problems keeping their men happy, although players don't appear to be trampling their own grandmothers to play for them either. Neymar, the languid, ludicrously-coiffured Brazilian, seems just as content to join the Blues or Real Madrid as he is to kick back and quaff a caipirinha on the beaches of Praia Grande (probably). Which may well all just be agent-led slight of hand, but with Andrés Villa-Boas now at the helm a more pragmatic approach to on-field matters may ensue. As much as he would like to shift the ‘Baby Jose’ label, he’ll have to instantly conjure the kind of on-field flair largely absent from his mentor's reign to do so. Chasing a striker named ‘Hulk’ may not help with that.

And so what of Manchester City, the nouveau riche with the re-badged stadium, the fashionably unhappy captain and more targets than an archery retreat? So far, so steady on the purchasing front. Clichy and the young, broody-looking Montenegrin Stefan Savić have bolstered a defence that wasn't exactly short on numbers anyway, while Garry Cook continues to flash a bit of leg at Alexis Sánchez, Sergio Agüero and anything in Naples with a boot bag and a pulse. If Tevez stays (and despite his goals, there won't be too many City loyalists shedding tears if he departs) then they may be about to slot into place the final pieces of their own glitzy jigsaw, just as King Kenny and Blackburn did seventeen years ago this month.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have press duties to attend to.

~ Matt