Maverick [mav-er-ick, mav-rik]
- noun
- someone who exhibits great independence in thought and action.
see: rebel, noncomformist
- an unbranded range animal (especially a stray calf)
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They say it's the oldest flames which burn the brightest. Actually they don't, but it sounds nice doesn't it? Sort of dramatic, romantic even. Fine, allow me to explain. Let's take a trip to east London
In recent weeks, the relationship between West Ham United and manager Avram Grant has been under all kinds of strain: mostly wretched league form, the continued presence of a pair of gobby chairmen, the loss through injury of Mark Noble, ceaseless speculation concerning the future of Scott Parker (the captain, not the goldfish). I could go on, but it would bore you. The League Cup quarter-final drubbing of Manchester United brought an evening of heady relief but, rooted to the bottom of the Premier League table, the sound of divorce papers being filed grows ever louder.
West Ham is a club who in recent years have experienced their fair share of heartbreak. Early in the millennium they provided arguably the most talented group of relegatees in the league's history. They've seen managers come and go under varying degrees of acrimony, and there was of course the 2006 FA Cup final, conceded to Liverpool under the most dramatic of circumstances. Is it any wonder, then, that supporters have been calling for Grant’s head, and appear to be seeking potential solace in the tender arms of a former beau? The name emanating from the terraces at Upton Park is that of Paolo Di Canio, a man who isn't just any old flame. During four giddy years in claret and blue, the People's Fascist produced some truly memorable moments. Like this one. And this. He burned brightly. He played by his own rules. He was, make no mistake, a maverick.
Let's not confuse the maverick, of course, with the mercenary. The mercenary came, saw and headed for the bank. He took the car and the five acres and left the ex with a bedsit, two jobs and mounting credit card debt. The maverick, on the other hand, cared. In his own way, sure, but he cared nonetheless. The question is: should Hammers fans be looking forward to new desires and not trying to rekindle yesterday’s embers? Probably, but the lure of the maverick will always be a powerful aphrodisiac. Worshipped by fans, this mysterious stranger delivers a bolt of pure shock lightning to emblaze our otherwise drab footballing existence. Let's throw out a few names: Cantona, Ginola, Okocha, Juninho. All inspired and captivated in equal measure, while the crowds provided the admiration and the security they long needed to feel.
The idea of the maverick speaks to the fantasist in us all. He embodies something angry and dangerous and lost; the vivid brushstrokes of footballing folklore painting a picture of a tortured artist set adrift on a torrid, unforgiving sporting sea, washing up in some footballing backwater, simple of pasture but pure of heart. Here, as our mental narrative progresses, he finds not just kindness but acceptance; of what he is and what he believes. Suddenly free from the shackles of a misunderstood past, he finds licence to express himself, charmed, calmed and infused with new leases of life and potential by the welcoming adoration of the locals. Or at least he used to.
The maverick has long been a curious and celebrated phenomenon of the English game, but to these eyes it seemed to thrive particularly strongly during the initial boom years of the Premier League, when any old unfashionable, promotion-winning outfit could guzzle down a gullet-full of TV rights and shit out a headband-sporting, perma-stubbled Serie A misfit all of their own. At the time the notion of a squad packed full of overseas players was as far-flung as some of the locales they'd eventually arrive from, with many if not most top flight teams boasting a British, if not entirely English, backbone.
From what I can fathom, two forces have combined their might to curtail, if not eliminate, the maverick from the English game. As a team full of foreign players becomes the norm, so a maverick would fail to stand out on a purely aesthetic level: a side of Englishmen with a flamboyantly named talisman simply doesn’t exist anymore, certainly not at the top level of things. Secondly, changes in the nature of tactics employed across Europe are perhaps to blame for stifling a certain amount of individual creativity. Arsenal, for instance, play wonderful football – an epic sweep of verve and imagination – but they do so as a team. As ‘the invincibles’ had Henry, Bergkamp and Pires, so today’s version boasts Fabregas, Arshavin and Nasri. Barcelona
Rather, what we’ve witnessed over the past decade or so is the forging of the functional tactical unit, no better exemplified than by Jose Mourinho’s teak-tough Porto, Chelsea and Internazionale sides, not to mention the well-oiled modern machinery of Germany, Holland, et al. The main criticism aimed at Rafa Benitez’s Liverpool team (not least by this blog) was of tactical rigidity, an unwavering adherence to an inflexible system. It didn’t stop them winning the Champions League though. Of course these teams still boast a selection of truly great individuals – Drogba and Lampard, Gerrard and Torres, Özil and Sneijder – but the proliferation of the system and the style has inevitable trickled down the rungs of football's ladder. For all the exhibitionism and flair of Cantona, Ginola and their savoured ilk, their employers have long since moved on.
Of course, purely in terms of nationality, to be considered a maverick you don't strictly need to be a stranger in a strange land. Casting our search back to the days when most readers will have been but a horny stirring in our fathers' loins, George Best burned out in his native Britain before he faded away, while many of Johan Cruyff's finest on-field hours came at Ajax before he headed for Catalonia. Mavericks to a man, loving and loved, but with very different off-field mantras, not to mention correspondingly contrasting legacies. Perhaps no parameters of time or place can be snugly drawn around the maverick. If nothing else, this would certainly seem befitting of the enigmatic nature of the beast. There are other factors to consider too: the footballing world has gotten smaller for starters. Read a blog, download a podcast, turn on ESPN, heck even load up Football Manager and the minutiae of world football is right there for you to consume at your leisure. We know so much of what the wider sporting universe has to offer that some of the mystery has arguably disappeared, the lure of the beautiful stranger not quite as heart-racing now as it once was.
But maybe I'm mistaken. Perhaps it’s all a matter of perception. Maybe it just feels like this; a trick of the mind or of the memory. Maybe the longing that has engulfed West Ham’s diehards is nothing more than a nostalgic outcry of the soul, one which lies dormant and largely unheard in us all. Just as our longing may be a product of rose-tinted remembrance, perhaps so too the maverick himself is the product, certainly in footballing terms, of a bygone age.
Whatever the cause of the phenomenon, the story will always end the same. You see, this passion between the man and his followers, like so many untethered affairs of the heart, is destined to be bittersweet. This love, this coupling of interlocking needs, this shared desire between fragile hearts and minds, will be intense and real but also fleeting. Whatever celestial confluence of want and fortune it was that brought them to us shall inevitably come to pass. Just as the planets one day invariably align, so they will always once more separate, forever moving asunder and apart. He’ll make you feel alive but he’ll never stay.
So here’s to the mavericks, or at the very least the ones we knew as youngsters, the type perhaps forever ploughed from the landscape of the modern game. Wherever they now roam, whatever oceans they’ve crossed or souls they’ve touched, they’ll forever be at home in our hearts.
~ Matt
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