I'm going to begin with
a confession. I've been a little bit down on football recently. It's
still been there – still happening, still occurring in front of my
eyes – but over the past few months I've become increasingly
concerned that the spark has, if not gone, then certainly faded. I
think routine has bred contempt. Saturday night comes and goes and
there I slump in front of Match Of The Day and it's all very familiar
– Lineker punning away, Hansen immaculately trousered, Lawro
staring mournfully off into the middle distance like a man in his
dotage failing to recall a cherished childhood memory. Alan Shearer
might've been there too but I didn't really notice.
And there I would
remain for the duration, watching but only half watching, listening
but with an ear on other things. As recent weeks passed, I'd found
that football and myself had stopped communicating – we'd pass each
other in the doorway, enquire about each other's day, but in my heart
I could feel a coldness setting in. Then, one lonely Sunday afternoon
while the football was out seeing friends (no doubt complaining about
my recent lack of attentiveness) I found myself giving in to a dark
temptation. Reader, I watched the rugby. I can only apologise – it
was a mistake, a moment of weakness. And while I want to say it
didn't mean anything, I just can't stand the lies any more – in my
heart of hearts, I feel that maybe it did. Football, I think we need
to talk.
It wasn't just
televised football that had left me treading water. Each time I
clicked on a website or opened a paper (old school, I know) it felt
like I was just going through the same old motions, finding myself
gripped with a sense of grim inevitability. Everywhere I looked it
was all racism this and fascism that, diving and cheating,
match-fixing and hand-wringing, anger and administration. You name
them, there they were – the grand, ominous signifiers of a game
sliding towards soft oblivion and a fan slipping towards discontent.
Speaking of fascism (or
not, whatever), what Paolo Di Canio's appointment as Sunderland boss
stirred in me more than politico-outrage was a sense of sadness for
his predecessor Martin O'Neill. I've always been a big fan of
O'Neill. He comes across as a man of integrity, one who appealed to
my fondness for an outsider, a decent gent with the aura of a
slightly distant, dough-hearted nerd – the kind of man who might
spend the post-Queen's speech hours of Christmas Day completing his
nephew's Rubik's cube before retreating to the garage to continue
work on that radio-controlled mechanism thingy for the cat flap. Sure
he can be blinkered when things aren't going his team's way, but then
which manager isn't? I hope he isn't away for long.
Even the furore
surrounding Di Canio's appointment felt, to me, forced and somewhat
puffed up – not quite manufactured, but still twisted out of all
logical shape. Di Canio's (re)elevation to the status of footballing
controversy de jour seemed fair enough on the surface. No one
doubts he made signals to Lazio's ultras. It's irrefutable
that he's made pretty blunt statements in the past, laying his
political allegiances bare for all to see. We all know his history.
But this all seemed to be OK as long as he was managing Swindon Town.
Little old Swindon! With their lower league pluck and their “oh
isn't the manager just nutty!” charm. But now he's in the Premier
League and it's Big News. Whether his self-confessed fascination with
Mussolini is similar to the “say what you like about Hitler, but he
knew how to get results” pseud-bellendery that gets thrown around
from time to time, or something deeper-rooted altogether, we will
probably never know for sure, as it's his life and his politics,
whether we agree with them or not.
His appointment has
been framed as an affront to the good, working people of Sunderland.
I wouldn't dare speak for the club's supporters, but I do wonder, if
he keeps them in the top flight, whether he'll be lowered back down
to the level of “lol, crazy foreign guy!” and the political
fancies will be put on the backburner until the first time results
start to dip? I guess it might be helpful if he took the time to
really clarify his worldviews, but that's his choice – and we
wouldn't want to get all fascist about it, would we?
Anyway, the coverage of
the “mess” at Sunderland had only served to heighten my angst,
and it was becoming increasingly clear that my relationship with
football was reaching a critical impasse. Cohabiting but not
communicating – the river of passion running cruelly dry before my
very eyes – something had to give. Indeed, it was almost through
force of habit that I tuned into Borussia Dortmund's Champions League
quarter final second leg against Malaga earlier this week. Dortmund –
very much this season's football hipster's team of choice (see
Athletic Bilbao, 2011/12) – will always hold a special place in the
hearts of my generation, their glorious 1997 Champion's League
victory coming at the expense of a star-studded Juventus team and
rounded off by Lars
Ricken's iconic instant-impact strike. And that
kit! Lovely wasn't it?
Dortmund's victory in
'97, ironically enough, owed much to a squad assembled in no small
part from ex-Bundesliga players returning home from Serie A, the
league which had dominated European club football for the first half
of the decade. The team that night included former Juve team-mates
Jurgen Kohler, Paulo Sousa, Andreas Moller and Stefan Reuter, whilst
two-goal hero Karl-Heinze Riedle and the great Matthias Sammer were
recruited from Lazio and Sampdoria respectively. Their triumphant
homecoming provided a slap in the face to Serie A's presumed
(although probably correctly so) status as the best league in the
world. Today many would argue that the Bundesliga stands above its
Italian counterpart, but to see this current Dortmund team go all the
way would be something to savour for sure.
Their current line-up
gives off a comforting, home-spun feel. Robert Lewandowski, brought
in for a snip at a reported 4.5m euros, is the envy of European
football's nouveau riche, Mario Gรถtze
and Marco Reus are proper homegrown heroes, whilst Mats Hummels was
pilfered from rivals Bayern Munich as a youngster and has come of age
at the Westfalenstadion. It's a state of affairs which brings to mind
the great pre-Bosman Ajax squad of 1995, a ridiculously talented
collective which still reads like a who's-who of 90s European
football: Davids, Kluivert, Van Der Sar, Seedorf, the de Boer twins,
to mention but a handful.
The immediate
close-season shade which followed that Ajax side's moment in the sun
saw the team begin to splinter, its young talents lured away to –
you guessed it – Italy (a couple, in fact, to Milan, the team they
defeated to conquer Europe). With the continent's new transfer
regulations allowing many to leave for no fee at all, Ajax's
well-worn modus operandi was thrown into a tailspin, its side
ransacked, the club's walls stripped for copper. For a club built on
producing great players, leading them to glory, then selling for a
handsome profit, it remains concerning that Ajax still haven't
completely recovered from the exodus of their last great side.
Players such as Shinji Kagawa and Nuri Sahin have already moved on
from Dortmund in recent years and I imagine similar departures will
occur this coming summer, but perhaps the Bundesliga's growing
reputation will help keep them together for a little while longer
yet.
But where was I? Ah
yes, Tuesday night. With Dortmund on the brink of premature ejection
thanks to a dubious offside call (and, to be fair, 180 rather
underwhelming minutes' play) something great occurred. Trickiness was
given the old heave-ho and in its place came the kind of route-one,
long-range ballistics operation North Korea can (we hope) only dream
of. The resultant injury time goal-explosion was a joy to behold; the
celebrations at the final whistle a simple portrait of joy
unconfined.
Facing the media
post-match, Dortmund coach Jurgen Klopp could barely contain his
delight, looking as disheveled as a city banker who just left his
bonus behind the local bar, and so overcome with raw emotion that he
even seemed to forget that he wears glasses. Grinning from
ear-to-ear, mugging to camera, laughing uproariously and swaying back
and forth, you got the feeling that at any moment he could have
reached for his top hat and cane, twirled himself around the nearest
lamppost and gone full-on Fred Astaire on us. Lord knows what
he'll be like if they win the thing.
Chief executives of the
Premier League, let's bring this man over here. On second thought,
let's not. We'll only contrive to break his spirit and squeeze from
him the zeal and childlike efflorescence he so exudes. It's what we
do best.
Before heading back out
the tunnel to gather his thoughts (which I assume remain scattered
across all four corners of the ground – he's probably still got
some stuck to his shoe) Klopp looked to the camera one final time and
declared that this was “one of the best things I've ever felt,”
before turning and disappearing into the cool German night. As I sat
and watched, I realised that any man who failed to be moved by such
an outpouring is truly no friend of mine. In that instant it occurred
to me that football, for all its dark arts and cheap attire, maybe
isn't so bad after all. The little things I fell in love with – the
madcap managers; the late, great comebacks; the simple pleasure of
triumph over adversity – are still there, still speaking to me,
still singing me to sleep as the night draws in. I think the
beautiful game and I are going to give it another go.
