We certainly won’t see Eduardo play again for the best part of a year by which time the bilious glare will have faded and championships will have been decided. When Kieron Dyer was injured earlier this season I felt again the grisly pang but I’ve seldom thought of it since unless selfishly lamenting West Ham’s lack of depth in midfield or how useful his pace would be in opening up Chelsea this afternoon but he has lived with it every day.
In a week or so I’ll have forgotten about Eduardo so I’ll wish him a speedy recovery now and hope that the player that returns has all the skill and grace of the one that fell last Saturday.
30
Is this the right fertiliser for Grays’ grassroots?
It’s all well and good English clubs marauding through Europe winning matches all cocksure and swaggering like it were the barmy ol’ days of the Empire once more, strutting through the Champions League knocking over tables in piazzas and laughing at Greek fellas wearing national dress but in Blighty the oft-cited yet frequently neglected ‘grassroots’ of the game are being bizarrely mishandled.
‘I’d worry that I’d tended the roots too aggressively like Steinbeck’s Lenny loving another mouse to death’
I suppose the phrase ‘grassroots’ has caught on as the game is played on a grass surface. I don’t much care for the metaphor of tending the ‘roots of grass’ on my knees with tweezers, forever avoiding worms and worrying that I’d tended the roots too much or too aggressively like Steinbeck’s Lenny loving another mouse to death with his clumsy thumb. The only time the game’s grassroots are mentioned is in connection with abuse or neglect; e.g. Trevor Brooking’ll go ‘we must be sure that the game’s grassroots are properly nurtured.’ You never hear someone say ‘’Ere, the grassroots are coming on a bundle – thick, lustrous, flourishing things they are, if anything we need to impede the progress of these effin’ roots or they’ll turn into triffids and devour us all – get some weed-killer.’
The term came to my attention once more this week with the FA’s judgment that non-league Grays Athletic FC must pay £14,000 to their former player Ashley Sestanovich who has been convicted with conspiracy to rob and imprisoned for eight years. Grays terminated Sestanovich’s contract prior to his conviction but the FA’s judgment means that unless they pay the player’s wages for the preceding five months they could face suspension from all competitions.
I’m from Grays and spent many happy hours at the Recreation Ground where the team played their home matches, admittedly mostly on Guy Fawkes night where a lovely firework display took place. The few football matches I attended were bloody dismal, but there is no denying that the games, and fireworks, I saw were taking place on grass and beneath that grass were roots. In short, Grays Athletic are a good example of the game’s grassroots. The club chairman, Mike Woodward, has said he will not pay the fine either from his own pocket or the club’s resources as a matter of principle.
In addition to being club chairman Woodward is also its owner and manager, a kind of non-league Abramovich minus the marionettes or perhaps more generously a Willy Wonka-style football benefactor. I like that he does so many jobs, I bet he’s at the turnstiles taking money then pops on a false moustache, dashes round to the pie stall and knocks out pasties, then darts to the bench in a sheepskin, spraying away the Ginster-pong with a tin of Lynx – he’s running that club and furthermore he’s single-handedly making a stand against a loopy edict from Soho Square. Apparently Sestanovich, who only had three training sessions at the club and played for 20 minutes in a friendly, initially told officials that he was being held on motoring offences. When they learned he was involved in a robbery in which a man was murdered Grays terminated his contract but because he was arrested after he signed for them the FA say Grays are obliged to honour his contract up until the point of conviction, under contract law.
It’s difficult to determine what moral stance one ought rightly to take in such an unusual situation. Until conviction Sestanovich (whose name I’m already sick of typing, I wouldn’t have wanted to be the woman in court who had to keep minutes – she must’ve been writing it constantly on that typewriter with only three buttons. Ghastly) was innocent so entitled to be paid but now he’s been found guilty should he receive retrospective payment? Not in my view, it sounds like as well as being a crook he was rubbish. Twenty minutes of match play? Three training sessions? Darren Anderton would’ve been embarrassed by those statistics and he’s never been convicted of conspiracy to rob – he’d’ve been too poorly to complete an entire robbery anyway, they’d have to bring him off halfway through.
Also he, SESTANOVICH (I capitalised it to spice his name up) doubled for Thierry Henry in a car ad. What kind of bonkers treble life is he leading? Half-hearted training by day, a quick impression of Henry at lunchtime then cooking up robbery plots in front of the telly at night. Perhaps that’s what drew the equally versatile Mike Woodward to him in the first place; he recognised another shape-shifting utility man and snapped him up – the meeting in which SeStAnOvIcH was signed must’ve resembled a film starring Alec Guinness and Eddie Murphy, each of ’em leaping in an’ out of their various identities.
Whilst I acknowledge that the FA has no power to override employment law I think they have an obligation to be supportive to Grays Athletic at this time of crisis, giving them 14 days to pay this fine or risk suspension seems draconian. It is a malevolent gardener who so unthinkingly condemns his lawn. Instead of administering the Baby Bio they’re out there blundering about in stilettos.
31
What’s the point in replaying a humiliation?
If a match is on television that I’m already aware West Ham United have lost I don’t bother to watch it. What’s the point? The football? What, on their inexorable trudge to defeat the Hammers might do something sexy and skilful? Well, that’s great but prior knowledge of an unpleasant result, for me, negates enjoyment. It’s difficult enough to watch West Ham live, when the possibility of victory theoretically exists; remove that and all that remains is masochistic snuff soccer.
The way football is televised over here, in Los Angeles, is usually several hours after the event. I’ve accepted it now. Like many other previously bizarre aspects of their culture, I no longer gawp or even remark, I simply look out the window and get on with my life. Everything is too far apart and crossing the road is illegal. Shops and cafés don’t let you use their toilets. In fact nothing that doesn’t directly hoover up money from your pants (trousers) is allowed to flourish.
‘I’d sooner watch last season’s thrilling home defeat to Tottenham than the 4–0 kick in the nuts we got last week’
If I wee’d gold coins Starbucks would let me use their bathroom (lavvy), as it is I spend a lot of my time piddling in the street like a cur. Why, too, are they so euphemistic about bodily function? Restroom? What, for a rest? A rest where faeces emerge from your anus? That’s no kind of respite from the trials of the day. Having said that, I’ve been utterly seduced by all the rhubarb and glamour to the point that when I hear ‘West Ham lost 4–0 again’ I allow the shame to drizzle past and pop out and buy myself a new bikini. It’s my optimism that prevents me from watching a game which I know the Irons have squandered; in spite of irrefutable proof that the result has been decided I sit pointlessly willing alternative results with my brain.
It’s stupid enough doing that at a live game, like trying to will Frank Lampard into being sent off or Jermain Defoe into missing a penalty – both of which have happened this season, but surely (surely?) that’s not as a result of my mental dexterity and villainous telepathy? I’m pretty sure that once, on acid, I was able to make a weather girl stutter just by staring at her on GMTV thinking ‘Stutter, stutter!’ but my testimony is perhaps marred by the LSD.
A consequence of my reluctance to torture myself with West Ham’s inefficiency and my cynicism has been that I’ve not seen West Ham play for ages; they seem only capable of humiliating defeats at present and if I know they’ve lost 4–
0 to Spurs I don’t see why I should subject myself to 90 minutes of doomed cock-eyed optimism.
Julian Dicks, perhaps the most popular left-back in human history (Roberto Carlos? Kenny Sansom?) has berated West Ham for ‘not trying’ in recent games, as well he might, for when he played for West Ham it were as if what were at stake was not the abstract idea of three points but the safety of his own sex organs – which were never in jeopardy. It would be a foolhardy pervert who targeted the genitalia of the terminator; I imagine his sperm was a caustic liqueur that would devour the deviant’s hand.
Dicks spared Alan Curbishley in his venomous ejaculation, saying he wasn’t to blame. Curbishley was also offered support from the board and it comes to something when a vote of confidence is universally accepted as a tacit admission that the manager’s days are numbered.
Where else would such loopy double-speak be de rigueur? Maybe in mob culture where the thoughtful and delicious delivery of a bit of fish means one of your mates has been murdered. I suppose at least you’ve got the fish to cheer you up afterwards – a bit of salmon would take the sting out of all but the most sudden bereavement.
A quick glance in the direction of St James’ Park puts Curbishley’s recent achievements in perspective. Dear Kevin Keegan seems to be meticulously nurturing a somehow unforeseen travesty for the people of Newcastle who, with the benefit of hindsight and a near certain awareness of the result, appointed a man for whom optimism is the sole qualification.
I expect members of the Toon Army would happily re-watch the games that have taken place since Keegan’s appointment, glued to the set, rattle in hand waiting for Bolton Wanderers to capitulate. After last season I suppose mid-table mediocrity is quite an achievement but I miss the adrenaline and adventure. I’d sooner watch last season’s thrilling home defeat to Tottenham than the 4–0 kick in the nuts we got last week, because the spirit of the team that game was spellbinding, which I suppose is what Julian Dicks is getting at and why Newcastle are still enchanted by Keegan.
32
Hurrah for super, special, Sunday soccer-day
It’s super soccer Sunday! It’s super soccer Sunday! In addition to being Easter (oestrogen? Oh yes, it’s all to do with eggs) the celebration of Christ’s resurrection and the rebirth of nature itself through the sexiest of the seasons – spring – Manchester United play on-form Liverpool and Chelsea take on the Gunners at the Bridge.
A toy shop round the corner from me in Hampstead has a sign in its window confirming its holiday opening times which reads: Good Friday 10am–3pm, Easter Sunday 10am–3pm, Holy Saturday 10pm–3pm. Holy Saturday? There is no Holy Saturday, it’s just Saturday, a Saturday like any other. Holy Saturday sounds like an exclamation made by Robin on discovering that Batman had only recruited him for weekend bumming. However holy Saturday may be in the eyes of Hampstead’s toy shop owners, it is as a child’s plaything compared to the divinity of Sky Sports’ super, special soccer Sunday.
‘I think there is only one messiah appearing this Super Soccer Resurrection day and that is Cristiano Ronaldo’
Easter after all yearly shifts, being celebrated in March, February or April as God sees fit – I wouldn’t be surprised if suddenly we had to contend with a new Easter 2, ‘this time it’s personal’ turning up mid-June. As a religious festival it is all too capricious, a whimsical affair obeying only the cosmic wandering of the moon. Whereas super, special, sugar-free Sunday special soccer-day is a regulated occasion appearing at the behest of Sky, whenever they deign the event ought to occur.
I wonder if the final match of the season in 1989, when Arsenal beat Liverpool at Anfield to win the title, when Michael Thomas scored the winner, had been prescribed by Sky? Or if the Stanley Matthews final should retrospectively be regarded as the super Stanley soccer final? We’ll never truly know. The only thing of which we can be certain is that football matches are now scheduled for the convenience of Sky TV and although, I’m sure, there’ll be many negative side effects due to the rise of billionaire media tyrants, one positive we can all take from the monopolisation of our sporting culture is a magnificent day’s viewing on Sunday.
Starting with the incomparable Soccer Supplement in the morning, a programme so assured of itself that it doesn’t even say goodbye at its conclusion but its participants continue chatting as the credits roll, indifferent to our eyes, on to Goals on Sunday where we reprise the previous day’s events with Chris Kamara and whoever partners him this week after the regrettable departure of Rob McCaffrey, then the main event – Super Soccer Sunday, an alliterative football festival which will pin us all to our couches, grateful for our relentlessly rewarded immobility.
I hope they don’t find a way of making Mondays entertaining or before too long we’ll be committed to a lifetime of vicarious titillation, whilst the seasons come and go and Easter sprays random festive celebration across the pages of the calendar like an indiscriminate teen onanist decorating Keeley Hazell’s paper chest.
Manchester United will win the title this year. They have steeliness to their play and stability that one cannot imagine capitulating. Liverpool squandered the opportunity to end their barren spell by neglecting to capitalise on the remarkable form of Fernando Torres.
Of course, Rafael Benítez can argue that by resting him earlier in the season he has facilitated Torres’ recent form, but this I believe to be balderdash.
A friend of mine did some work with Liverpool and told me that Torres is an incredibly serious young man, which is pleasing to me. He’s so beautiful and skilful that he could be forgiven if he were giddy and frivolous, forever letting off fire alarms and pinching girls’ arses, but apparently he has the demeanour of a young clergyman, poring over scriptures and worrying about his soul.
I think he could’ve played another 10 games this season and had he done so Liverpool would still be in contention. Arsenal seem now to be tainted by Eduardo’s terrible fate and tread the turf as though desecrating his grave, but this is an opportunity for them to turn that around as Avram Grant’s Chelsea seem not to have the stomach to overturn first-class opposition.
Reportedly the team has become detached from his leadership and he is seen as a dead man walking, yet if ever there were a time for such a figure to triumph it’s Easter. I think there is only one messiah appearing this Super Soccer Resurrection day and that is Cristiano Ronaldo – I think it is he we shall all be worshipping come the festival’s close.
33
Capello’s words minced by sinister Nosferatu
The pervasive anti-climactic pang that accompanied Wednesday night’s defeat in Paris will be present throughout the European Championship this summer so I hope I can learn to love it. The niggling affection of my England support is like scratching a long-amputated limb; did our country ever possess the qualities I lament? A night in Munich? Victory by a single penalty against Argentina? Was Gary Lineker ever more than a snack-grabbing sauce-pot?
‘“I am the Maradona of oral sex,” claims sweet old man’
This was an especially drab showing, throwing those memories into doubt. Haunted by an extinguished love affair, the memories of distant bliss seem to absurdly mock the tedious present. Fabio Capello seemed pleased enough in his post-match interview; part Nan, part David Hasselhoff, he drily batted back enquiries, often without awaiting translation from the looming, pale translator, played by Bernard Bresslaw as a scheming undertaker.
Ray Wilkins, with the newly depilated Richard Keys in studio, offered an explanation for Capello’s ability to respond to questions without awaiting Lurch’s interpretation – ‘With foreign,’ he began, ‘you can understand it but you can’t speak it.’ Personally I can neither speak nor understand foreign but Ray, who played for several years in Capello’s Italy, must’ve been forever confidently nodding at waiters and wailing street widows before drawing them a picture of his response – ‘I’ll have the sausages’ or ‘He’s gone to a better place.’
Looking at Capello’s Munster ling
uist it was difficult to imagine José Mourinho fulfilling the same function for Bobby Robson at Barcelona. I bet he gave dear Bobby’s Spanglish ramblings his own spin; I reckon there are still people in Catalonia who consider Sir Bobby to be a preening narcissist after receiving his persona solely through the Special One’s filter – ‘“I am the Maradona of oral sex,” claims sweet old man’ screamed one headline.
Now I don’t speak a word of Italian, but I still believe the undead interpreter was editorialising when asked if there was anything positive to be taken from the performance. Amidst all the rolling ‘r’s’ and repressed melodrama I distinctly heard ‘Joh Kohl’, which I know from my time spent in Tuscany is Italian for ‘Joe Cole’. After Capello had finished, Nosferatu took to the mic but peculiarly neglected to include any mention of the former West Ham hero. Given the nature of the question, we can only assume that Capello had said that Joe Cole’s contribution was positive; then, for reasons known only to himself and Bram Stoker, the interpreter omitted any Cole praise, perhaps fancying the nimble midfielder for a latter-day Van Helsing who could at any moment appear in the corridor and plunge a stake into his dark heart.
Aside from his backroom staff of Transylvanian exiles Capello has further bleak characters to ponder. What’s eating John Terry? The once strident epitome of English grit, stripped of his captaincy now seems to be castrated and unfocused – perhaps since the departure of the world’s most handsome misinterpreter he has lost his way, a conundrum doubtless enhanced by the arrival of Avram Grant, who could easily inhabit the same graveyard utopia as Capello’s grim sidekick.
Articles of Faith Page 13
