So Paddy got up - an Arsenal anthology

by Unknown

  16 – BEHIND THE 8-BALL - Tim Barkwill

  Back when football was still football, before the world came to watch, before we started to consume every single match from here, and then – because enough is never enough – every match from there, there was a time characterized by dwindling crowds, crumbling stadia, the threat of crowd violence and shorts that were so ridiculously short you wonder now how any of those gallant souls ever had children. The good old days? No: not even remotely.

  For God’s sake, Graham Taylor was lauded as a genius. And for our Club, for the great, the mighty Gunners, A to the F to the C, we, oh we were… well, our glory days came and went in the 1930’s. We still remembered them. Not literally for most of us, but our dads remembered.

  Back in the ’30’s, Arsenal were England. The unprecedented success brought to us by Herbert Chapman’s five league titles in a decade (two of which came to the team Chapman had built after pneumonia had taken him from us) guaranteed our place among the pantheon of footballing greats. This is not to say that success entirely eluded AFC after the Chapman years. We won something in the 1940’s, in the ’50’s and again in the ’60’s. We were the masters of the intermittent blip on the radar.

  Then, out of the blue, we did the Double in the 1970’s (probably just to proffer a slap in the face to our local rivals who’d done the same thing in the decade prior), before embarking on our magnificent FA Cup final three-peat (’78-’80). Quite an achievement, even if glory managed to elude us on all but one of those occasions. The years following were lean. Did the disappointment of Trevor Brooking’s header psychologically scar us? Perhaps: but probably not as deeply as Willie Young’s studs scarred Paul Allen.

  No; the truth of it was Brady left for the continent, Rixy never quite lived up to his promise, Stapleton moved on and since Clive Allen looked too much like a goal scorer we immediately swapped him for a left-back. Admittedly the left-back we picked up proved to be the best in the country, but he wasn’t about to enliven the “goals for” column. Of course, our history had never been remarkable for achievements in that column. Yet we remained consistently threatening, always likely to prove a contender thanks to our parsimony rather than any flair. The mirror opposite of our neighbours, the enemy in white and blue which is, of course, where Allen ended up, possibly seeking revenge for young Willie’s timeless scything down of his cousin. And it was galling to have to have to sit back and watch that lot from the wrong end of the Seven Sisters road trundle off to F.A. Cup glory with Chas ’n’ Dave two years in a row while we worked hard to achieve mid-table mediocrity.

  During the early-80’s (Terry Neill’s last years in charge) we were often so poor that mid-table seemed like a grand stroke of good fortune. At the time, however, we always believed that we could achieve success, but we believed in that Arsenal way; not as though you actually thought it likely to transpire, more that the law of averages had to kick in at some point. We believed in the team in that way you believe when rolling your eyes towards heaven while not really believing at all. But we kept turning up. Kept buying the programmes. Kept piling up the discarded peanut shells around our feet. Come rain or … well, more rain.

  In 1983 Terry Neill departed and Don Howe took over. Unfortunately Howe fared little better and in 1986 he was replaced by George Graham. With the introduction of Graham as manager the fortunes of AFC changed quite radically. We cultivated a certain style and even came close to topping the goal-scoring charts. From that point on the history of Arsenal became ever more entwined with success, culminating in the appointment of Wenger and the move away from Highbury to Ashburton Grove.

  But our focus here is not on success. We’re not going to eulogise the game with which we’ve become all too familiar over the last decade or so. Rather, we’re looking back into those dark days – and they literally do seem wintry and dark – of the old First Division; one that existed before the dazzle of the Premiership, before the money. When the most foreign player on your team would be a lad from Dublin.

  Why, for God’s sake, would you want to cast us back into those dull doldrums of despond? Please tell us this isn’t going to turn into one of those “You don’t know when you’re well off” lectures, rattling on like one of the four horsemen of Yorkshire:

  “A round ball?! We was lucky to have a lump of coal to kick around in our bare feet with nails in our toes on a lava flow with our own severed arms stood for goalposts! Aye, lad.”

  Fine. I’ll not browbeat in an effort to brighten the outlook by contrast. If only because, in truth, I didn’t think those dull, dark days were so bad. I mean, yes, of course they were bad, but they taught us a lot. It’s one thing to walk into the arms of a club riding the crest of a wave called success, it’s quite another to fall in love with one whose fortunes are waning. Yet this was how I first came to know and love the Gunners.

  In matters of the heart, there are no rules; rhyme and reason disappear from view. You just fall. Sometimes you get hurt. But if you’re a romantic type then it doesn’t matter how many times you get hurt or how badly, you can’t help but love. Today, we’d call that a dysfunctional relationship. The only thing keeping us sane is the knowledge that we’re not alone. There are others out there, just like us. Proudly holding high our masochistic streaks as though banners of allegiance. Shouldn’t there be some sort of support group?

  The last time I saw the red and white take the field was at Highbury, from the West Stand Upper. The same location, give or take a few rows, that my Dad and I occupied for years. Even though we held no season tickets, in those days the supply exceeded the demand and getting a seat wasn’t hard at all. In front of us were a gaggle of lads, born and bred in North London, Arsenal through and through. They always had handfuls of peanuts, somehow managing to eat them in-between joyously shouting at the events unfolding before us. They were vocal, continually smiling and joking (usually at the expense of our own players), articulate in that way Londoners can be if you can keep up with the 100 mph delivery. I was a child who took himself and his team too seriously. I rarely saw the funny side of anything to do with the football we played. There was too much at stake. Every game was life or death. At least, that’s how it felt (which is, perhaps, why I failed to see the funny side of Paul Davis).

  Paul was a young lad when he broke into the first team. In those days your starting eleven almost never changed. Injury? What injury? Well, obviously he’s missing a foot, but it’s his left one he plays with so no problem. When a player got into the first team that player stayed in the first team. Paul arrived, a London boy, born and bred. He made his debut away to the enemy, down White Heart’s Shame; a 2-1 victory on April 7th, 1980. We didn’t go to away matches in those days. The threat of hooliganism hung over matches. Though exaggerated by the sensationalism of the tabloids from the 70’s onward, it was still real enough.

  Anyway, I didn’t see Paul until he stepped out on the hallowed soil of our pristine patch. Do I remember the game? No; but then most games blend together a bit at that time. A goal-less draw here, a score draw there, a scrappy one-nil to keep the mystery alive. What I do remember most of all, is Davis himself. A thin bloke who looked like strong gust would take him away. And by God was he awful. I mean terribly, ludicrously bad. Couldn’t make a pass. Tackling was atrocious. Walking in a straight line seemed to be about all he could manage without somehow making the kind of mistake that gives every player nightmares.

  Still, I loved that team. I loved each player on that team. It used to hurt me when the gaggle would mock some of them. They were my players. Why couldn’t everyone love them as I did? But then Paul showed up and everything changed. He was the first player I ever heard booed when his name was read out on the team sheet before kick off. It wasn’t the kind of cruel, heartless booing you get sometimes at public events. No, it was more the booing of the pantomime villain. As if everyone knew how bad he was going to be each time he played and the audience took a perverse delight in letting him know they knew. Was it pee
r pressure that made me join in? There was only my Dad alongside me, so that can’t be it. So what then? Desire to mix with the tribe? A latent wish to be as one with the cool gaggle who came from here, lived their lives on the doorstep while I, just a tourist, lived in Kent?

  No. It was all a part of growing up, that part of growing up where you learn not to take things so seriously. When you learn that it’s okay to laugh at your heroes. In fact, it’s good to do so because the world won’t often bow to your will and you discover you can’t wish things into being. No matter how hard you try, you can’t control the errant passing of a Paul Davis, our number 8.

  Now, if that had been it, if that was the be all and end all of my relationship with Paul Davis, it’d still be significant enough to have left an indelible imprint upon me. He’d have been the ‘hero’ I came to laugh at. He would have helped me learn that it’s okay to laugh at the game and the players. But that’s not why I remember Paul Davis. That’s not even how I remember Paul Davis. What I remember is a player whose skill and style were the closest thing to Jean Tigana I’ve ever seen in English football. What I remember is a player whose touch and passing outshone any other player on the field. A man who tackled like his shoulders were twice as broad as they were and he packed 20 extra kilos of pure muscle cunningly disguised by his waifish frame. What I remember is a player who consistently showed up and brought his best game.

  I know! You’re thinking this Paul Davis and the Paul Davis who couldn’t put a foot right have to be two different people. If only they were – it would have made my life so much simpler. Alas, life is never simple. And so it was that the lesson Paul Davis really taught me was far more valuable. The pariah we all booed, while having a good chuckle, turned out to be the true story of the ugly duckling, who in the season following, blossomed into the most elegant swan I ever saw in the red and white. How? What? Huh?

  I wish there were some logical explanation for it. Some simple formula we could refer back to and say, ‘Ahhh… that’s how it happened,’ but, of course, there isn’t. Paul Davis went from being a liability to the cornerstone of our salvation, and the only reason was time. There wasn’t any miracle. Paul had always been a superbly gifted footballer, but when you’re young it’s difficult to get up to speed and your game gets thrown. The crowd is merciless. They used to watch Christians vs. Lions. So it was, the transformation of Paul Davis taught me to never trust to first impressions. What you see is not always what you get. It pays to be patient, to keep your counsel, rather than pass judgment before the jury has been given adequate time to reach their verdict. Can you imagine that today’s game? It’s just not possible, is it?

  The MTV-generation gave us the 30-second attention span and Queen supplied the anthem, letting us know precisely what we wanted and when we wanted it. Patience has become an archaic concept that’ll be soon routed from the dictionaries of Western civilization. It’s no-one’s fault. We all contribute. We know too much. We believe we’ve seen it all before. The punchline told mid-joke. Yet Paul Davis proved that if you invest a little time and have a little faith, great talent can grow and flourish from seemingly barren ground.

  Because I had the privilege of watching the transformation of Paul Davis, I never gave up on Alex Song. Despite the woeful performances in his first matches for us, I recalled the ugly duckling and trusted in the coaching staff, who all predicted great things for Alex. He’s no Paul Davis, mind, but, really, how many of those come along in a lifetime? And that’s the funny thing; few remember Paul Davis for his skill. Perhaps we were all still too downhearted by the departure of Brady and the disappointment in Rix to look closely enough to see that in Paul Davis we had found our ‘cultured left foot’ in the middle of the park. He wasn’t a goal scorer like Brady, that kind of classic number 10 the continentals would call the playmaker, the guy who makes everything tick in attack. But in his subtle way, Paul was the fulcrum. In the absence of a playmaker, he made the plays with his astute passing, his range, his tackling; his ability to read the game and make interceptions before running at the opposition’s penalty area. We’d always thought of the playmaker living in the final third, but Paul Davis showed that he can lie deep and dictate play from all over the field. He was everything a midfielder should be: our number eight: the ugly duckling.

  Yet, even the moral of the ugly duckling story is not the greatest lesson Paul Davis taught me. More important than any of the valuable lessons I’ve already mentioned is this: Paul Davis taught me what it means to persevere. Right from the first, he always tried to get involved. He’d never try to hide on the pitch or shy away. Just ask Glenn Cockerill.

  It happened at the Dell, a game against Southampton back in ’88. Cockerill was a mouthy git with a terrible haircut (even for the ’80’s it was bad). During a match Cockerill took it upon himself to verbally abuse Davis. Davis took it upon himself to wait for a lull in the game and then clock Cockerill, breaking his jaw. Paul Davis, the waif, broke the jaw of Glenn Cockerill, the 6’ 3’, self-styled all-action ‘hard man’ midfielder. No-one would’ve believed it if the T.V. cameras hadn’t picked it up – leading to a retrospective nine-match ban for our number 8!

  My Dad didn’t believe it. When he first heard what happened, he laughed and asked if I was sure Davis hadn’t broken himself rather than someone else. Not that Paul Davis could ever be considered a lightweight. He grafted in every match, but he wasn’t a dirty player. Certainly he was not the kind to commit professional fouls and not the kind to resort to physical violence (although, if memory serves, he was there at Old Trafford in October ’90, and he certainly didn’t shy away from confrontation on that occasion).

  I left England before Paul Davis left Arsenal. The Arsenal I’ve watched since has played with style and power, then style and grace, achieving or not achieving along the way. Trophies have been collected; more are expected. It’s a far cry from the game I knew, but I still follow the team religiously. It’s not the same as being there at the ground – at that magnificent new home, that I’ve yet to see first-hand – but I watch every game courtesy of television or the ‘Net. Keeping an eye out for the next Paul Davis: the next Arsenal legend.

  ***

  A failed director turned failed screenwriter, T.J. Barkwill’s life is most remarkable for the ten years he spent incarcerated in an Alsatian jail before his warders realized he wasn’t a dog and set him free. His favourite player isn’t, rather it’s an entire midfield and it played for France in 1986.

  17 – ON ARSENAL’S FINANCES : A GAME OF TWO HALVES - Kieron O’Connor

  Many years ago, I used to stand on the North Bank watching the likes of Liam Brady, Frank Stapleton and David O’Leary doing their stuff for Arsenal. From my regular vantage point on the terraces, my only thoughts were whether we would win, though I did allow myself to marvel at Alan Sunderland’s haircut and wonder why Willie Young always wore a shirt a size too small for him. Although that side never really challenged in the league, it did get to the FA Cup final three years in a row, allowing me to treat a trip to Wembley as an annual event. Twice we lost, though those defeats seem like a product of my imagination. Honestly, how could we concede goals to Roger Osborne (who?) and a header from Trevor Brooking? Even the 3-2 triumph against Manchester United left me an emotional wreck, as we threw a way a two-goal lead, only to score the winner in injury time.

  In 1980 I remember bunking off school to make my way up from Brighton to Highbury for the Cup Winners’ Cup semi-final against Juventus, and thinking that we had blown it when we could only draw 1-1. How wrong I was. Two weeks later, I was listening on my transistor radio as Paul Vaessen’s last minute header took us through. Cue pandemonium in my bedroom. Of course, we then lost the final to Valencia on penalties, and my mother heard for the first time the full range of my profanities. In short, I fully identified with this team and am not ashamed to admit that I shed a few tears when Juventus got their revenge by taking “Chippy” off our hands.

  Not for a single moment
did I worry about the club’s balance sheet or think that the club’s shirt would look better emblazoned with the name of a sponsor. However, times have changed. I now earn my corn in the world of finance and people seem just as interested in matters off the pitch these days. Even if Arsenal slump to a defeat, we can console ourselves with the knowledge that at least our bottom line looks good.

  Well, that’s sort of true, but Arsenal’s finances are more like the proverbial “game of two halves.” There’s plenty of good stuff there, but also a few weaknesses which have affected our ability to compete at the very highest levels. That said, there’s no doubt that our financials have been far better than most. Take the last annual results from 2009/10, which were quite superb – with revenue of £380 million and profit before tax of £56 million both setting new record highs for the club. As chief executive Ivan Gazidis observed, with commendable understatement, these results were “very healthy”.

  In truth, that’s a seriously impressive performance, especially if you consider that only three other Premier League clubs made profits in 2010 and all of those were significantly smaller than ours. To place this into context, the three teams that finished ahead of us last season all recorded massive losses: Manchester United £80 million, Chelsea £70 million and Manchester City, making the others look like amateurs, an incredible £121 million. It is a rare thing indeed for football clubs to make money, but Arsenal have managed to do this for many years. The last time that we reported a loss was eight years ago, way back in 2002, while total profits have been rising ever since the move to the Emirates stadium: 2007 £6 million, 2008 £37 million, 2009 £46 million and 2010 £56 million. In the last three years alone, Arsenal have produced combined pre-tax profits of £138 million – an astonishing figure in the world of football, which is more accustomed to turning billionaires into millionaires.