The talking's never over.
Thursday
Monday
Perpetual Motion: The Language of Movement in Football
Tune into the soon-to-be-defunct ESPN Classic on any quiet evening and you'll notice very quickly just how slow football used to be. Any hint of panic would instantly be remedied with a prod of the ball back into the grateful hands of a goalkeeper, who would punt the ball downfield at his leisure towards a lumbering no.9 (a proper old fashioned one, of course, rather than the modern, false variety).
Then, in 1992, football's Big Bang occurred. A dull, cynical World Cup two years earlier had the game's lawmakers heading for the drawing board. It would be fascinating to discover the ideas that never made it onto the pitch, but the result of this enforced introspection was the single most important development in modern football history - the back-pass rule. Outlawing the handling of a deliberate pass to the goalkeeper made with the boot (amended in 1997 to also include throw-ins), the new directive transformed the dynamic of matches overnight, and followed the claim by FIFA's then General Secretary, Sepp Blatter, that "spectators do not go to football matches simply to see the goalkeeper standing still with the ball in his hands".
Over two decades later, the game is - with some notable Latin-country exceptions - overrun by players built like super middleweight boxers, possessing the pace of 100-metre Olympians and breathing with the respiratory capacity of a varsity rowing crew.
For all the appreciation of skill and metronomic possession-hoarding, football is still a sucker for pace in any form - searing, lightning, blistering and explosive pace (often "to burn"); bags of pace or pace in abundance; and the curious concepts of real or genuine pace, suggesting that some players might be carrying counterfeit (or perhaps deceptive) pace. This perpetual motion has forced the football media to consult their thesauruses to find more nuanced ways of describing how a player propelled himself from A to B before he troubled Row Z.
The wide areas of the pitch are the logical place to start, where jet-heeled wingers aim to give opposing full-backs as torrid a time as possible. They may find, however, that their adversary is no slouch and he himself may need no invitation to bomb on. The historically undersung full-back has been liberated by the era of gung ho-ism that the back-pass rule ushered in - they are now free to buccaneer, maraud or swashbuckle to their lungs' content, provided they are just as good going the other way. Insipid games, conspicuous by their lack of dynamism, require pace to be injected into them, something that has so far escaped the suspicious eye of sport's doping authorities.
In amongst the power and bustle, diminutive players must jink and slalom their way to success, although the mazy run remains available to players of any dimension. Graceful playmakers are said to glide across the turf, while defensive midfield dogsbodies merely scuttle, allowing their more attack-minded colleagues to apply for the coveted licence to roam. Space exists only to be burst into, front posts are always darted towards, while the back stick is the best place to indulge in a spot of ghosting in.
It's not all high-velocity stuff, however. Trudging (often unrepentantly so) is the frequent exit strategy of choice for red-carded players, while nosebleed-defying centre-halves tend to amble forward for set-pieces. An injured player's movement is always closely monitored by TV co-commentators, who keep us updated on his freedom movement on a scale ranging from "gingerly" to "moving a bit more freely now".
We have a lot to thank the back-pass rule for in creating a more dynamic sport, but spare a thought for the poor goalkeepers who have been scampering, backpedalling and on-rushing their way out of their comfort zones - and often into no man's land - ever since 1992.
Then, in 1992, football's Big Bang occurred. A dull, cynical World Cup two years earlier had the game's lawmakers heading for the drawing board. It would be fascinating to discover the ideas that never made it onto the pitch, but the result of this enforced introspection was the single most important development in modern football history - the back-pass rule. Outlawing the handling of a deliberate pass to the goalkeeper made with the boot (amended in 1997 to also include throw-ins), the new directive transformed the dynamic of matches overnight, and followed the claim by FIFA's then General Secretary, Sepp Blatter, that "spectators do not go to football matches simply to see the goalkeeper standing still with the ball in his hands".
 |
| Ronaldo - no slouch. Although quite possibly now a slouch. |
For all the appreciation of skill and metronomic possession-hoarding, football is still a sucker for pace in any form - searing, lightning, blistering and explosive pace (often "to burn"); bags of pace or pace in abundance; and the curious concepts of real or genuine pace, suggesting that some players might be carrying counterfeit (or perhaps deceptive) pace. This perpetual motion has forced the football media to consult their thesauruses to find more nuanced ways of describing how a player propelled himself from A to B before he troubled Row Z.
The wide areas of the pitch are the logical place to start, where jet-heeled wingers aim to give opposing full-backs as torrid a time as possible. They may find, however, that their adversary is no slouch and he himself may need no invitation to bomb on. The historically undersung full-back has been liberated by the era of gung ho-ism that the back-pass rule ushered in - they are now free to buccaneer, maraud or swashbuckle to their lungs' content, provided they are just as good going the other way. Insipid games, conspicuous by their lack of dynamism, require pace to be injected into them, something that has so far escaped the suspicious eye of sport's doping authorities.
 |
| A provisional licence to roam. |
It's not all high-velocity stuff, however. Trudging (often unrepentantly so) is the frequent exit strategy of choice for red-carded players, while nosebleed-defying centre-halves tend to amble forward for set-pieces. An injured player's movement is always closely monitored by TV co-commentators, who keep us updated on his freedom movement on a scale ranging from "gingerly" to "moving a bit more freely now".
We have a lot to thank the back-pass rule for in creating a more dynamic sport, but spare a thought for the poor goalkeepers who have been scampering, backpedalling and on-rushing their way out of their comfort zones - and often into no man's land - ever since 1992.
Thursday
Pseudoscience: All Filler, No Killer
Visualised: 57 years of FA Cup Final pre-match build-up. That's two-hundred and eighty-two hours and forty-five minutes of talking about how magnificent Wembley's hallowed turf is, foreign players claiming to have watched finals while crowded round a small TV in their village, and painfully shy 5-year-old being asked for their score prediction.
Friday
Obscure Football Fetishes
You and I watch a hell of a lot of top-level football these days.
The Premier League's vain attempt to clamp down on internet streams of its 3pm Saturday kick-offs was destined for failure, and even the illicit thrill of that forbidden fruit has started to wear off. Now, any supporter of a top-flight club who has the patience to click on the hundred or so minuscule Xs to get the adverts out of the way (isn't it amazing just how many above-average looking single women live in my area and would like to chat right at that very moment?), can enjoy each and..........[buffering - please wait]....every game in the comfort of their own mid-afternoon filth. Even Tony Gale's co-commentary-by-numbers isn't enough to switch off the laptop and watch normal telly.
If you're lucky enough to be too busy for that, there's always 101 Great Goals on hand to provide the day's goals (but, oddly, often only the replays of them) courtesy of Russian TV coverage. By 10.25pm, you're laughing in the face of the newsreader who warns you that the scores are about to be reported, and contemplating not bothering with Match of the Day because your team were held to a pixellated 1-1 draw at home to West Brom and you've seen that 35-yard goal-of-the-season contender in the Southampton game on a mobile goals app.
What I'm trying to say here is that we're watching too much football. When was the last time you were genuinely awe-struck in a televised game? Zlatan Ibrahimovic's long-range jujitsu goal against England, perhaps. Players are arguably more technically gifted than ever before - and certainly stronger and faster - but the crucial mystique factor has been diminished. The 1990s drip-feed of foreign talent - when we could only catch a glimpse of Serie A's finest by either watching Gazzetta Football Italia on Saturday mornings or playing Championship Manager Italia morning, noon and night - is unthinkable now, for there's a clasico somewhere on the planet every other night.
To find unique stimulation through football, one is forced to go the fringes*. In among the Ronaldo-style free-kicks and the false nines, small glimpses and moments exist that remind you why you really love football more than pretty much anything else. Some are noticed by only a fortunate few, most of them are inconsequential, but all retain a certain charm that a thousand Lionel Messi hat-tricks could only dream of. They are football's fetishes.
1. The ball hitting the corner flag and staying in play - The ball remaining on the pitch is crucial here. Simply hitting the corner flag and going out for a corner or a throw-in will simply not do. That such a flimsy thing can provide such resistance is central to the appeal of this truly unexpected phenomenon.
2. A goalkeeper taking a throw-in - The reclusive uncle in the family of goalkeeping fish-out-of-water novelties, appearing only in the dying moments of games where the trailing side really want to get on with it. It's so rare that 1) some people are unsure if it's even permitted within the Laws of the Game; and 2) there doesn't seem to be any footage of it happening on YouTube. And why would there be a video on YouTube of a goalkeeper taking a throw-in?
Here, though - have a video of Bruce Springsteen-a-gram Dean Saunders aiming a quickly-taken foul throw at a visibly panicking goalkeeper who's gone walkabout:
3. A manager (ideally in a suit) controlling the ball when it goes out of play - A curiously popular spectacle. Despite the obvious handicap of wearing a tailored suit and gripless, shiny shoes, these managers are usually former players of relative quality - their ability to trap a football shouldn't come as a surprise. Still, as the ball flies towards them, out pops a nonchalant brogue to kill the ball dead, to the delight of their fans. Even a mere flick-up will elicit a ripple of "waaaaeeeeyyyy!" from the stands.
Or, if you're Dragan Stojkovic, volleying into the net from fully 50 yards:
4. A shot hitting both posts - Tony Yeboah helped establish that a goal scored off the underside of the bar will trump anything else, but that is a base thrill for the masses. Now, a shot that hits both posts and goes in? Luxury.
5. A shot hitting the camera/microphone/drinks bottle - There are two flavours available for this. The first is the drilled shot into the corner, finding a tucked-away piece of equipment and sending it flying, thereby adding a final flourish to an already emphatic finish. The other is the wayward shot, that arrows towards a pitchside camera in slow-motion replays in a manner not unlike Jaws in his box-office flop of a third, 3D outing.
You want it to happen, though. Some replayed shots look like they might hit the camera lens dead centre, but eventually veer off and disappoint. Next time...
6. Indirect free-kicks in the area - A two-stage release of excitement. Firstly, the relatively obscure offence itself, nowadays limited to a goalkeeper handling a backpass. The roar of appeal from the crowd is followed by a murmur, as everyone realises what's now in store.
Then, the defensive wall retreats to the goal-line, which is especially good if the kick is less than ten yards from goal. The taker teases us all with his lay-off, while a host of potential and decoy deliverers of a howitzer lie in wait. The crowd expect a goal, even though there's no room to get it up and over the wall, but they know there's only one way in - brute force.
7. 100 minutes on the clock - When a player goes down injured, causing real concern and requiring lengthy treatment, few think of the far-reaching ramifications. Later, however, when the second most important statistic in the top left-hand corner of the screen ticks over to 98:00, the anticipation begins to simmer. Will there be space for it? Will there be a Millennium Bug-style catastrophe? Will those cup-tie extra-time practice drills finally pay off?
Just me, then.
8. A player losing a boot - Not so much exciting as curious. It looks like it shouldn't be allowed. It didn't affect Paul Gascoigne in his pomp, but India took it a little bit far by opting to play barefoot at the 1948 Olympics, forcing the FIFA killjoys to swiftly ban the practice.
9. A commentator starting an interesting-sounding back-story, before being interrupted - I did say these were obscure. Football commentators pride themselves in their extensive pre-match research - beyond winning streaks and pass completion, they often unearth a gem of an anecdote or back-story about a player, which they are intent on regaling as the match unfolds. It's usually introduced with the words "interesting story about [Player X] actually, he...", at which point we're all sitting comfortably.
Unfortunately, some actual football gets in the way and the commentator is abruptly torn away from his Jackanory moment. The longer the interruption, the more you fear that the commentator will forget to finish his (possibly apocryphal) tale, until the blessed relief when it finally resumes. When it's the increasingly scatter-brained John Motson, the will-he-won't-he suspense is almost unbearable.
10. Sponsorless shirts
The first time sponsorless shirts became such a glaring oddity was when British sides, whose kits often sported the logos of various tipples of thirsty hooligans, ventured to France for European ties. Like Rangers in 1992/93, Real Madrid (whose betting website sponsors weren't welcome in Istanbul when they faced Galatasaray in last season's Champions League quarter-finals) saw their kit blossom with sheer simple beauty when stripped of their ungainly emblem.
Apart from lending an 80s minimalism to the shirt designs, the unfamiliarity of the kit has harked back to that journey-into-the-unknown aspect of away legs that the widely-televised homogeneity of modern European football has all but killed off.
It's the little things, you see.
*Yes, I know, I could go and watch my local team. In my case it's Brentford, chasing promotion from League One and, in the friendly quadra-pub confines of Griffin Park, playing some allegedly excellent football in the process. But still charging more than £20 to witness it.
The Premier League's vain attempt to clamp down on internet streams of its 3pm Saturday kick-offs was destined for failure, and even the illicit thrill of that forbidden fruit has started to wear off. Now, any supporter of a top-flight club who has the patience to click on the hundred or so minuscule Xs to get the adverts out of the way (isn't it amazing just how many above-average looking single women live in my area and would like to chat right at that very moment?), can enjoy each and..........[buffering - please wait]....every game in the comfort of their own mid-afternoon filth. Even Tony Gale's co-commentary-by-numbers isn't enough to switch off the laptop and watch normal telly.
If you're lucky enough to be too busy for that, there's always 101 Great Goals on hand to provide the day's goals (but, oddly, often only the replays of them) courtesy of Russian TV coverage. By 10.25pm, you're laughing in the face of the newsreader who warns you that the scores are about to be reported, and contemplating not bothering with Match of the Day because your team were held to a pixellated 1-1 draw at home to West Brom and you've seen that 35-yard goal-of-the-season contender in the Southampton game on a mobile goals app.
What I'm trying to say here is that we're watching too much football. When was the last time you were genuinely awe-struck in a televised game? Zlatan Ibrahimovic's long-range jujitsu goal against England, perhaps. Players are arguably more technically gifted than ever before - and certainly stronger and faster - but the crucial mystique factor has been diminished. The 1990s drip-feed of foreign talent - when we could only catch a glimpse of Serie A's finest by either watching Gazzetta Football Italia on Saturday mornings or playing Championship Manager Italia morning, noon and night - is unthinkable now, for there's a clasico somewhere on the planet every other night.
To find unique stimulation through football, one is forced to go the fringes*. In among the Ronaldo-style free-kicks and the false nines, small glimpses and moments exist that remind you why you really love football more than pretty much anything else. Some are noticed by only a fortunate few, most of them are inconsequential, but all retain a certain charm that a thousand Lionel Messi hat-tricks could only dream of. They are football's fetishes.
1. The ball hitting the corner flag and staying in play - The ball remaining on the pitch is crucial here. Simply hitting the corner flag and going out for a corner or a throw-in will simply not do. That such a flimsy thing can provide such resistance is central to the appeal of this truly unexpected phenomenon.
2. A goalkeeper taking a throw-in - The reclusive uncle in the family of goalkeeping fish-out-of-water novelties, appearing only in the dying moments of games where the trailing side really want to get on with it. It's so rare that 1) some people are unsure if it's even permitted within the Laws of the Game; and 2) there doesn't seem to be any footage of it happening on YouTube. And why would there be a video on YouTube of a goalkeeper taking a throw-in?
Here, though - have a video of Bruce Springsteen-a-gram Dean Saunders aiming a quickly-taken foul throw at a visibly panicking goalkeeper who's gone walkabout:
3. A manager (ideally in a suit) controlling the ball when it goes out of play - A curiously popular spectacle. Despite the obvious handicap of wearing a tailored suit and gripless, shiny shoes, these managers are usually former players of relative quality - their ability to trap a football shouldn't come as a surprise. Still, as the ball flies towards them, out pops a nonchalant brogue to kill the ball dead, to the delight of their fans. Even a mere flick-up will elicit a ripple of "waaaaeeeeyyyy!" from the stands.
Or, if you're Dragan Stojkovic, volleying into the net from fully 50 yards:
4. A shot hitting both posts - Tony Yeboah helped establish that a goal scored off the underside of the bar will trump anything else, but that is a base thrill for the masses. Now, a shot that hits both posts and goes in? Luxury.
Look at the England players. Look at Thomas Ravelli. Look at the fans. Look at the cameraman! Absolutely nobody has any idea what's happening in those two rollercoaster seconds, but it contains more drama than a whole decade of midday Midland derby kick-offs on Sky.
You want it to happen, though. Some replayed shots look like they might hit the camera lens dead centre, but eventually veer off and disappoint. Next time...
6. Indirect free-kicks in the area - A two-stage release of excitement. Firstly, the relatively obscure offence itself, nowadays limited to a goalkeeper handling a backpass. The roar of appeal from the crowd is followed by a murmur, as everyone realises what's now in store.
Then, the defensive wall retreats to the goal-line, which is especially good if the kick is less than ten yards from goal. The taker teases us all with his lay-off, while a host of potential and decoy deliverers of a howitzer lie in wait. The crowd expect a goal, even though there's no room to get it up and over the wall, but they know there's only one way in - brute force.
7. 100 minutes on the clock - When a player goes down injured, causing real concern and requiring lengthy treatment, few think of the far-reaching ramifications. Later, however, when the second most important statistic in the top left-hand corner of the screen ticks over to 98:00, the anticipation begins to simmer. Will there be space for it? Will there be a Millennium Bug-style catastrophe? Will those cup-tie extra-time practice drills finally pay off?
Just me, then.
8. A player losing a boot - Not so much exciting as curious. It looks like it shouldn't be allowed. It didn't affect Paul Gascoigne in his pomp, but India took it a little bit far by opting to play barefoot at the 1948 Olympics, forcing the FIFA killjoys to swiftly ban the practice.
9. A commentator starting an interesting-sounding back-story, before being interrupted - I did say these were obscure. Football commentators pride themselves in their extensive pre-match research - beyond winning streaks and pass completion, they often unearth a gem of an anecdote or back-story about a player, which they are intent on regaling as the match unfolds. It's usually introduced with the words "interesting story about [Player X] actually, he...", at which point we're all sitting comfortably.
Unfortunately, some actual football gets in the way and the commentator is abruptly torn away from his Jackanory moment. The longer the interruption, the more you fear that the commentator will forget to finish his (possibly apocryphal) tale, until the blessed relief when it finally resumes. When it's the increasingly scatter-brained John Motson, the will-he-won't-he suspense is almost unbearable.
10. Sponsorless shirts
The first time sponsorless shirts became such a glaring oddity was when British sides, whose kits often sported the logos of various tipples of thirsty hooligans, ventured to France for European ties. Like Rangers in 1992/93, Real Madrid (whose betting website sponsors weren't welcome in Istanbul when they faced Galatasaray in last season's Champions League quarter-finals) saw their kit blossom with sheer simple beauty when stripped of their ungainly emblem.
Apart from lending an 80s minimalism to the shirt designs, the unfamiliarity of the kit has harked back to that journey-into-the-unknown aspect of away legs that the widely-televised homogeneity of modern European football has all but killed off.
It's the little things, you see.
*Yes, I know, I could go and watch my local team. In my case it's Brentford, chasing promotion from League One and, in the friendly quadra-pub confines of Griffin Park, playing some allegedly excellent football in the process. But still charging more than £20 to witness it.
Saturday
Guest Post - Getting the Right Man In: Journeys on the Managerial Merry-Go-Round
Daniel Storey, of Football365 and Sky Sports, deconstructs football's recruitment processes...
The Chase
Firstly, it would be foolish to even attempt to recruit a new manager without drawing up a shortlist of names.
The recruitment process is a two-way street. Managers (who should more readily be referred to as gaffers or bosses) can submit their CVs into the club, and it is usual for a chairman to announce the exact numbers of applications received – “Look how popular our job is!!!" they almost boast. A new PR tactic is to also release a feel-good news story about an application received from a six-year-old child, written in crayon (or from a Football Manager addict). In response, some will remark that “he’d probably do a better job than [insert hapless previous incumbent]".
There is no specific job site for football managers, but luckily they can all be found at the fairground on the Managerial Merry-Go-Round™, where average bosses can flutter their eyelashes at onlooking clubs. Seasoned managers know that stepping or climbing onto and from the MMGR is amateur: one must hop on/off.
The Selection
One of the perks of being a football manager is that they can throne themselves in a managerial hotseat. While this has no connotation of temperature, we know only too well that a bad run will see them feeling the heat.
The cliché used upon appointment depends largely on the type of manager. Experienced or ageing players are journeymen, of course, but a journeyman manager is rare, usually instead referred to as a wise old head. If his appointment is underwhelming, he will inevitably have "a point to prove". Young managers,
meanwhile, will be fresh-faced or fearless - some may even warrant "breath of fresh air" status.
A returning manager will have unfinished business, and rather bizarrely aim to pick up where they left off. Given that they ‘left off’ by leaving the club, this could surely lead to a weird cycle of rejoining and leaving. The use of "coming home" depends largely on the self-inflated opinion the individual has of his popularity.
The Reveal
While new players are presented to or paraded in front of the media, managers are always unveiled, like a priceless Greek statue. The owner or chairman of the club will attempt to persuade cynics that the new boss is the right man for the job and will be looking to "take the club forward".
The manager will then speak, and will almost immediately state that the job was too good to turn down (some may even go as far as to say that "it ticked all the right boxes"). Whether this refers to the club or his financial recompense is left unsaid. The club will be referred to as exciting and ambitious, but the greatest praise is reserved for the "passionate fans" (these are, of course, the twelfth man). For "passionate", we can read ‘hopelessly addicted’ (sorry, that should read long-suffering).
Initially, the aim will be to put down a marker but the use of feet will become evident and crucial - putting your foot down can be interchanged with stamping one’s authority, all in an attempt to hit the ground running, although in this last case feet may be replaced by wings to get off to a flyer.
Finally, new managers leave the press conference to enjoy their honeymoon period which will be declared over immediately after the first piece of bad news. One hopes that they can at least rely on an upturn in fortunes hailed as the "new manager effect", a mathematical formula that ensures that the manager will win his first game in charge.
The Chase
Firstly, it would be foolish to even attempt to recruit a new manager without drawing up a shortlist of names.
The recruitment process is a two-way street. Managers (who should more readily be referred to as gaffers or bosses) can submit their CVs into the club, and it is usual for a chairman to announce the exact numbers of applications received – “Look how popular our job is!!!" they almost boast. A new PR tactic is to also release a feel-good news story about an application received from a six-year-old child, written in crayon (or from a Football Manager addict). In response, some will remark that “he’d probably do a better job than [insert hapless previous incumbent]".
There is no specific job site for football managers, but luckily they can all be found at the fairground on the Managerial Merry-Go-Round™, where average bosses can flutter their eyelashes at onlooking clubs. Seasoned managers know that stepping or climbing onto and from the MMGR is amateur: one must hop on/off.
The Selection
One of the perks of being a football manager is that they can throne themselves in a managerial hotseat. While this has no connotation of temperature, we know only too well that a bad run will see them feeling the heat.
The cliché used upon appointment depends largely on the type of manager. Experienced or ageing players are journeymen, of course, but a journeyman manager is rare, usually instead referred to as a wise old head. If his appointment is underwhelming, he will inevitably have "a point to prove". Young managers,
meanwhile, will be fresh-faced or fearless - some may even warrant "breath of fresh air" status.
A returning manager will have unfinished business, and rather bizarrely aim to pick up where they left off. Given that they ‘left off’ by leaving the club, this could surely lead to a weird cycle of rejoining and leaving. The use of "coming home" depends largely on the self-inflated opinion the individual has of his popularity.
The Reveal
While new players are presented to or paraded in front of the media, managers are always unveiled, like a priceless Greek statue. The owner or chairman of the club will attempt to persuade cynics that the new boss is the right man for the job and will be looking to "take the club forward".
The manager will then speak, and will almost immediately state that the job was too good to turn down (some may even go as far as to say that "it ticked all the right boxes"). Whether this refers to the club or his financial recompense is left unsaid. The club will be referred to as exciting and ambitious, but the greatest praise is reserved for the "passionate fans" (these are, of course, the twelfth man). For "passionate", we can read ‘hopelessly addicted’ (sorry, that should read long-suffering).
Initially, the aim will be to put down a marker but the use of feet will become evident and crucial - putting your foot down can be interchanged with stamping one’s authority, all in an attempt to hit the ground running, although in this last case feet may be replaced by wings to get off to a flyer.
Finally, new managers leave the press conference to enjoy their honeymoon period which will be declared over immediately after the first piece of bad news. One hopes that they can at least rely on an upturn in fortunes hailed as the "new manager effect", a mathematical formula that ensures that the manager will win his first game in charge.
Wednesday
A Brief History of Dubbing
Some football clichés appear to be invented by a secret committee - not unlike the shady Dubious Goals Panel - who are referred to only as "they". "Never go back, they say", erm, they say. Nobody listens.
But "they" are also responsible for football's obsession with dubbing. Not the dubbing that cruelly denied John Wark his only line in Escape to Victory, but rather that of dubbing (or, alternatively, hailing) a player with some unhelpfully comparative praise.
 |
| They Have Dubbed Me "The New Ali Dia" - buy the T-shirt here |
The most frequent act of dubbing, so much so that it has its own dedicated Wikipedia page. The threshold for required similarity to the original Maradona is rather low, hence (apologies here, #footballhipsters) the dubbing of Juan Román Riquelme and, rather puzzlingly, that of former Middlesbrough starlet Carlos Marinelli.
Lionel Messi has faced many understandable questions about his New Maradona dubbage, often choosing to laugh them off or at least acknowledge the flattery (footballers are often flattered by speculation, a quaint Jane Austen-esque football cliché) but it won't be long before The New Messis emerge to endure similar fawning.
The Maradona of...
This is a much more creative alternative to the previous act of dubbing, with a dash of humility too - this player, it implies, may not be Maradona's equal but, well, he's the best we can come up with, yeah? The list of Diego's regional variations is almost endless, but here are some highlights, listed in ascending order of absurdity:
- Gheorghe Hagi - The Maradona of the Carpathians - understandable, and deservedly grand-sounding.
- Emre Belözoğlu - The Maradona of the Bosphorus - already pushing it.
- Saeed Al-Owairan - The Maradona of the Arabs - thanks to some pathetic Belgian defending.
- Ali Karimi - The Maradona of Asia - bestowing dubmanship of an entire continent is just poor form.
- Ostrava's Maradona - Milan Baros - Who? WHO dubbed him this?
- Alan Judge - The Irish Messi - Terrace wit is to blame here, it seems.
- Luciana Aymar - The Maradona of Hockey - Oh for f...
- Cristian Levis - The Maradona of Basingstoke
Football is fond of flogging a dead horse (often to the tune of Sloop John B), and less glamorous dubbings are to be found everywhere. Ipswich Town signed Veliče Šumulikoski in 2008, their fans appetite whetted by his billing as "the Macedonian Steven Gerrard", although a penchant for frequently overhit crossfield passes was never established. Gianluca Vialli is attributed, perhaps libellously, with hailing new winger Gabriele Ambrosetti as "the Italian Ryan Giggs" during his time at Chelsea. Nowadays, the act of dubbing/hailing has rather lost its value, so keen are we to unearth The Next Gareth Bale before the original one reaches his mid-twenties.
Elsewhere, more poetic dubbings can be found. In a rare act of dub-on-dub violence, the old Maradona was a notable victim of Andoni Goikoetxea, who earned himself the fearsome moniker of The Butcher of Bilbao. The similarly uncompromising and no-nonsense Miguel Ángel Nadal was dubbed the "Beast of Barcelona", which was perhaps a bit much. Even football matches, such as the infamous Battle of Santiago, are not safe from the dubbers.
Yours in cliché,
The Brian Glanville of Zone 3.
Sunday
Football P - P The Weather: A Pseudo-Meteorological Study
Weather is a lot like football. It's a complex subject, often reduced to lazy clichés by those who don't understand it but really enjoy looking at it. Of course, we don't boo when it rains nor do we consider it a #nicetouch if the sun pops out at a convenient moment, but we do Instagram our snow and we'll always have a little gasp (yes, even you) when we hear thunder. Why are big, dark clouds always "ominous"? Erm, anyway...
Sun
Sun
The hope-filled opening day of the season apart, blazing sunshine does not constitute "perfect conditions" for any sane footballer. From bone-dry Sunday league pitches accommodating dehydrated huffers-and-puffers, right up to finely-tuned elite athletes being forced to drink lots take on fluids, British footballers are often seen to wilt in any significant heat.
World Cup USA '94 set a benchmark for thermoactivated football drama, with the red faces of dubious holders of Irish passports sharing centre-stage with a range of amusing baseball caps:
Pitchside thermometers suddenly pop up out of nowhere at these points, while the metric system goes out of the window - 100°F sounds much more dramatic than 37.8°C, after all.
Rain
Much more conducive to exciting football, rain is responsible for a suitably plentiful supply of football clichés. Light rain makes for a greasy pitch (or playing surface, as it should be known whenever under particular scrutiny), upon which the ball is able to zip around. Goalkeepers must be tested by shots that "pick up pace" as they skid across the turf, thereby defying basic physics. Players wearing the wrong boots (sorry, footwear), however, will only be allowed to slip over (sorry, lose their footing) once before the co-commentator fulfils his obligation of sternly policing such matters, often involving a semi-tirade on the "state of these modern boots these days".
Heavier downpours edge proceedings closer to farce. Farcical conditions (much like an early red card) are a fatal threat to the game as a spectacle. If the heavens open sufficiently before kick-off, an anxious wait is required while the referee completes his emphatic routine of dropping the ball onto the sodden turf while a committee of sighing/chuckling* club officials (*delete according to fixture congestion) congregate in the centre-circle. While the finer details about the potential risks of sanctioning a game in such conditions are rarely explored - drowning, presumably, isn't one of them - it is unanimously agreed that the safety of the players is paramount.
Much more conducive to exciting football, rain is responsible for a suitably plentiful supply of football clichés. Light rain makes for a greasy pitch (or playing surface, as it should be known whenever under particular scrutiny), upon which the ball is able to zip around. Goalkeepers must be tested by shots that "pick up pace" as they skid across the turf, thereby defying basic physics. Players wearing the wrong boots (sorry, footwear), however, will only be allowed to slip over (sorry, lose their footing) once before the co-commentator fulfils his obligation of sternly policing such matters, often involving a semi-tirade on the "state of these modern boots these days".
Fig 1.0 - the cold, wet Wednesday night in Stoke.
Heavier downpours edge proceedings closer to farce. Farcical conditions (much like an early red card) are a fatal threat to the game as a spectacle. If the heavens open sufficiently before kick-off, an anxious wait is required while the referee completes his emphatic routine of dropping the ball onto the sodden turf while a committee of sighing/chuckling* club officials (*delete according to fixture congestion) congregate in the centre-circle. While the finer details about the potential risks of sanctioning a game in such conditions are rarely explored - drowning, presumably, isn't one of them - it is unanimously agreed that the safety of the players is paramount.
Snow
It all sounds so violent in the winter months. The Big Freeze™ annually plays havoc with the fixture list - and frequently decimates it - as matches fall victim to (or fall foul of) the cold snap taking hold up and down the country.
Heartwarming moments remain, such as the sight of the orange ball (greeted with the same amount of delight as when a goalkeeper goes up for a corner) or the lauding of local volunteers and ground staff - again, the job of the patronising co-commentator - as they do everything to get this game on. Unfortunately, though, it's not the playing surface that's the problem - it's those damned, "treacherous" roads around the ground (or the approach roads, if it's modern, out-of-town Lego stadiums in question.)
It all sounds so violent in the winter months. The Big Freeze™ annually plays havoc with the fixture list - and frequently decimates it - as matches fall victim to (or fall foul of) the cold snap taking hold up and down the country.
Fig 2.0 - the rarely-seen orange ball (beloved of Actua Soccer enthusiasts).
Heartwarming moments remain, such as the sight of the orange ball (greeted with the same amount of delight as when a goalkeeper goes up for a corner) or the lauding of local volunteers and ground staff - again, the job of the patronising co-commentator - as they do everything to get this game on. Unfortunately, though, it's not the playing surface that's the problem - it's those damned, "treacherous" roads around the ground (or the approach roads, if it's modern, out-of-town Lego stadiums in question.)
Even if the game is allowed to go ahead, the problems aren't over. The low winter sun, the stealthiest and least-documented of modern football's dilemmas, makes life difficult for cap-averse goalkeepers and spoilt armchair fans alike.
Stay safe out there, you hardy souls.
Stay safe out there, you hardy souls.
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