"The most expensive game of football in the world" shouted the hyperactive stadium announcer before kick off.
Relax the players it did not. West Ham had to win this to sustain a recognisable team. The Guardian went one step further, "if West Ham lose, Matthew Etherington will be sacrificed." Impending death spurred him down the wing and he crossed for Zamora to scuff the winner. Not much else happened, Nigel Reo-Coker was the best player on the pitch and Tomas Repka achieved a personal milestone by playing 90 minutes without a single act of violence. The game was very similar to last year's final, but with Preston playing the stage fright role.
At the death, the fourth official held his screen toy up. Seven, it blinked dottily. Christian Dailly looked across and thought he was being substituted. Pardew waved him back. SEVEN MINUTES OF INJURY TIME! We groaned collectively, but Preston looked as if an equaliser was beyond them. Final whistle; pretty bubbles in the air, a whack round the head with an inflatable hammer and time to salute the sixth best team in the Championship.
We veered into a pub. Hammers fans wrapped in flags and drenched in beer were hanging out the window. The bouncer eyed us with disdain. "No smoking!" he said. I had a pint of Brains and we loudly promoted the virtues of East London via the medium of song.
We moved on to an Italian restaurant. Some Preston fans sat scrunched around another table and graciously sent champagne across. We raised a glass to the glory of football. "Are you Burnley in disguise?" they sang, waving inflatable cheer sticks. They attempted to involve the waiter, "which team were you supporting?" "I'm Albanian," he said, to silence. We bought them wine and said see you next season, without specifying a division.
We jumped in a taxi. The driver was an Iraqi. We apologised for the bombs and that, but he said it was alright. "I had that Charlotte Church in here the other day." "What's she like?" we asked. "Nice back," he said, "but her mate's really ugly."
Thursday 22 March 2007
Cardiff Sketch No.1 - Play-Off Final 2004
I think it must have been about 40 seconds into the first game of the season when I realised West Ham wouldn't get automatic promotion. Preston North End looped a hopeful ball into the area, Christian Dailly fell comically onto his arse and Tomas Repka booted it vertically into the sky. We survived for another minute before Preston finally scored. Things didn't bode well.
I detested the whole season. When you get relegated certain things happen; your best players move on, the skill level drops, Brian Deane joins. We sat in and around the top six for most of the season and consolidated a play-off spot on the final day. A last minute equaliser made no difference to our plight, we were already guaranteed fourth as other results went our way. But it did make a difference for Crystal Palace, it allowed them to slip into sixth at Wigan's expense. Little thanks we ultimately received for that.
The semi-final play-off was tense, but we edged it past Ipswich. I was determined to go to Cardiff, but not being a season ticket holder at the time, had no chance of a ticket. A bloke from work came good in the end. On the Thursday night I was given an address in Essex and told to ask for Steve. Steve would gladly hand over a ticket if I crossed his palm with silver. Lots of silver. It was a bit cloak and dagger and Essex isn't the greatest place to walk around with lots of silver in your pocket. Anyway, I worked out the economics and reasoned that if I didn't eat for a fortnight I would be fine. I went to sleep poor and happy.
It took me six and a half hours to drive to Wales the next day. Most of that was sat on the North Circular hoping the engine wouldn't overheat. I had vague directions to a B&B in Chepstow I'd found online. It turned out to be in a village five miles from Chepstow. A sign above the bar said Vegetarians are usually catered for. My phone signal said searching. I ate three packets of cheese and onion and slept surrounded by chintz.
I woke up early Saturday morning. Excited as an eight year old. I asked about a bus service into Chepstow to get the train to Cardiff. "There aren't any buses." Taxi? "They tend to ignore us." The owner of the hotel dropped me into town in the end, "I'm not racist or anything, but..." he said. It was something to do with 200,000 Romanian gypsies moving to Chepstow. They must get the Daily Mail out here.
I made a pledge with myself. I was going to enjoy today, no matter the result. This was partly based on the fact that Cardiff is a great city, but more to do with the economics of paying excess silver for a ticket. So I did the usual football big day things. I bought beer. Loads of it. I sang anti-Chelsea songs with blokes covered in tattoos. I pissed in a toilet sink.
I had a great day. Apart from the period between 3 and 4.45pm. That was the crap bit. It wasn't a good game. The other Premiership teams were probably slapping themselves on the back at the prospect of six easy points. The best team won. Well, the less bollocks one to be truthful.
After that, things went a bit blurry. I took the disappointed train back to Chepstow. Sat in a pub garden by the castle in the last of the light. Got my fingers trapped in the table. Dunno how that happened. Ripped two knuckles pulling them out. Found a taxi to take me back to Chintzy Towers. It was driven by a middle-aged woman who told me all about her son's holiday in Portugal, "It was lovely, they had proper beer and everyone spoke English." I said it sounded like England but she didn't think so, "No, not really."
I had two packets of salt and vinegar for tea. Some Palace fans came into the bar, singing some shit song. I slipped off to bed and slept the sleep of the dejected.
I detested the whole season. When you get relegated certain things happen; your best players move on, the skill level drops, Brian Deane joins. We sat in and around the top six for most of the season and consolidated a play-off spot on the final day. A last minute equaliser made no difference to our plight, we were already guaranteed fourth as other results went our way. But it did make a difference for Crystal Palace, it allowed them to slip into sixth at Wigan's expense. Little thanks we ultimately received for that.
The semi-final play-off was tense, but we edged it past Ipswich. I was determined to go to Cardiff, but not being a season ticket holder at the time, had no chance of a ticket. A bloke from work came good in the end. On the Thursday night I was given an address in Essex and told to ask for Steve. Steve would gladly hand over a ticket if I crossed his palm with silver. Lots of silver. It was a bit cloak and dagger and Essex isn't the greatest place to walk around with lots of silver in your pocket. Anyway, I worked out the economics and reasoned that if I didn't eat for a fortnight I would be fine. I went to sleep poor and happy.
It took me six and a half hours to drive to Wales the next day. Most of that was sat on the North Circular hoping the engine wouldn't overheat. I had vague directions to a B&B in Chepstow I'd found online. It turned out to be in a village five miles from Chepstow. A sign above the bar said Vegetarians are usually catered for. My phone signal said searching. I ate three packets of cheese and onion and slept surrounded by chintz.
I woke up early Saturday morning. Excited as an eight year old. I asked about a bus service into Chepstow to get the train to Cardiff. "There aren't any buses." Taxi? "They tend to ignore us." The owner of the hotel dropped me into town in the end, "I'm not racist or anything, but..." he said. It was something to do with 200,000 Romanian gypsies moving to Chepstow. They must get the Daily Mail out here.
I made a pledge with myself. I was going to enjoy today, no matter the result. This was partly based on the fact that Cardiff is a great city, but more to do with the economics of paying excess silver for a ticket. So I did the usual football big day things. I bought beer. Loads of it. I sang anti-Chelsea songs with blokes covered in tattoos. I pissed in a toilet sink.
I had a great day. Apart from the period between 3 and 4.45pm. That was the crap bit. It wasn't a good game. The other Premiership teams were probably slapping themselves on the back at the prospect of six easy points. The best team won. Well, the less bollocks one to be truthful.
After that, things went a bit blurry. I took the disappointed train back to Chepstow. Sat in a pub garden by the castle in the last of the light. Got my fingers trapped in the table. Dunno how that happened. Ripped two knuckles pulling them out. Found a taxi to take me back to Chintzy Towers. It was driven by a middle-aged woman who told me all about her son's holiday in Portugal, "It was lovely, they had proper beer and everyone spoke English." I said it sounded like England but she didn't think so, "No, not really."
I had two packets of salt and vinegar for tea. Some Palace fans came into the bar, singing some shit song. I slipped off to bed and slept the sleep of the dejected.
Maradona #2
It was interesting to hear opinions on Maradona's recent heart attack. There was an e-mail doing the rounds with a distorted photo and something along the lines of Get well soon, you cheating fat midget. 20 years on from that goal and it still seems to bother us.
On one hand, there is the footballer who scored one of the greatest goals in world cup history and the other hand? Well its five fingers are clenched into a fist as it punches the ball over Peter Shilton. There is the innocent 10 year old doing ball tricks at half-time during Argentine league games and there is the wild-eyed 34 year old running to the camera after scoring against Greece, his muscles taut and his face snarling (and his body full of drugs of course).
If any footballer has had more impact on the game in a single season than Maradona did in 1981 I've never seen the footage. He took Boca Juniors to the title, scoring 20 goals along the way and creating countless more. It is an absolute joy to watch, the way he spins off defender, those perfect passes. His European career was sweet and sour, he never really took off at Barcelona or Seville, but in Italy he was integral to Napoli's renaissance.
So, what is his legacy? In his homeland he is up there with Eva Peron and Carlos Gardel. In Naples he's part of the folklore, Here, he's a pariah. OK, so he's now a bloated disagreeable character and he's never going to wear Pele's ambassadorial shoes, but to appreciate football, well, you must appreciate Maradona too.
Originally Posted 2004
On one hand, there is the footballer who scored one of the greatest goals in world cup history and the other hand? Well its five fingers are clenched into a fist as it punches the ball over Peter Shilton. There is the innocent 10 year old doing ball tricks at half-time during Argentine league games and there is the wild-eyed 34 year old running to the camera after scoring against Greece, his muscles taut and his face snarling (and his body full of drugs of course).
If any footballer has had more impact on the game in a single season than Maradona did in 1981 I've never seen the footage. He took Boca Juniors to the title, scoring 20 goals along the way and creating countless more. It is an absolute joy to watch, the way he spins off defender, those perfect passes. His European career was sweet and sour, he never really took off at Barcelona or Seville, but in Italy he was integral to Napoli's renaissance.
So, what is his legacy? In his homeland he is up there with Eva Peron and Carlos Gardel. In Naples he's part of the folklore, Here, he's a pariah. OK, so he's now a bloated disagreeable character and he's never going to wear Pele's ambassadorial shoes, but to appreciate football, well, you must appreciate Maradona too.
Originally Posted 2004
Football Against the Enemy - Simon Kuper
It's over ten years since Simon Kuper's book was first published. The decade since has witnessed a huge increase in football literature and nearly all reference Football Against the Enemy.
The task Kuper undertook was to add context to football by travelling the world and examining the game's impact on a country's culture and politics (and vice versa). The Enemy took many forms, military juntas, team rivalry, history and that well known international unifier, religion.
Kuper's timing was impeccable. The implosion of Communism created new countries whose football culture was little known in the west. Kuper was living in Eastern Europe and had contacts. He made the most of them. At times I fear for him, a Dynamo Kiev official speaks off the record. Kuper ignores this and boldly states the club are a mafia front for the sale of nuclear weapons. Good copy, but bloody risky.
What elevates it above other football books is the writing. You could reasonably argue, Football Against the Enemy is a travel book with a football theme. His descriptions of towns and people are so much more descriptive than standard football writing. The message isn't always clear. He attempts to unravel the hatred between Holland and Germany, but fails to clarify why it lay dormant for so long and the chapter on Paul Gascoigne is a case of stating the obvious which goes against the grain of the book; reinforcing the myth rather than debunking it.
The book has dated badly in places. Kuper believed Brazil to be on the wane and defines dull, workmanlike football as the 'Arsenal style'. Not on recent evidence. The text is infused with humour, often understated, and laced with menace. He befriends two Dynamo Zagreb hooligans who tell him, "If you say fuck off, sure thing I will kick you in the head". He compliments them on their English.
It's not just a football book, but a book about a changing world filtered through football. Plenty of football books have appeared in the last ten years and many others have used football as a pivot. Football books never used to include bibliographies. Now they wouldn't be seen without one (Kuper is usually first name on the team sheet). There's the legacy.
The task Kuper undertook was to add context to football by travelling the world and examining the game's impact on a country's culture and politics (and vice versa). The Enemy took many forms, military juntas, team rivalry, history and that well known international unifier, religion.
Kuper's timing was impeccable. The implosion of Communism created new countries whose football culture was little known in the west. Kuper was living in Eastern Europe and had contacts. He made the most of them. At times I fear for him, a Dynamo Kiev official speaks off the record. Kuper ignores this and boldly states the club are a mafia front for the sale of nuclear weapons. Good copy, but bloody risky.
What elevates it above other football books is the writing. You could reasonably argue, Football Against the Enemy is a travel book with a football theme. His descriptions of towns and people are so much more descriptive than standard football writing. The message isn't always clear. He attempts to unravel the hatred between Holland and Germany, but fails to clarify why it lay dormant for so long and the chapter on Paul Gascoigne is a case of stating the obvious which goes against the grain of the book; reinforcing the myth rather than debunking it.
The book has dated badly in places. Kuper believed Brazil to be on the wane and defines dull, workmanlike football as the 'Arsenal style'. Not on recent evidence. The text is infused with humour, often understated, and laced with menace. He befriends two Dynamo Zagreb hooligans who tell him, "If you say fuck off, sure thing I will kick you in the head". He compliments them on their English.
It's not just a football book, but a book about a changing world filtered through football. Plenty of football books have appeared in the last ten years and many others have used football as a pivot. Football books never used to include bibliographies. Now they wouldn't be seen without one (Kuper is usually first name on the team sheet). There's the legacy.
Us vs Them – The World’s Greatest Football Derbies [Giles Goodhead]
The premise of the book is simple. The author picks eight of the world's biggest football derbies and slants it as a travelogue. Most of the derbies are geographical; two teams, one city, polarised support. Woven within each story is the history of animosity between the sides, some autobiographical musings and a dusting of context.
The scramble for tickets in Istanbul captures all the confusion and passion of the lead up to a big game. Scams and tension on the streets, colour and noise in the stadium. In Prague the language barrier is impenetrable and he misses the game altogether, cursing his luck when he discovers it finished 4-4.
Where the book works well is in those instances where the absurdity of the situation is exposed; young Spurs fans arguing that Arsenal should never have been admitted to the first division after the First World War or the frightening sectarian vitriol of Rangers versus Celtic.
The chapter on the Spanish Superclassico is poor and all the more so as it fronts the book. A shame, the scene was set up with Figo’s first return to the Nou Camp since his switch to Madrid. Goodhead’s inability to speak any language other than English limits his own insight and he fails to grasp sufficiently the concept of morbo.
The writing comes alive when he ventures further afield, America vs Guadalajara at the Azteca and the Buenos Aires derby at Boca’s crumbling stadium. The latter is nicely done, set against the backdrop of an Argentine economy on its knees, all tickertape and punch-ups. A tangible class divide separates the supporters and for once a local accompanies him to interpret the chanting and banners. At other games he brings along disinterested mates or relatives to act as a rational foil against his enthusiasm and hammers the point too bluntly.
In the Milan chapter he looks back to his schoolboy experiences of playing football and the derby-like games of his childhood. Bizarrely he is from the same small town as I am. He was in the line up of the fee paying school's eleven, I played for the local comprehensive team. He describes the friction of the local derby game and how much it meant to beat us. God, we hated those posh kids.
The scramble for tickets in Istanbul captures all the confusion and passion of the lead up to a big game. Scams and tension on the streets, colour and noise in the stadium. In Prague the language barrier is impenetrable and he misses the game altogether, cursing his luck when he discovers it finished 4-4.
Where the book works well is in those instances where the absurdity of the situation is exposed; young Spurs fans arguing that Arsenal should never have been admitted to the first division after the First World War or the frightening sectarian vitriol of Rangers versus Celtic.
The chapter on the Spanish Superclassico is poor and all the more so as it fronts the book. A shame, the scene was set up with Figo’s first return to the Nou Camp since his switch to Madrid. Goodhead’s inability to speak any language other than English limits his own insight and he fails to grasp sufficiently the concept of morbo.
The writing comes alive when he ventures further afield, America vs Guadalajara at the Azteca and the Buenos Aires derby at Boca’s crumbling stadium. The latter is nicely done, set against the backdrop of an Argentine economy on its knees, all tickertape and punch-ups. A tangible class divide separates the supporters and for once a local accompanies him to interpret the chanting and banners. At other games he brings along disinterested mates or relatives to act as a rational foil against his enthusiasm and hammers the point too bluntly.
In the Milan chapter he looks back to his schoolboy experiences of playing football and the derby-like games of his childhood. Bizarrely he is from the same small town as I am. He was in the line up of the fee paying school's eleven, I played for the local comprehensive team. He describes the friction of the local derby game and how much it meant to beat us. God, we hated those posh kids.
Tor! Ulrich Hesse-Lichtenberger
I knew I was the target market for this book by page 10, "have you ever wondered why TSV Munich have 1860 as a suffix when the German game didn't exist until the 1880s?" It's precisely the sort of thing I have pondered on and off for about 25 years.
Tor (meaning Goal) is an evenly written, chronological account of German football history. It's similar to Phil Ball's book on Spanish football and no surprise that both writers contribute to When Saturday Comes. The book is undercut with humour and demolishes stereotypes with teutonic efficiency.
Sometimes he jumps onto a detail and weaves a story around it. The Adidas / Puma chapter was almost Chatwinesque and even when the realisation dawned before the end of the story, it didn't detract. It was all in the scene setting.
The GDR has its own fascinating chapter. The notion that success would reflect well on the local Communist officials led to whole teams being uprooted in the dead of night. You need a decent Berlin team? Bring that one from Dresden over. Stasi informers were everywhere; in the stands, on the bench, playing the holding role in midfield. East Germany first crossed swords with their neighbouring capitalist dogs in the 1974 World Cup, beating them 1-0. They heroically defended this record by refusing a rematch. East Germany sounds awful and amazing and it was only, like, just over there. Excellent stuff.
Tor (meaning Goal) is an evenly written, chronological account of German football history. It's similar to Phil Ball's book on Spanish football and no surprise that both writers contribute to When Saturday Comes. The book is undercut with humour and demolishes stereotypes with teutonic efficiency.
Sometimes he jumps onto a detail and weaves a story around it. The Adidas / Puma chapter was almost Chatwinesque and even when the realisation dawned before the end of the story, it didn't detract. It was all in the scene setting.
The GDR has its own fascinating chapter. The notion that success would reflect well on the local Communist officials led to whole teams being uprooted in the dead of night. You need a decent Berlin team? Bring that one from Dresden over. Stasi informers were everywhere; in the stands, on the bench, playing the holding role in midfield. East Germany first crossed swords with their neighbouring capitalist dogs in the 1974 World Cup, beating them 1-0. They heroically defended this record by refusing a rematch. East Germany sounds awful and amazing and it was only, like, just over there. Excellent stuff.
Football Reports
Part One
I've been giving a little thought to what I like and dislike about football match reports.
The best ones come across like an impressionist painting; expressing the feel of a game without getting bogged down in the minutiae of corner counts and possession. Chronological reporting or (more crass) obvious bias are the worst and I generally find that last gasp equalisers or late winners skewer the report as (I guess) it's mostly written by the final whistle and balanced towards the result after 85 minutes or so.
The stretched analogy is another process which can irritate. At its best, say Stuart Hall fixing on Imperial Rome or a Russian Circus and wrapping his report around it, you’re carried along in the slipstream. Delivery plays a part of course, but others stretch the theme until it snaps under tenuous pressure. I recall a Bradford City report from the Sunday Times incorporating Peter Mandelson, the US election and Angus Deayton. The game itself barely got a mention and Bradford were relegated that day.
Part Two - The Tabloids
The tabloids often stumble across a decent pun (I remember the Freund or Foe headline for a Spurs vs West Ham game some seasons back that sadly can never happen again). But for each of these there is a counterpoint in Chop Souey and Kieran Dire. Over and over again.
I find the reports themselves aren’t too dissimilar to the broadsheets, although the format is more fractious and complimented by more action-orientated photographs. Paragraphs are generally shorter and punctuated with brassy headings, 'Cruel' or 'Giant' for the cup final on Sunday though the references are oblique.
What I like about the tabloids are the player scores. Objectivity and memory are minor factors in determining these marks out of ten. Cross-referencing to the report itself is another reconciliation process fraught with auditing issues. It goes something like this: All players score sixes or sevens unless, scored a goal = eight, sent off = four.
In the 2005 season, Juan Ugarte of Wrexham scored 5 in a 6-4 win. The NOTW gave him an 8. I also remember the same paper giving the Czech tackle monster Tomas Repka a zero after one shite performance. And it flattered him.
Part Three - Sunday vs Monday
The latter incorporating the fallout from the weekend and weaving quotes into the body of the report. Less action, more reaction and you’ve seen the goals 30 times on Sky anyway. Those bringing in crowd chants are also weak. "You're not singing anymore" the crowd sang. Well, never. It looks like padding and unless it's non-generic it really isn't necessary.
I've been giving a little thought to what I like and dislike about football match reports.
The best ones come across like an impressionist painting; expressing the feel of a game without getting bogged down in the minutiae of corner counts and possession. Chronological reporting or (more crass) obvious bias are the worst and I generally find that last gasp equalisers or late winners skewer the report as (I guess) it's mostly written by the final whistle and balanced towards the result after 85 minutes or so.
The stretched analogy is another process which can irritate. At its best, say Stuart Hall fixing on Imperial Rome or a Russian Circus and wrapping his report around it, you’re carried along in the slipstream. Delivery plays a part of course, but others stretch the theme until it snaps under tenuous pressure. I recall a Bradford City report from the Sunday Times incorporating Peter Mandelson, the US election and Angus Deayton. The game itself barely got a mention and Bradford were relegated that day.
Part Two - The Tabloids
The tabloids often stumble across a decent pun (I remember the Freund or Foe headline for a Spurs vs West Ham game some seasons back that sadly can never happen again). But for each of these there is a counterpoint in Chop Souey and Kieran Dire. Over and over again.
I find the reports themselves aren’t too dissimilar to the broadsheets, although the format is more fractious and complimented by more action-orientated photographs. Paragraphs are generally shorter and punctuated with brassy headings, 'Cruel' or 'Giant' for the cup final on Sunday though the references are oblique.
What I like about the tabloids are the player scores. Objectivity and memory are minor factors in determining these marks out of ten. Cross-referencing to the report itself is another reconciliation process fraught with auditing issues. It goes something like this: All players score sixes or sevens unless, scored a goal = eight, sent off = four.
In the 2005 season, Juan Ugarte of Wrexham scored 5 in a 6-4 win. The NOTW gave him an 8. I also remember the same paper giving the Czech tackle monster Tomas Repka a zero after one shite performance. And it flattered him.
Part Three - Sunday vs Monday
The latter incorporating the fallout from the weekend and weaving quotes into the body of the report. Less action, more reaction and you’ve seen the goals 30 times on Sky anyway. Those bringing in crowd chants are also weak. "You're not singing anymore" the crowd sang. Well, never. It looks like padding and unless it's non-generic it really isn't necessary.
Allianz Arena - Munich
Grassroots football nut Dave Boyle wrote a post on Freaky Trigger on the Allianz Arena earlier this year [2005]. I visited to check he wasn't making it up. The hosts were TSV Munich 1860 and they were playing Premiership favourites West Ham to mark the 40th anniversary of the Hammers only European trophy.
I thought the flight would be full of replica-shirted thugs with hooped earrings and that dubious intellectual grey area between nationalist pride and blunt racism. They were nowhere to be seen. Until ten minutes from plane-off. It transpired they were relaxing in the Wetherspoons at Stanstead and were now beered up and ready for lift-off. It was 6.30am.
I've not visited Munich before. Germany seems more multicultural than I remember from previous trips. On the outskirts is the Englischer Park. It's huge and the weather was summer boiling. By the river lay the locals, lying on the grass, eating picnics and throwing frisbees. It was like a scene in any country, except they were all naked. Neatly packed piles of clothes sat beside them. It made sense on a hot day, so I joined them, stripping my clothes off and giggling as I soaked up the sun in fresh places.
The stadium is sublime. Faultless sightlines, plenty of leg room, big screens, crackle-free PA. The walk from the metro station is reminiscent of Wembley Way. The stadium in the distance like a giant tyre. Its chameleon skin colouring the sky from red to blue and then to white. The seats were comfortable, even though my pants were full of grass.
Cash isn't accepted in the arena. You find a steward, give them some Euros and the balance is transferred onto a card. You queue up, buy your beer or fried animal innards and swipe your card across a beeper. There is a reason for this process. There must be, but it wasn't readily apparent to the travelling eastenders. "You’re 'aving a giraffe pal!" was the untranslatable consensus.
The game ended in a draw, meandering in typical pre-season fashion, overshadowed by the arena. In the morning I had to apply Aftersun to areas unfamiliar with the sun’s rays.
Originally posted August 5th, 2005
I thought the flight would be full of replica-shirted thugs with hooped earrings and that dubious intellectual grey area between nationalist pride and blunt racism. They were nowhere to be seen. Until ten minutes from plane-off. It transpired they were relaxing in the Wetherspoons at Stanstead and were now beered up and ready for lift-off. It was 6.30am.
I've not visited Munich before. Germany seems more multicultural than I remember from previous trips. On the outskirts is the Englischer Park. It's huge and the weather was summer boiling. By the river lay the locals, lying on the grass, eating picnics and throwing frisbees. It was like a scene in any country, except they were all naked. Neatly packed piles of clothes sat beside them. It made sense on a hot day, so I joined them, stripping my clothes off and giggling as I soaked up the sun in fresh places.
The stadium is sublime. Faultless sightlines, plenty of leg room, big screens, crackle-free PA. The walk from the metro station is reminiscent of Wembley Way. The stadium in the distance like a giant tyre. Its chameleon skin colouring the sky from red to blue and then to white. The seats were comfortable, even though my pants were full of grass.
Cash isn't accepted in the arena. You find a steward, give them some Euros and the balance is transferred onto a card. You queue up, buy your beer or fried animal innards and swipe your card across a beeper. There is a reason for this process. There must be, but it wasn't readily apparent to the travelling eastenders. "You’re 'aving a giraffe pal!" was the untranslatable consensus.
The game ended in a draw, meandering in typical pre-season fashion, overshadowed by the arena. In the morning I had to apply Aftersun to areas unfamiliar with the sun’s rays.
Originally posted August 5th, 2005
El Diego - Maradona's Egobiography
Maradona has rushed out 'his' story after a succession of problems with his heart. "This book isn’t about my private life," he says, curiously for an autobiography, and context is relegated to the footnotes. The subtext is Maradona against the world.
Here is an example of obstacles put in the way of Maradona: In 1990 he was arrested and banned for 15 months. To Maradona, this was a conspiracy by FIFA, aggrieved at Argentina making the Italia 90 World Cup final instead of the home nation. Big business was also involved in some ill-defined way. He doesn't even mention the reason for the arrest; the cocaine found in his apartment.
He then describes journalists turning up at his country house and his annoyance at this. The footnotes elaborate on this annoyance, [Maradona shot the journalists with an air rifle].
He has a curious turn of phrase, "he let the tortoise get away from him," an example of a line repeated throughout the book meaning the person isn't in control of a situation. The translator notes that this isn't a local idiom, just something Maradona has invented.
His ego wears the book down and he writes almost exclusively from the third person. The whole thing feels as if it is a stream of consciousness shouted into a microphone and transposed straight into type. It is impossible to sympathise because there is not a shred of humility.
According to Maradona, he is always up against the wall, flying in the face of officialdom, combating vague injustices. "I'm just a simple kid from a Buenos Aires shanty town", he says from his country mansion. Contradictions pepper the text and the final third most resembles Maradona himself; bloated, slightly manic and paranoid.
There are better books dealing with Maradona. Jimmy Burns' biography and John Ludden's look at Maradona's career in Naples being two good reads. They write about Maradona better than Maradona writes about himself because they suppress the paranoia.
He was the greatest footballer of his generation and in later life, with sober and humble reflection, could have written one of football's great stories. This isn't that book and unfortunately, I don't think he will live long enough to publish it.
Here is an example of obstacles put in the way of Maradona: In 1990 he was arrested and banned for 15 months. To Maradona, this was a conspiracy by FIFA, aggrieved at Argentina making the Italia 90 World Cup final instead of the home nation. Big business was also involved in some ill-defined way. He doesn't even mention the reason for the arrest; the cocaine found in his apartment.
He then describes journalists turning up at his country house and his annoyance at this. The footnotes elaborate on this annoyance, [Maradona shot the journalists with an air rifle].
He has a curious turn of phrase, "he let the tortoise get away from him," an example of a line repeated throughout the book meaning the person isn't in control of a situation. The translator notes that this isn't a local idiom, just something Maradona has invented.
His ego wears the book down and he writes almost exclusively from the third person. The whole thing feels as if it is a stream of consciousness shouted into a microphone and transposed straight into type. It is impossible to sympathise because there is not a shred of humility.
According to Maradona, he is always up against the wall, flying in the face of officialdom, combating vague injustices. "I'm just a simple kid from a Buenos Aires shanty town", he says from his country mansion. Contradictions pepper the text and the final third most resembles Maradona himself; bloated, slightly manic and paranoid.
There are better books dealing with Maradona. Jimmy Burns' biography and John Ludden's look at Maradona's career in Naples being two good reads. They write about Maradona better than Maradona writes about himself because they suppress the paranoia.
He was the greatest footballer of his generation and in later life, with sober and humble reflection, could have written one of football's great stories. This isn't that book and unfortunately, I don't think he will live long enough to publish it.
Garrincha
Futebol: The Brazilian Way of Life, written by Alex Bellos contains a chapter on Garrincha (The Angel with Bent Legs). The source of the chapter lies in Ruy Castro's biography, translated by Alex himself.
Garrincha is no Pele. Where the latter had a business manager, a product endorsment programme and understanding of financial management, Garrincha stuffed his money in a fruitbowl. When Pele and Garrincha played in the same Brazil team, they were never beaten. In Sweden 58, on their way to world cup success, Garrincha also found the time and energy to leave a local girl with child. Just one of an endless stream of illegitimate kids. He lost his viginity to a goat, was married three times and eventually drank himself to a shadow, dying in poverty.
It's frustrating to read about a footballer who played 40-50 years ago because the footage isn’t easy to dig out. I found a Brazil Legends DVD which contains some wonderful action of the man at the World Cup in Chile, four years later. He teases the defender, disguising the ball then sprinting down the wing without it. The defender gamely follows him, oblivious to the deception. Unsurprisingly Garrincha’s legs were well bruised. It must be tormenting for a defender, playing against a footballer who just loved beating him. Black and white showboating. Fortunately with first Pele and Vava, then Amarildo knocking the goals in, he could get away with it.
The amazing thing is this; he had one leg six centimetres shorter than the other and his legs were bent in an unnatural stance. He looks like he should topple over in the wind, but somehow he used it to his advantage and his balance and acceleration were everything that made him. It's a brilliant story and just when you think he's kicked the booze and depression and is ready to get himself fit one last time, he kills his mother-in-law while drunk behind the wheel of his car.
Garrincha is no Pele. Where the latter had a business manager, a product endorsment programme and understanding of financial management, Garrincha stuffed his money in a fruitbowl. When Pele and Garrincha played in the same Brazil team, they were never beaten. In Sweden 58, on their way to world cup success, Garrincha also found the time and energy to leave a local girl with child. Just one of an endless stream of illegitimate kids. He lost his viginity to a goat, was married three times and eventually drank himself to a shadow, dying in poverty.
It's frustrating to read about a footballer who played 40-50 years ago because the footage isn’t easy to dig out. I found a Brazil Legends DVD which contains some wonderful action of the man at the World Cup in Chile, four years later. He teases the defender, disguising the ball then sprinting down the wing without it. The defender gamely follows him, oblivious to the deception. Unsurprisingly Garrincha’s legs were well bruised. It must be tormenting for a defender, playing against a footballer who just loved beating him. Black and white showboating. Fortunately with first Pele and Vava, then Amarildo knocking the goals in, he could get away with it.
The amazing thing is this; he had one leg six centimetres shorter than the other and his legs were bent in an unnatural stance. He looks like he should topple over in the wind, but somehow he used it to his advantage and his balance and acceleration were everything that made him. It's a brilliant story and just when you think he's kicked the booze and depression and is ready to get himself fit one last time, he kills his mother-in-law while drunk behind the wheel of his car.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)