It’s bad enough when lifelong businessmen propose changes in football that seem to be not in the game’s best interests, but when it’s former players who appear hell-bent on pulling up the drawbridge to make the Champions’ League more of a closed-shop than ever, you begin to despair.
So it was comforting to hear the ex-striker turned executive grandee apparently joining in the nostalgic love-fest that followed Bayern Munich’s visit to Celtic this week. As German journalists enthused over the kind of atmosphere that normally struggles to germinate in all-seater stadia , the Bayern chief reportedly called it, “football in pure culture, like it was in the old days.”
Those would be the old days of egalitarianism, presumably. When the likes of Panathinaikos, St Etienne, Steaua Bucharest, Club Brugge and Nottingham Forest could still dream.
Talk is cheap, Herr Rummenigge, but it’s at least comforting to hear that a little romance lives on inside you. Try and hold that thought.
“There’s no England badge in the picture of them winning the World Cup – for me, that’s wrong. They’ve all turned their shirts around because they want their names across their chests, so everybody across the world can see who they are.
“They’re all saying, ‘I’m a good young player coming through, look at me’, but that in itself is what is wrong with society. In effect, they’re thinking about fame as well as being a footballer and I think it creates a big debate here.
“I thought the way they played was amazing and the way they’ve been coached has been fantastic…We’re talking some amazing talent in that group and the freedom they played with, everybody should be happy to see that in an England shirt, and I am too, I was proud of them. But the England badge not being in that picture says a lot.
“The fact they want their names to be on the front of their shirts and think about getting their name out there so people know who they are – they are not wrong, but it’s what is wrong at the moment.”
Murphy has taken some flak for this, Balls.ie’s Gavin Cooney describing the reaction as “nonsense”, while The Sun‘s Dave Kidd, called it “flawed”, before countering with the tired old ‘nice guys finish nowhere’ chestnut.
Both writers, however, may have been more knee-jerk with their reactions than Murphy was with his. Compared to some of the two-dimensional drivel that occasionally emanates from talkSPORT, his observations are articulated well, whether you agree with them or not, and for Cooney to sneeringly dismiss them as “grand sociological musings” says much for the shallow times in which we live .
Murphy, after all, had the presence of mind to save the key phrase for last: “…they are not wrong, but it’s what is wrong at the moment.”
Precisely. Forget ‘naivety’ or ‘youthful ebullience’; those England teenagers have a far more powerful defence for their post-game actions at the weekend. They didn’t write the rules of this brand-conscious age: they are simply playing the game. Murphy was right to differentiate between those actions and the culture that spawns them.
He beheld a sporting landscape in which business can’t take so much as an afternoon off and where getting lost in the moment is for amateurs. Whether the flip-flopping of shirts idea came from the players themselves or, shall we say, ‘advisers’, the message is out there. Not even the ultimate prize for your age-group is enough now, unless it can be immediately leveraged for self-aggrandisment. Behind the tinsel and whooping, Murphy was old enough to see something hollow and depressing in this. I doubt he’s alone.
And as for The Sun‘s contention that England’s future may be safe in the hands of men more concerned with the name on the back of the shirt than the badge on the front; where exactly have you been for the last 21 years?
I believe the excellent football magazine When Saturday Comes still maintains the traditional exclusion of MK Dons from its season preview.
All other Premier and Football League clubs are allocated a capsule covering their prospects but not the Buckinghamshire club, which was infamously formed in 2004, after businessmen decided that a football club is purely about assets, and not at all about location. As Wimbledon FC withered on the vine in south London, plans to relocate it to Dublin condensed into the not so evocative reality of a 70-mile move north to Milton Keynes. With the new home came a new name and colour scheme and Wimbledon’s alter ego was up and running.
If you’re American, this was business as usual for professional sport. If you’re English, on the other hand, it was unprecedented in living memory, alien to the tribalism that underpins our national game and, perhaps most significantly, it opened a door on laterally-mobile franchises that many football people would rather was welded shut forever.
That was what assured MK Dons of a long and rocky road towards acceptance, as manifested by the When Saturday Comes boycott. It wasn’t a desire for revenge on the innocent football lovers of Milton Keynes, but a dread of normalising the intolerable, lest it become fashionable.
And as much as some Dons’ fans like to characterise grudging tolerance of their club as the last lingering rant of old men in end-of-world sandwich boards, the case against ‘Franchise FC’ and its lamentable origins were only given a fresh lick of paint by this week’s goings-on in the United States.
A vote by NFL owners last week means that Las Vegas will have a new American football team in 2019. Only it won’t.
That’s because Las Vegas is getting Oakland’s team. Not because fans of the Oakland Raiders have found that they have better things to do with their autumnal Sundays, but because the Californian city happens to have a mayor with a backbone.
When the Raiders attempted to execute the disgusting shakedown that passes for ‘best practice’ in American pro sports, namely, “Give us untold millions of taxpayers’ money towards a new stadium or we’ll jump town,” Mayor Libby Schaaf asked if they needed help with their packing.
Six hundred miles to the east, alas, civic leaders are made of less formidable stuff. Nevada’s state legislature will donate $750m from civic coffers towards the $1.9bn price tag of the Raiders’ new stadium in Sin City. Hopefully those same leaders will now field calls all day long from voters wanting to know how the state’s generosity squares with Las Vegas’s current schools crisis, caused by – you guessed it – lack of funding.
Two fine articles have been penned here and here, highlighting other economic holes that traditionally riddle these sweetheart deals, like the discrepancy often found between predicted local revenues to be generated by the incoming team and the numbers that actually emerge (the Raiders new stadium will host only eight regular-season games, after all) and the ‘reverse Robin Hood’ scenario that sees public money used to generate profit for private investors.
And all this is before we disregard the financial aspect altogether and consider the simple aesthetics of these city-swaps. It can be hard enough maintaining affinity to a professional football club in Britain when its players change wholesale from one season to the next, yet imagine a league in which clubs themselves become migrants.
By way of analogy, I’d invite those of you with happy marriages, to visualise them having been subject to one small change at the outset – the words “’til death do us part” being replaced with “’til I get a better offer.”
With the best will in the world, I suspect the relationship that followed would have struggled to reach quite the same heights.
So you’ll have to excuse us, MK Dons supporters. It really is nothing personal, but we will never rule a line under the way in which your club came into being. Because we don’t want people getting ideas.
As America shows us, you see, franchise relocation is like smoking: it’s habit-forming and it usually stinks.
It was one of Danny Baker’s finest moments as host of 6.06, showcasing his ability to view life from a tangent that had never even occurred to his callers.
“We’re going down, Danny…” wailed the voice at the other end of the line.
“Whaddya mean, so?! We’ve been relegated.”
“So what?” replied Baker. “You’re good enough to come straight back up; you spend a year seeing grounds you’ve never seen before and you pay a whole lot less to watch your football.”
There was a stunned silence. Were the presenter to proffer similar consolation nowadays, he would probably be met with howls of derision, for even I have occasionally swallowed the notion that the gulf between Premier League and The Rest has become so great, that relegation is equivalent to being banished from Heaven to Hades.
That notion has been given a thorough airing in this dreadful week for common decency, with those minded to excuse the sacking of Leicester City manager Claudio Ranieri, 298 days after he delivered a sporting miracle, well aware that they needed to do some fast talking.
So their argument went this way: behind the mists of sentiment lurks an unforgiving precipice over which Leicester City is in grave danger of toppling to its doom, and while mists eventually clear, precipices are going nowhere.
Perhaps because of their desperation to shore up this argument as it ploughed on against the tide, we’ve had to entertain an old obscenity these last few days. Yes, with apologies to Aleppo and a crumbling NHS, the D-word is back in professional sport…
“…obviously they’ve felt that, unless they made a change, there was every chance they would drop out – which would been amazing after winning the title last year. It would be a disaster.” – TalkSport
“I think going down would be a disaster for Leicester and I suppose the board have made a very brave decision” – Leicester Mercury
“…it will be up to the likes of Vardy and Riyad Mahrez…who will have to desperately improve their form if they are to avoid such a disaster.” – GiveMeSport
“It’s a campaign that still possesses the likely possibility of ending in unthinkable disaster.” – The Linc
“They look like they might go down. It’d be a disaster for them if they were relegated.” – Reddit
Interesting view of the word ‘disaster’. They were using it a lot in relation to Tyneside this time last year, if I remember correctly, yet in the absence of news reports to the contrary, we must assume that the sun continues to rise in Newcastle and the birds continue to sing. Certainly, football continues to be played there, we know this because as I write, Newcastle United have 69 points from 32 games and are first in line for promotion to the Premier League.
No exceptional occurrence this, either. Since the formation of the League, 18 of the 73 teams relegated (four went down in 1995 as league sizes were altered) have returned the following season. Seven more have been back within two seasons, two within three, and three within four. A 41 per cent chance of returning to the top table within half a decade is hardly the stuff of unspeakable tragedy.
So, having despatched the ‘disaster’ myth, let’s dig down to what might have really prompted Ranieri’s dismissal. For this, I believe you have to go back to mid-December last year, when Birmingham City’s owners decided that turning a team on its uppers into one a whisker outside the play-off zone with only modest finances wasn’t good enough, and manager Gary Rowett was shown the door. If a previous hardline stance on his own contractual position meant that Rowett had made enemies at St Andrews, as suggested here, the identity of his replacement, Gianfranco Zola, fuelled an alternative theory for Rowett’s departure.
“Birmingham’s owners want a ‘name’ they can boast about at the yacht club,” fumed radio pundit Danny Kelly, “and Gary Rowett isn’t it.”
If it seemed an odd metaphor for a city more than 100 miles from the sea, everyone familiar with Zola’s underwhelming managerial record knew where Kelly was coming from, and an observation from BBC radio’s Pat Murphy on Ranieri’s demise makes me wonder if we are seeing the same vanity at work once more.
“I remember the Thai owners at the Everton game when Leicester got the trophy, the players couldn’t get the trophy out of their hands. They loved dining at the top table and that’s what they are worried about.”
Are we getting to it now, I wonder – the true nature of the perceived ‘disaster’ that has forced the hands holding the dagger? The prospect of a year or two dealing in just millions instead of billions; of having to make do with mere affluence instead of unimaginable riches, while the folks at the Yacht Club find someone else to talk to?
A fairytale trashed on the altar of ego?
A football-daft friend stared at the floor yesterday, as we discussed Ranieri’s departure, slowly shaking his head.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he muttered, “but sometimes, I really, really hate football…”
Until about noon today, you may have shared my view that the worst legacy of last night’s FA Cup encounter between Sutton Utd and Arsenal was the visitors forgetting their pennant. Probably more absent-mindedness than ‘snub’ and quickly and grandly redeemed by Theo Walcott’s post-game sportsmanship and his employers’ largesse.
While rules are rules, they are dwarfed by the bigger picture here. The supposed custodians of football – be it the Football Association, Premier League or Football League – tumble into bed with the betting industry, via a string of club and bookmaker sponsorship deals, and we’re now supposed to take them seriously as they get all sniffy about the game’s integrity?
Where was that ethical concern when the colour of money blinded them to the optics of a commercial alliance that will simply never look right? Professional sport and gambling tie-ins are like a vicar and tarts party without the underlying irony, both sides insisting that they can make a go of it.
So forgive me if I don’t join in with the censorious pomposity as football’s new mate bites it in the bum. Not because a goalkeeper flapped suspectly at a cross any six-year-old could have caught, mind you, handing a dodgy win to his opponents, but because he ate a pie in the dugout.
This used to be exactly the kind of stuff that made non-league football what it is, for goodness’ sake: often a damn sight more fun than its senior counterpart. Not any more, alas. The pursuit of excellence is a humourless thing, so where we might once have laughed off a bit of daft japery from some jack-the-lad on the bench, now it’s breast-beating all round, the Sutton manager talking like there’s been a bereavement, the club’s community and disabled teams now forced to look for a new president. And in the background, the promise of an investigation by the FA, its hands grubby with bookmakers’ money.
So it was when I joyously read this well-argued plea in Vice Sports that maybe it’s time the post-match interview was going the way of the supporter’s rattle.
Boy, is Will Magee pushing at an open door here. I can’t remember how long ago it first dawned on me that all that huff and puff to be first with the reactions bore little relation to the calibre of end-product but it’s measured in years, not months.
Has anyone in TV and radio land twigged yet; or is it the realisation that dare not speak its name? Mix testosterone and adrenalin, stir in frustration and anger and garnish with the still-fresh echoes of a baying crowd and you have just about the worst environment possible for incisive analysis.
I don’t care if you’ve bagged Oscar Wilde and Sir Peter Ustinov simultaneously for your post-game ‘exclusive’, if they’ve just spent 90 minutes putting bodies on the line in a local derby, what follows will still fall some way short of their best work.
Were it simply players who momentarily had mush for brains, the exercise would be almost futile but its fate is sealed by interrogators for whom there are no such excuses.
In my days working in football, I always knew when an interview was being forced. I would find myself not so much asking questions as getting players to react to my statements. Sadly, this is almost par for the course these days, even with national media, accompanied by its bastard twin, the fatuous statement tarted up as a question.
“How important was it that you broke that losing streak today?” is four seconds of our lives that none of us are getting back.
In a perfect world, there would be a perfect time for the post-game interview. Roughly 18 hours post-game. Envisage a mid-morning magazine programme, called, Now That Everyone’s Calmed Down, in which reporters around the country pop in on key protagonists from the afternoon before to ask for their reflections on the game over coffee and croissants.
Picture Wayne Rooney, roaring fire, kids playing happily at his feet. Colleen playfully ruffling his hair as she deposits a cheeky little Danish on his plate before heading off to the sauna.
Yes, even Wayne Rooney might surprise you in those circumstances. Relaxed, expansive, maybe even offering the occasional hint of whimsy.
In the less-than-perfect world we’re stuck with, however, we must make do with simple damage limitation. Know this, interviewers – unless your question boils down to, “We couldn’t see from the grandstands: what happened?” It’s probably not worth asking.
So don’t bring us your brain-fried, your surly, or your reluctant for pathetic stabs at after-match enlightenment. Just bring yourself: yes you, Mr/Ms broadcast journalist. You’re trained in articulation, you’ve watched football for years, you spend all week immersing yourself in little else. Tell us what you made of it all, instead. Would it really be so less enlightening than the musings of a painfully shy full-back, high as a kite on hormones?
And who knows how it might play out, were Mourinho & Co to find dark, empty spaces where there were once galaxies of flashbulbs and a forest of microphones. Maybe it would be a tiresome weight off their shoulders after all, as their body language so often suggests.
Or maybe, just maybe, there might be a few little feelers put out from media managers at Premier League clubs, several months down the line. If the editor can spare you, just a friendly little get-together over lunch with the gaffer, maybe?
Perhaps he feared that the comedic aspect of Juventus’ new logo may not ring loudly enough with those who beheld it.
Maybe that’s why club president Andrea Agnelli thought to add some risible embellishments of his own.
So he invites us to believe, for example, that the people behind this creation took an entire year to come up with it. I don’t know how long lunch and tea breaks last at the design agency in question but the daily queue of job applicants there must stretch twice around the block.
But wait, Sr Agnelli still has his best punchline to come.
“This new logo is a symbol of the Juventus way of living,” he declared.
Even by the standards of the corporate-speak Fun Factory, this is a non sequitur in a league of its own. Perhaps we’re meant to stare fiercely at the new design for several minutes and eventually take the hint that Turineses are so rich and sophisticated that they not only snort their coke lines two at a time but even put a bend in them, for artistic effect.
Well can you come up with something that better hides the embarrassment of a naked monarch raving about his new clothes?
Take away the club name and this facile etching belongs on a rusty nail above a back street martial arts club in a town that’s seen better days.
Set against a backdrop of its predecessors, you wonder how its creators had the nerve to submit an invoice. Say this for those who once encouraged us to talk less about ‘crests’ and more about the ugly word ‘logos’ – they saw what was coming.
Odd people, designers. Give them a football kit to design and there isn’t a software gizmo they don’t employ in churning out a three-piece that’s not so much busy as hyperactive, yet invite them to create a visual interpretation of a proud city and a sporting institution and they give every impression they couldn’t be bothered.
‘Juventus’ is the Latin word for ‘youth’. From this point on, however, it will be hard not to see it as the Italian word for “Someone saw us coming…”