It's the middle of July, so you should expect nothing other than blind optimism ahead of the new football season. You'll get a fair smattering of it here, tempered with the usual caution that you need as a Liverpool fan, following the announcement today that the club have signed Joe Cole.
For nothing. Yes, that's a bargain, but it's also indicative of the financial mess that the club is in at the moment. Who knows what or how they are paying Cole, but for now all there is to consider is the fact that he is at least 20 times better than Dirk Kuyt. Tempering that though is the fact that I myself am around 18 times better than the Dutchman, for whom trapping bags of cement is not on the agenda.
Four years ago I would have really been enthused by the signing of Cole. Although I once referred to him as a playground footballer, useful only for fancy tricks and falling over, he has proved at Chelsea that he can actually play a little. A fit Joe Cole was one of the myriad of things that the England team was missing so badly during their pathetic World Cup campaign in South Africa. Make no mistake, Cole has pedigree. But he also has injury.
The former West Ham man missed most of last season through injury (splinters in his arse presumably) and was called upon very sparingly by Fabio Capello as a result. Yet at his peak he was a player who could be genuinely creative, go past people and score goals. Ironically, his record of scoring goals for Chelsea against Liverpool is fairly prolific, and they always seemed to be winning goals. Jose Mourinho rated him, so I'm not going to go against that.
And yet I can't shake the feeling that all is not well. Chelsea boss Carlo Ancelotti claims that Cole's Stamford Bridge departure was all about money, while Tottenham's failure to sign the player is mysterious given their new found Champions League status. He wouldn't even have had to move house to jump on Harry's bandwagon. Manchester United were linked and then pulled out very publicly, while Arsenal were never more than window shoppers.
So why didn't any of these clubs sign him? Is Cole another of those 'lifelong' Reds that we seem to collect every couple of years, only to find that they actually supported Celtic all along? Or is it that his injury problems are worse than we thought, moving all other rivals for his signature to reach for their barge-poles? Will it be another season on the physio's table alongside Fernando and Stevie Me? Let's hope not, but you fear the worst, don't you?
For now though, we can dream of a brighter future. A future in which Cole slots into central midfield at the expense of Lucas Lieiva. Where he ghosts past people for fun in the style of John Barnes in the late 1980's, laying on goals aplenty for a fit-again Torres as Liverpool romp to the dizzy heights of say........third?
It's the middle of July. We can be optimistic.
Monday, 19 July 2010
Saturday, 10 July 2010
Playing Ball
Those of you who have only had the misfortune to run into me since might find it a little hard to believe, but I used to be an athlete.
In another life I spent most of my weekends from September through till May travelling the country pushing round a basketball court. I played at all levels of the game in Britain, and even had a brief flirtation with the international scene at under 18 and under 22 level. As it turns out it was the last of these experiences that started to turn me off the game and on to the Springfield Hotel.
I mention this because the World Wheelchair Basketball Championships are currently taking place in Birmingham. A few of my Facebook friends happen to be taking part also, so I still have a passing interest in the fortunes of the Great Britain teams (men and women). My own experiences mean that you wouldn't have to go very far to find a more enthusiastic Great Britain fan, but I still have enough patriotism and common decency towards my friends and former team-mates to wish them well.
So where did it all go wrong? Well, life gets in the way. That's a lame excuse for dismally failing to become an international superstar, but it's the only one I have. That, and the fact that I didn't have even 10% of the talent that one or two misguided judges thought and said I did when I was very young. It's all very well showing up old stagers when you're 13 with your spikey mullet, but can you sustain it when it comes to mixing it with those that are not past their best? Er.......no actually.
The death knell for my international ambitions came at the Junior World Championships in Toronto in 1997. I'd been used a lot in the training sessions leading up to the tournament and was hopeful of getting plenty of court time, if not starting matches in the tournament proper. It didn't quite pan out that way. The coaching staff must have seen something they didn't like in those sessions because by the time we opened the tournament (I can't even remember who we played now, perhaps I have blocked the whole ordeal out almost entirely) I was on the bench.
I stayed there for most of the week. It's a good job you can stay in your chair rather than actually having to sit on a bench otherwise someone would have been pulling splinters out of my arse for years to come. When I did get my chance I remember losing possession to Troy Sachs, a man who a year previously had torn everyone to shreds at senior level in guiding Australia to Paralympic success in Atlanta, and being subsequently benched again for failing to chase back at him. At the time attempting to chase back against the world's leading player seemed futile. Far better to save energy for what was to come. However, I didn't need much energy thereafter, as I was once again benched.
We had a meeting at the end of the week to evaluate our performance. Simply because I was asked the question, I offered the opinion that I was disappointed not to have seen more court time. Some of my team-mates actually laughed out loud. It was at this point that, if there had been any doubt, I knew absolutely that I wasn't going to make it. I expected it to hurt more than it did. After all, I had spent the previous eight years wanting nothing other than to play for Great Britain's senior men's team. Yet here I was giving up in the most inglorious circumstances. Looking back on it now it is no disgrace to have not held down a regular spot in that team. It just happened to contain Joni Pollock, Dan Highcock, Peter Finbow and Terry Bywater, all of whom went on to star for Great Britain at senior level.
I played another nine years at club level. I had and still have some great friends from my time in the game, but around four years ago things got complicated. My kidneys began to feel the strain of my alcoholism and general bladder abuse, and two-hour training sessions which were previously comfortable became mountainous ordeals. I was only playing at the third level, and even then without any great distinction. I remember during one game at Chester having a great first half were everything went perfectly, only to suffer some kind of mental breakdown in the third quarter. Of course it wasn't a real mental breakdown. I was just bladdered from the night before and my body had chosen that inopportune moment to start the come-down.
Some personal issues also came to a head and I have to admit that I didn't want to be around the club for a while. A while turned into a year, which turned into two and now stands at four. Four years without picking up a basketball. It's all a far cry from those early days when all I wanted to do was get on a court and throw a ball around or shoot a few hoops. To coin a phrase. Hoops? Pah! I've thought about this and often wondered whether I started playing too young in life. I was only 13 when I first became obsessed with the notion of making the Great Britain side, but here I was at 31 wanting to be anywhere but on a basketball court. I was burnt out, physically and mentally.
I don't think I will ever play again. You can never say never, but the longer I am out of the game the harder I believe it will be to get back in. Even if I did go back I would never be able to play at the top level again, and I maintain a great fear of embarrassing myself on the court. When you do that you know it is time to get out. I've seen far too many players carry on at a level they weren't up to. I wouldn't knock those people for trying. It's pretty damned admirable when you think about it, but it's just not for me. Not now that I work through the day aswell. I don't have the energy or the motiviation for it now.
Like in Toronto in '97. I'm just not good enough.
In another life I spent most of my weekends from September through till May travelling the country pushing round a basketball court. I played at all levels of the game in Britain, and even had a brief flirtation with the international scene at under 18 and under 22 level. As it turns out it was the last of these experiences that started to turn me off the game and on to the Springfield Hotel.
I mention this because the World Wheelchair Basketball Championships are currently taking place in Birmingham. A few of my Facebook friends happen to be taking part also, so I still have a passing interest in the fortunes of the Great Britain teams (men and women). My own experiences mean that you wouldn't have to go very far to find a more enthusiastic Great Britain fan, but I still have enough patriotism and common decency towards my friends and former team-mates to wish them well.
So where did it all go wrong? Well, life gets in the way. That's a lame excuse for dismally failing to become an international superstar, but it's the only one I have. That, and the fact that I didn't have even 10% of the talent that one or two misguided judges thought and said I did when I was very young. It's all very well showing up old stagers when you're 13 with your spikey mullet, but can you sustain it when it comes to mixing it with those that are not past their best? Er.......no actually.
The death knell for my international ambitions came at the Junior World Championships in Toronto in 1997. I'd been used a lot in the training sessions leading up to the tournament and was hopeful of getting plenty of court time, if not starting matches in the tournament proper. It didn't quite pan out that way. The coaching staff must have seen something they didn't like in those sessions because by the time we opened the tournament (I can't even remember who we played now, perhaps I have blocked the whole ordeal out almost entirely) I was on the bench.
I stayed there for most of the week. It's a good job you can stay in your chair rather than actually having to sit on a bench otherwise someone would have been pulling splinters out of my arse for years to come. When I did get my chance I remember losing possession to Troy Sachs, a man who a year previously had torn everyone to shreds at senior level in guiding Australia to Paralympic success in Atlanta, and being subsequently benched again for failing to chase back at him. At the time attempting to chase back against the world's leading player seemed futile. Far better to save energy for what was to come. However, I didn't need much energy thereafter, as I was once again benched.
We had a meeting at the end of the week to evaluate our performance. Simply because I was asked the question, I offered the opinion that I was disappointed not to have seen more court time. Some of my team-mates actually laughed out loud. It was at this point that, if there had been any doubt, I knew absolutely that I wasn't going to make it. I expected it to hurt more than it did. After all, I had spent the previous eight years wanting nothing other than to play for Great Britain's senior men's team. Yet here I was giving up in the most inglorious circumstances. Looking back on it now it is no disgrace to have not held down a regular spot in that team. It just happened to contain Joni Pollock, Dan Highcock, Peter Finbow and Terry Bywater, all of whom went on to star for Great Britain at senior level.
I played another nine years at club level. I had and still have some great friends from my time in the game, but around four years ago things got complicated. My kidneys began to feel the strain of my alcoholism and general bladder abuse, and two-hour training sessions which were previously comfortable became mountainous ordeals. I was only playing at the third level, and even then without any great distinction. I remember during one game at Chester having a great first half were everything went perfectly, only to suffer some kind of mental breakdown in the third quarter. Of course it wasn't a real mental breakdown. I was just bladdered from the night before and my body had chosen that inopportune moment to start the come-down.
Some personal issues also came to a head and I have to admit that I didn't want to be around the club for a while. A while turned into a year, which turned into two and now stands at four. Four years without picking up a basketball. It's all a far cry from those early days when all I wanted to do was get on a court and throw a ball around or shoot a few hoops. To coin a phrase. Hoops? Pah! I've thought about this and often wondered whether I started playing too young in life. I was only 13 when I first became obsessed with the notion of making the Great Britain side, but here I was at 31 wanting to be anywhere but on a basketball court. I was burnt out, physically and mentally.
I don't think I will ever play again. You can never say never, but the longer I am out of the game the harder I believe it will be to get back in. Even if I did go back I would never be able to play at the top level again, and I maintain a great fear of embarrassing myself on the court. When you do that you know it is time to get out. I've seen far too many players carry on at a level they weren't up to. I wouldn't knock those people for trying. It's pretty damned admirable when you think about it, but it's just not for me. Not now that I work through the day aswell. I don't have the energy or the motiviation for it now.
Like in Toronto in '97. I'm just not good enough.
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Wimbledon 2010
You might not have been able to see through the enormous obstacle that is the World Cup, but the year's biggest professional tennis tournament has just concluded.
I have to confess to having not seen much of Wimbledon 2010 myself. Yet I saw enough to know that there were shocks, an infeasibly long match and unrecognisable Russians in the latter stages of the women's event. At the end the man who always wins took off with men's singles honours. No, not that man who always wins, the other man who always wins.
Neither of whom are Andy Murray. Britain's anti-hero succumbed to eventual champion (and man who always wins) Rafa Nadal in the semi-finals. Before that he had looked promising in taking apart a variety of no-hopers along with Jo-Wilfred Tsonga of France. None of his victories were greeted with much fanfare among the public, as the English masses continue to castigate the Scot for suggesting that he might not be in love with England some 17 years ago. What's really behind the anti-Murray feeling of course is the fact that he is uncomfortably close to being a winner. We'd all much rather laugh at Phil Tuffnell than take to our hearts a man who can honestly boast that there are only two men on the planet who consistently play better tennis than he does.
Those hoping for a Nadal-Federer final were left disappointed as the smarmy Swiss legend was beaten in the quarter-finals by Thomas Berdych. The previously unheralded Czech will jump to 11th in the world rankings as a result of his fine run, which included the four-set dismissal of Federer;
"I'm looking forward to a rest and then I'll attack again in North America" said Federer after the defeat, sounding a little too much like Kim-Yung-Il for anyone's liking.
Though he can add Novak Djokovic to his notable list of victims Berdych turned out to be no match for Nadal, who disposed of him in three sets with the minimum of fuss. The Spaniard dropped just 12 games in the final and finished it with the kind of cross-court forehand normally reserved for immortals. It was just that good. Even if you don't like tennis.
An interesting sub-plot to the men's event was the record-breaking first round encounter between John Isner and Nicolas Mahut. Astoundingly it took 11 hours and five minutes to separate these two, while the last of the five sets was longer than any other entire match in Grand Slam history. Eventually Isner came through 70-68 in the fifth, but was promptly dispatched in the second round in straight sets by Dutchman Thiemo De Bakker. This defeat occured only a day after the Mahut Marathon, and surely calls into question the wisdom of everyone involved with the tournament including the players. Quite why a fifth set cannot be decided by a tie-break is beyond my admittedly limited understanding of the game. For his part, Mahut was back on court later that same day, playing doubles with Arnaud Clement against British pair Colin Fleming and the brilliantly named Ken Skupski. The match was suspended after the first set (presumably because it was midnight by then) and Mahut and Clement eventually succumbed to defeat, much to the disgust of Clement.
To the women now and well, once Maria Sharapova was knocked out by Serena Williams (you know? the one who always wins? No, the other one who always wins) I have to admit to losing interest. This despite the rather interesting fact that three of the four semi-finalists were relative unknowns, with Vera Zvonoreva, Petra Kvitova and Tsvetana Pironkova joining Williams the younger at that stage. The latter had put out Venus Williams to get there. The final was over in just over an hour and was criminally devoid of Sharapova's incessant grunting. Victory over Zvonoreva brought Williams' fourth title, a ninth overall for the family.
Next up is the US Open in September, where we await Roger's terrible revenge.
I have to confess to having not seen much of Wimbledon 2010 myself. Yet I saw enough to know that there were shocks, an infeasibly long match and unrecognisable Russians in the latter stages of the women's event. At the end the man who always wins took off with men's singles honours. No, not that man who always wins, the other man who always wins.
Neither of whom are Andy Murray. Britain's anti-hero succumbed to eventual champion (and man who always wins) Rafa Nadal in the semi-finals. Before that he had looked promising in taking apart a variety of no-hopers along with Jo-Wilfred Tsonga of France. None of his victories were greeted with much fanfare among the public, as the English masses continue to castigate the Scot for suggesting that he might not be in love with England some 17 years ago. What's really behind the anti-Murray feeling of course is the fact that he is uncomfortably close to being a winner. We'd all much rather laugh at Phil Tuffnell than take to our hearts a man who can honestly boast that there are only two men on the planet who consistently play better tennis than he does.
Those hoping for a Nadal-Federer final were left disappointed as the smarmy Swiss legend was beaten in the quarter-finals by Thomas Berdych. The previously unheralded Czech will jump to 11th in the world rankings as a result of his fine run, which included the four-set dismissal of Federer;
"I'm looking forward to a rest and then I'll attack again in North America" said Federer after the defeat, sounding a little too much like Kim-Yung-Il for anyone's liking.
Though he can add Novak Djokovic to his notable list of victims Berdych turned out to be no match for Nadal, who disposed of him in three sets with the minimum of fuss. The Spaniard dropped just 12 games in the final and finished it with the kind of cross-court forehand normally reserved for immortals. It was just that good. Even if you don't like tennis.
An interesting sub-plot to the men's event was the record-breaking first round encounter between John Isner and Nicolas Mahut. Astoundingly it took 11 hours and five minutes to separate these two, while the last of the five sets was longer than any other entire match in Grand Slam history. Eventually Isner came through 70-68 in the fifth, but was promptly dispatched in the second round in straight sets by Dutchman Thiemo De Bakker. This defeat occured only a day after the Mahut Marathon, and surely calls into question the wisdom of everyone involved with the tournament including the players. Quite why a fifth set cannot be decided by a tie-break is beyond my admittedly limited understanding of the game. For his part, Mahut was back on court later that same day, playing doubles with Arnaud Clement against British pair Colin Fleming and the brilliantly named Ken Skupski. The match was suspended after the first set (presumably because it was midnight by then) and Mahut and Clement eventually succumbed to defeat, much to the disgust of Clement.
To the women now and well, once Maria Sharapova was knocked out by Serena Williams (you know? the one who always wins? No, the other one who always wins) I have to admit to losing interest. This despite the rather interesting fact that three of the four semi-finalists were relative unknowns, with Vera Zvonoreva, Petra Kvitova and Tsvetana Pironkova joining Williams the younger at that stage. The latter had put out Venus Williams to get there. The final was over in just over an hour and was criminally devoid of Sharapova's incessant grunting. Victory over Zvonoreva brought Williams' fourth title, a ninth overall for the family.
Next up is the US Open in September, where we await Roger's terrible revenge.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)