Following my recent post on the NFL game between the San Francisco 49ers and the Denver Broncos at Wembley there were some (well two) interesting comments. One accused me of being a turncoat for daring to watch a sport that patently is not rugby league, and another just wanted more information. More information, or else forget about it completely and just get something written about The Ashes and/or ice hockey.
The former is ironic since it came from a passionate Manchester United fan. What sport do they play? Apart from bitching, whining and time-keeping that is.
The Ashes does hold my interest and, if I can wangle some flexi or annual leave, there will be nights when I sit up watching ball-by-ball coverage of some part of the test match series. Yet it is still three weeks away and, given my knowledge of ice hockey is limited to the player database on the fantastic Nintendo Wii version of NHL 2K10, I'm going to have a go at explaining the NFL to, as the comment put it, the Heathens. Yes, that's you if you have never heard of Peyton Manning and you think that the term Nickelback refers to a drawling rock band with questionable facial hair.
To be honest, you really should know something about this by now. Coverage of the NFL in the UK started in 1982. Back then bearded midget Nicky Horne was the presenter, despite the fact that he knew about as much about the sport as you do. Yet his impish, sinister appearance belied a friendly charm. It was that charm which helped those of us with enough patience to endure obnoxious American culture to learn together.
By the mid-80's American Football and the NFL was as popular as big hair and rampant capitalism. Ok, maybe not that popular but you weren't really anyone if you hadn't by now chosen your team. Mine was the 49ers, based entirely on the fact that they won the first game I ever saw, SuperBowl XIX. That's 19 to those of us still living in the real world. They defeated the Miami Dolphins 38-16 and a glory hunter was born.
The 49ers were led by ice cool Joe Montana, while the Dolphins had the gun-slinging, record-breaking but ultimately trophy-less Dan Marino at quarterback. For the purposes of the idiot's guide the quarterback is the most important player in the team. So long as his team have the ball, that is. When they don't, he gets to sit down by the heater/fan (delete as appropriate) and sip on some Gatorade. It's the quarterback's job to guide the team in possession of the ball (the offense) down the field towards the opponents goal-line and, if he's been really good, the end zone.
He does this by either passing it forwards downfield to fast players with good hands known as wide receivers, by handing it off to to quick, powerful and elusive running backs, or by tucking it under his arm and running like Hell rugby-style. This third option is the rarest seen, as most quarterbacks have all the mobility of a slug pulling a BMX up a mountain. There is another eligible ball carrier and receiver on the 'offense', the amusingly named tight end, though many teams use theirs as an extra blocker to open up space for the speed men.
The rest of the offense is made up of tough, chunky blokes whose job it is simply to block any defensive players charging at and walloping the quarterback. The first objective of any defence is to tackle or 'sack' the quarterback to force the offence backwards. This is mainly the job of defensive linemen, although the more athletic linebackers are often adept at sacking also, while the defensive backs are charged with the job of man-marking any potential pass receivers.
Of course this is a pretty difficult job so the defence doesn't have to to do it all day with no reward. The offence gets four attempts to move the ball 10 yards. These attempts, or downs as they are known, are a series of set plays in which the central offensive lineman (the centre) passes (snaps) the ball back between his legs to the quarterback following some indecipherable shouting and coded messaging that appears to always end with the word 'hutt'. There is nobody in the known universe who knows why this should be the trigger word. It just is.
If the ball cannot be advanced the 10 yards needed for a new set of 'downs' then the offense is faced with a choice. They can either 'punt' the ball downfield (similar to a territorial kick downfield in rugby league or union) or, if they are close enough, attempt a field goal. For both of these acts a specialist player is used, one whom you will not see on the field for any other situation except perhaps a kick-off following a score or at the start of each half.
For field goals, the kicker stands about eight yards behind the snapper and waits for a team-mate to hold the ball for the kick. The goalposts are at the back of the end zone so if a team is stopped on third down 10 yards from the end zone, the field goal will cover those 10 yards, the eight yards back to the holder and the kicker, and the 10 yards from the goal-line to the goalposts, making it a 28-yard attempt. That's not important really, but Americans love nothing if not stats. Counting yardage in American football is almost it's raison d'etre.
What is important is the scoring system. There are numerous ways to score in American Football, which is a concept which a lot of footbal fans I know seem to struggle to get their heads around. The scoring methods are;
Touchdown 6 Points - Carrying the ball into or catching it inside the end zone.
Extra Point 1 Point - Following a touchdown the scoring team gets the chance to add a further point by kicking a field goal. The ball is placed at the two-yard line for this attempt.
Two-Point Conversion - As it's name implies this is worth two points following a touchdown (making a total of 8 if successful). A team can choose to run or pass the ball back into the end zone rather than attempt an extra point via a field goal. Again the ball is placed at the two-yard line for this attempt.
Field Goal - Three Points - A team running out of downs may elect to kick for goal if they have advanced close enough to the opponents' goal-post.
Safety - Two Points - The only score which can be achieved solely by a team's defence, a safety is achieved by tackling the ball carrier (most often the quarterback) behind his own goal line and so in his own end zone.
So they're the basics on the field, now to choose your team. The NFL comprises 32 teams who are split into two 16-team conferences. The original NFL (National Football League) and AFL (American Football League) were rival organisations in years gone by, but by 1966 they had decided to pit their wits against each other to see which was the strongest. So, the Super Bowl concept was born. By 1970 the AFL had been completely swallowed up by the NFL and after some random re-alignment, the NFC (National Football Conference) and AFC (Yes you guessed it, American Football Conference) were formed.
The carving doesn't end there. Each conference has four divisions, a north, south, east and west division, all of which have four teams. In the main these have been created according to the geography, but nothing short of a flat out refusal to do away with old rivalries keeps the San Francisco 49ers in the same division as the St.Louis Rams. Teams will play each of the teams in their own division both home and away to account for six of their 16 fixtures, and will play four more against the teams in one of the divisions from the opposite conference. This rotates each season so that if the NFC West 49ers play against the teams in the AFC West this season, they might play against the teams from the AFC East the following season, then the South and finally the North in the fourth year of the cycle.
The remaining six games on the schedule seem arbitrary to the casual observer, but they are based on the final standings from the previous season. A team finishing with a poor win-loss record will in theory be given fixtures against similarly poor teams, while the previous season's big-shots will be more likely to face off against their toughest competitors from elsewhere in the Conference. At the end of it all, each division winner and the two teams with the next best win-loss records in each conference advance to the play-offs. The majority of these are played within conference, with the only exception being the Super Bowl. The all-singing, all-dancing NFL extravaganza sees the NFC champion lock horns with the AFC champion in a winner-takes-all fight to the death. Well, till the next advert break at any rate.
To help you decide upon your team, here's a less than handy guide;
AFC East
Miami Dolphins - Popular in the 80's thanks to Marino. Silly nickname but good enough for Ace Ventura.
New England Patriots - A UK favourite due largely to the presence of the word 'England' in their name. Hugely successful in recent years under legendary coach Bill Belichek and quarterback Tom Brady.
New York Jets - An acquired taste. Green uniforms.
Buffalo Bills - Lost four Super Bowls in a row in the early 90's, but have been routinely awful for some time now.
AFC West
San Diego Chargers - Currently very strong but never seem to get over that final hurdle of actually winning a Super Bowl.
Oakland Raiders - Formerly the Los Angeles Raiders (teams can move cities on a whim, isn't that great? Er.....no) the silver and black were massive in the 70's and 80's, especially under the coaching of John Madden.
Denver Broncos - Twice Super Bowl winnners in the late 90's with John Elway at the helm, but pretty average these days.
Kansas City Chiefs - Terminally mediocre, although they did win Super Bowl IV in 1970.
AFC North
Pittsburgh Steelers - Super Bowl champions a record six times, the last of those coming in 2008 with victory over the Arizona Cardinals.
Cleveland Browns - A team with a complicated history, but they are actually one of the newest NFL franchises. It's a long story involving.........
Baltimore Ravens - Began life aeons ago as...........the Cleveland Browns. Moved to Baltimore to allow someone to start a franchise called.........the Cleveland Browns. The Ravens are a solid contender built on a fantastic defence.
Cincinnati Bengals - Despite signing star wide receiver Terrell Owens in 2010 the Bengals are just one of those sides that always come up short.
AFC South
Indianapolis Colts - A popular choice these days thanks to an explosive offense led by the Marino-esque Peyton Manning. Formerly the Baltimore Colts until........oh...we're not going there again.
Tenessee Titans - Presently dominated by the exploits of running back Chris Johnson, who routinely runs for over 2,000 yards in a season and is on course to break the all-time rushing record. Unfortunately this makes the Titans rather one-dimensional and stops them winning more often.
Houston Texans - Another new franchise who are rapidly improving. Their time will come, soon.
Jacksonville Jaguars Florida's third team struggle to take the headlines from the Dolphins and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.
NFC East
Dallas Cowboys - The self proclaimed 'America's Team' are loathed by many for this very reason, but they have a tradition of success having won five Super Bowls. Not this year though, with just one win from their first seven outings.
New York Giants - Super Bowl champions just a few seasons ago, the Giants are infinitely better than the Jets and are led by Peyton Manning's younger, more petulant brother Eli.
Washington Redskins - Another firm favourite with Brits after a successful period during the early 80's under coach Joe Gibbs, quarterback Joe Theismann and running machine John Riggins. Haven't won a Super Bowl since 1991, however.
Philadelphia Eagles - Coach Andy Reid is one of the best in the NFL, but somehow the Eagles have never been quite strong enough to go all the way.
NFC West
San Francisco 49ers - Don't make the mistake I did. This lot promised much this year and have been woeful, winning only two out of eight so far. Five Super Bowls in the 80's and 90's represents a glorious past, however.
Arizona Cardinals - Unexpected Super Bowl runners-up two years ago, the Cardinals have faded back into obscurity. Receiver Larry Fitzgerald could be the best in the league. Arizone used to be the St.Louis Cardinals until........D'oh!
St.Louis Rams - The ironies are everywhere aren't they? The Rams swept to the 1999 championship with the offence known as the Greatest Show On Turf. Then running back Marshall Faulk retired and quarterback Curt Warner ended up in Arizona.
Seattle Seahawks - The Seahawks are traditional AFC West rivals but were moved over to the NFC for somone's benefit a decade or so ago. They have been to the Super Bowl since, but don't threaten to return any time soon.
NFC North
Chicago Bears - In 1985 the Bears captured the public's imagination as William 'The Refrigerator' Perry wobbled his way across the goal-line for several touchdowns despite having been brought in to play on defence. Brash quarterback Jim McMahon and legendary runner Walter Payton added a nice blend for the Super Bowl XX winners, who will challenge again this year.
Green Bay Packers - Won the first two Super Bowls ever played, and were so revered that coach Vince Lombardi even had the Super Bowl trophy named after him. The Packers added another one in the 90's and are strong contenders this time out too.
Detroit Lions - Have the honour of having been home to the league's greatest ever running back in Barry Sanders. Otherwise. Forget. It.
Minnesota Vikings - Pensionable quarterback Brett Favre is still trying to relive his glory days in Green Bay. And failing. The Vikings can match the Bills dismal record of having lost four Super Bowl games.
NFC South
Atlanta Falcons - The epitome of inconsistency at the moment, though should present a strong challenge soon. Once had the only Brit playing in the NFL in place-kicker Mick Luckhurst.
New Orleans Saints - Current Super Bowl champions, the Saints had never even reached the playoffs until the mid 90's. Strong again this year, with Drew Breese proving himself to among the best passers in the NFL.
Tampa Bay Bucaneers - Champions in 2002, the Glazer-owned Bucs have a mocked up pirate's ship at one end of their stadium. What could be better than that? And they used to wear orange.
Carolina Panthers - After a brief flirtation with the NFC West, the Panthers have proven just as adept at pointless mediocrity down south.
Friday, 5 November 2010
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
The NFL At Wembley
If you were to ask me what I make of the idea of taking a Premier League or a Super League game to a country 3,000 miles away you would be unlikely to meet with a favourable response. I nearly blew a kidney out a couple of years ago when I first heard of the Premier League's dastardly plot to shoe-horn a 39th league game into the season's schedule. It was nothing more than a cynical, money-making ploy on the part of the Premier League which had nothing to do with the best interests of the sport.
In 2007 the NFL decided it would take one regular season game to Wembley Stadium, something which has become an annual event ever since. This means that one unfortunate NFL team must sacrifice a home game and travel all the way to London instead. This is nothing more than a cynical, money-making ploy on the part of the NFL which has nothing to do with the best interests of the sport. But I went along anyway. I'm nothing if not a hypocrite.
And not for the first time. Emma and I were there when the New England Patriots beat the Tampa Bay Buccaneers last year, and since this year it was the turn of 'my team', the San Francisco 49ers, how could I resist? I couldn't. I didn't really try. The 49ers took on the Denver Broncos beneath the awkward-looking arch, and I'll be damned if I didn't have a great time! For the most part.
Niner Noise
We entered the stadium around an hour before kick-off and found ourselves treated to what the NFL deems to be adequate pre-match entertainment. First there was Niner Noise, a group of drummers clad in 49ers replica shirts all with the number 49 on front and back. Are you getting the theme here?
'The NFL at Wembley is brought to you in association with the number 49' they might have said had they adopted the Sesame Street approach. Yet these boys couldn't just drum, but they could strut aswell. A dizzying array of struts accompanied each drum riff while at times the drummers changed places in time to the beat. It all left you feeling like you'd just seen the magician put the ball under the cup but you couldn't for the life of you remember which cup it was under after all that movement. Terrific fun really.
My Chemical Romance
I recognise that this is uncool on a gargantuan scale, but I have to tell you I didn't get much from the experience of seeing My Chemical Romance perform at the pre-game show. The singer couldn't sing a note that I could actually recognise and instead seemed to just be shouting as loud as possible. I couldn't really tell you what he was shouting about but it meant a lot to him. His face was contorted with passion as he belted out his three four-minute warnings. He had the kind of deep red hair that looks sexy on a girl but on a man looks like he has had some sort of dreadful accident. Between them, My Chemical Romance looked like the sort of band who started out wanting to be like Green Day before realising they have less talent and deciding instead to just shout about the injustice of it all.
Please, cool people of Britain, do tell me if you think I might have missed the point........
Formalities
Though we were in England we still had to indulge the Americans their anthem. As everyone knows, it is routinely butchered by soul and country stars just desperate to set a new record for holding the longest note in the most inappropriate place, but Michelle Williams fell way short of the mark. The former Destiny's Child singer can currently be seen foxtrotting with Brendan Cole on Strictly Come Dancing and so was obviously in something of a hurry to get back to rehearsals. Her rendition of the Star Spangled Banner was mercifully short, and was followed by Jeff Beck playing God Save The Queen on electric guitar. If he was trying to emulate Brian May's Palace roof-top antics of Live 8 in 2005 he failed, though to be fair playing the rotten dirge on electric guitar does at least prevent the listener from falling asleep.
Musical pleasantries out of the way it was time to invite the random celebrities, or honorary captains as they are known, on to the field for the coin toss. Broncos Hall of Famer John Elway was joined by double European Champion athlete Mo Farrah, while 49ers' legendary Jerry Rice had the golden company of multiple Sports Personality of the Year Award nominee Ben Ainsley. He's a sailor, who later admitted on television to knowing nothing about American Footballer. What? Ask Jerry Rice what he knows about sailing.
The Game
I've got to be honest with you, the first half of the game was terrible. It can best be described as a puntathon as time after time both teams failed to move the ball and ended up having to boot it away to limit the territorial damage. At half-time the 49ers led by a score of 3-0, the only points coming on a field goal.
In the second half things livened up considerably, as the previously icompetent quarterbacks began to find their marks. Denver scored the first touchdown but soon after 49ers passer Troy Smith clicked into gear, marching his team down the field for Frank Gore's game-tying score and then throwing to Michael Crabtree to give San Francisco a comfortable lead. Denver fans were already heading for the exits when their side threatened a comeback with a late score, but the failed extra point rather summed up their evening, which ended for good when Kyle Orton threw an interception with under a minute left, icing a 24-16 win for the Niners.
I've just read that paragraph back and realised that you may not understand a word of it. That's just tough I'm afraid. There simply isn't space and time enough to explain the rules of American Football to people who don't know who Nicky Horne is.
Post-Game
Brilliantly we had managed to book a hotel situated within walking distance of the stadium so it was not long before we were back at the bar. Not so brilliant was the price of it but I don't want to harp on about money when there are kilts to be discussed. As we entered the bar we ordered a bottle of red (I drink wine when I'm out with Emma sometimes. Does that make me any less of a man? Could I be any less of a man?). We'd just poured the first glass when four young men dressed in replica NFL shirts and kilts entered the bar. There was one Cincinnati Bengal, one New England Patriot and two San Diego Chargers. The one in the light blue San Diego Chargers shirt proceeded to sit on top of our table, with the crack of his butt just inches away from our bottle and glasses.
It was an act that rated pretty highly on the ignorance scale and was compounded by their loutish behaviour. The late game between the Patriots and the Minnesota Vikings was on in the background and they were watching it keenly. I was ok with that, it was when they started jumping up and down and shouting loudly after every single play that I got a bit tetchy. I said nothing, but I shot the light blue Charger a look that said 'are you seriously going to sit on top of my table with your arse out for the whole evening?'. Eventually he got the message and found another place to rest his chunky posterior. His mate was happy as the Patriots won, though by then the Bengal and the other Charger had left the building.
Wine drained, kilt-war averted, we headed off with every intention of turning up again next year. In the interests of the sport, of course.
In 2007 the NFL decided it would take one regular season game to Wembley Stadium, something which has become an annual event ever since. This means that one unfortunate NFL team must sacrifice a home game and travel all the way to London instead. This is nothing more than a cynical, money-making ploy on the part of the NFL which has nothing to do with the best interests of the sport. But I went along anyway. I'm nothing if not a hypocrite.
And not for the first time. Emma and I were there when the New England Patriots beat the Tampa Bay Buccaneers last year, and since this year it was the turn of 'my team', the San Francisco 49ers, how could I resist? I couldn't. I didn't really try. The 49ers took on the Denver Broncos beneath the awkward-looking arch, and I'll be damned if I didn't have a great time! For the most part.
Niner Noise
We entered the stadium around an hour before kick-off and found ourselves treated to what the NFL deems to be adequate pre-match entertainment. First there was Niner Noise, a group of drummers clad in 49ers replica shirts all with the number 49 on front and back. Are you getting the theme here?
'The NFL at Wembley is brought to you in association with the number 49' they might have said had they adopted the Sesame Street approach. Yet these boys couldn't just drum, but they could strut aswell. A dizzying array of struts accompanied each drum riff while at times the drummers changed places in time to the beat. It all left you feeling like you'd just seen the magician put the ball under the cup but you couldn't for the life of you remember which cup it was under after all that movement. Terrific fun really.
My Chemical Romance
I recognise that this is uncool on a gargantuan scale, but I have to tell you I didn't get much from the experience of seeing My Chemical Romance perform at the pre-game show. The singer couldn't sing a note that I could actually recognise and instead seemed to just be shouting as loud as possible. I couldn't really tell you what he was shouting about but it meant a lot to him. His face was contorted with passion as he belted out his three four-minute warnings. He had the kind of deep red hair that looks sexy on a girl but on a man looks like he has had some sort of dreadful accident. Between them, My Chemical Romance looked like the sort of band who started out wanting to be like Green Day before realising they have less talent and deciding instead to just shout about the injustice of it all.
Please, cool people of Britain, do tell me if you think I might have missed the point........
Formalities
Though we were in England we still had to indulge the Americans their anthem. As everyone knows, it is routinely butchered by soul and country stars just desperate to set a new record for holding the longest note in the most inappropriate place, but Michelle Williams fell way short of the mark. The former Destiny's Child singer can currently be seen foxtrotting with Brendan Cole on Strictly Come Dancing and so was obviously in something of a hurry to get back to rehearsals. Her rendition of the Star Spangled Banner was mercifully short, and was followed by Jeff Beck playing God Save The Queen on electric guitar. If he was trying to emulate Brian May's Palace roof-top antics of Live 8 in 2005 he failed, though to be fair playing the rotten dirge on electric guitar does at least prevent the listener from falling asleep.
Musical pleasantries out of the way it was time to invite the random celebrities, or honorary captains as they are known, on to the field for the coin toss. Broncos Hall of Famer John Elway was joined by double European Champion athlete Mo Farrah, while 49ers' legendary Jerry Rice had the golden company of multiple Sports Personality of the Year Award nominee Ben Ainsley. He's a sailor, who later admitted on television to knowing nothing about American Footballer. What? Ask Jerry Rice what he knows about sailing.
The Game
I've got to be honest with you, the first half of the game was terrible. It can best be described as a puntathon as time after time both teams failed to move the ball and ended up having to boot it away to limit the territorial damage. At half-time the 49ers led by a score of 3-0, the only points coming on a field goal.
In the second half things livened up considerably, as the previously icompetent quarterbacks began to find their marks. Denver scored the first touchdown but soon after 49ers passer Troy Smith clicked into gear, marching his team down the field for Frank Gore's game-tying score and then throwing to Michael Crabtree to give San Francisco a comfortable lead. Denver fans were already heading for the exits when their side threatened a comeback with a late score, but the failed extra point rather summed up their evening, which ended for good when Kyle Orton threw an interception with under a minute left, icing a 24-16 win for the Niners.
I've just read that paragraph back and realised that you may not understand a word of it. That's just tough I'm afraid. There simply isn't space and time enough to explain the rules of American Football to people who don't know who Nicky Horne is.
Post-Game
Brilliantly we had managed to book a hotel situated within walking distance of the stadium so it was not long before we were back at the bar. Not so brilliant was the price of it but I don't want to harp on about money when there are kilts to be discussed. As we entered the bar we ordered a bottle of red (I drink wine when I'm out with Emma sometimes. Does that make me any less of a man? Could I be any less of a man?). We'd just poured the first glass when four young men dressed in replica NFL shirts and kilts entered the bar. There was one Cincinnati Bengal, one New England Patriot and two San Diego Chargers. The one in the light blue San Diego Chargers shirt proceeded to sit on top of our table, with the crack of his butt just inches away from our bottle and glasses.
It was an act that rated pretty highly on the ignorance scale and was compounded by their loutish behaviour. The late game between the Patriots and the Minnesota Vikings was on in the background and they were watching it keenly. I was ok with that, it was when they started jumping up and down and shouting loudly after every single play that I got a bit tetchy. I said nothing, but I shot the light blue Charger a look that said 'are you seriously going to sit on top of my table with your arse out for the whole evening?'. Eventually he got the message and found another place to rest his chunky posterior. His mate was happy as the Patriots won, though by then the Bengal and the other Charger had left the building.
Wine drained, kilt-war averted, we headed off with every intention of turning up again next year. In the interests of the sport, of course.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
Goodbye Knowsley Road
Last Friday saw the last ever game played at Knowsley Road, home of the Saints for the last 120 years. I can't say I'm all that sad to see the back of the scruffy old hovel myself, but despite the crap views, muddy paths and decaying stands the place still brings back so many outstanding memories.
Since the dawn of Super League in 1996 Saints have enjoyed outstanding success. They have been crowned Super League champions five times, won the Challenge Cup a further seven times, and secured the World Club Challenge twice. Yet it hasn't always been about glory and accolades. During my time visiting the old ground there has been a Tony Kaye for every Jamie Lyon, and a Paul Round for every Keiron Cunningham.
My earliest memory goes back to about 1984 when my Dad first took me. I'd be about 8 at the time and I remember we were playing Leeds. In those days there wasn't a Rhino in sight as Roy Haggerty, playing at centre, helped himself to a hat-trick of tries in a pretty routine win. Haggerty is a great reminder of those early days watching Saints, when the players were mostly just blokes from the town who had a day job aswell.
Roy in particular was very accessible to fans in a way that the modern Super League player never will be. His idea of extra training was to go for a run around the streets of Thatto Heath. While we'd be out using the neighbours' drive as a goalpost he'd pass through in the kind of tatty grey tracksuit made famous by Sylvester Stallone in the Rocky films.
"'Right Roy." we'd say as if we were his nearest and dearest;
"'Right lads." he'd reply, never breaking stride or even turning his head.
So we never really knew Roy, but as you get older, so the chances increase of someone you know turning up on the wing wearing a Red Vee. Ste Prescott was the first person I recognised from elsewhere to make his debut, but then there was Andy Haigh (who used to throw things at me in maths class) and Joey Hayes, both of whom were colleagues at Carmel College.
Preckie was a mainstay of the team for years at full-back, winning the very first Super League in 1996 aswell as two Challenge Cup winners medals. Never will I forget his first try at Wembley in '96, when my always over-exhuberant cousin Alex physically lifted me out of my chair and took me for an impromptu sprint down the greyhound track. He was significantly slower than Preckie, it has to be said, although to be fair I'm not sure how even a Saints legend would would fare with a 10-stone biff on his back.
After that I never really knew anyone in the team, but the damage was done and I'd somehow managed to get myself hooked on going to Knowsley Road. It was a great time to be a Saints fan, with players of the calibre of Cunningham, Bobbie Goulding, Sean Long, Tommy Martyn and Paul Newlove gracing the turf. The trophies which followed were glorious, but it is some of the smaller moments which stand out. Everyone seems to know where they were during the famous 'Wide to West' moment, when on the last play of a 2001 play-off game against the then formidable Bradford Bulls a combination of Long's outrageous kicking, Kevin Iro's handling and even an unusually useful contribution from Ste Hall led to the aforementioned Dwayne West making a break down the left before passing inside to the talismanic Chris Joynt who touched down for the win. I was there so it wasn't until I got home and watched the re-run that I was aware of Eddie Hemmings now famous commentary, during which it seems likely that he will spontaneously combust.
A less well known but no less memorable piece of commentary came during a mid-80's match-up with Hull. Saints were 10-8 down late in the game, when the otherwise unheralded winger Les Quirke took off on a majestic gallop down the left sideline in front of the popular stand. The club's local commentator, working on the official club video of the game, described the late match-winner as a 'try of orgasmic proportions'. It's doubtful whether commentary comes any better than that, and extremely doubtful whether that particular commentator has ever enjoyed a try more than he did that night.
Other highlights that stick out for me are Alan Hunte head-butting Martin Offiah in an otherwise depressing early 90's loss to the evil empire from across Billinge Lump, Jarrod McCracken knocking Dean Bell off his feet during the 1993 Lancashire Cup Final (another agonising defeat, this time 5-4 in a try-less classic), and Sonny Nickle realising the ambition of every self-respecting Saints fan by jawing Gary Connolly during the fabulous 41-6 demolition of the pies on Boxing Day of 1992. I don't know why, but there is something about random acts of violence which seems to excite rugby league fans, and in particular Saints fans if the random act of violence happens to be committed on a Wigan player. Even more so if we're losing, as we were for much of the late 80's and early 90's when they had those robotic sides featuring the likes of Offiah, Shaun Edwards, Andy Gregory, Ellery Hanley, Dennis Betts, Jason Robinson and Sky Sports buffoon and one-time rugby league superstar Philip Clarke.
Towards the end of my piece it is confession time. I haven't been to see Saints at Knowsley Road for about three years, maybe longer. My last memory of actually being there is when myself and a friend took my nephew to his first game. We were playing Wakefield and I think he might have been a little young to appreciate the real nuances of the game. What I do remember is that he danced whenever we scored, which you have to blame entirely on the club's insistence on playing crap chart dance music after every score. They do that these days, now that it is all about marketing and razamatazz.
The reasons I haven't been back are there for all to see. The very fact that the club is moving to a new stadium shows that even they realise that the old ground is no longer fit for purpose. Quite apart from the ground level views and the mud, there's the issue of total inaccessibility to all refreshment kiosks and bars and the fact that the newly franchised-based Super League keep threatening to kick us out if we don't literally get our house in order. I hate to say it, but we're miles behind the likes of Wigan (spits), Warrington and even Hull who have had brand and indeed spanking new homes built in recent years. Having visited them all I can safely say that watching Saints at home will be an altogether more comfortable, pleasant experience from the 2012 season onwards
And so to the last ever game, the Qualifying Final against Huddersfield. Winner moves to the Grand Final, loser packs a case. Keiron Cunningham's last season. Who should come up with the last ever try on the ground but the man who, in my opinion, is the greatest player to have worn the Red Vee during my time watching at Knowsley Road. Seventeen exhausting years at the top, many of which saw him revered as the best number 9 in the world by the proverbial country mile. The word legend is over-used. Not in his case.
But he has one more game. I've never been more desperate to win a game of rugby league as I am for Saints to triumph in the 2010 Grand Final at Old Trafford this weekend. That Wigan provide the opposition is probably the driving force behind that, but it would also be a fitting way to move on from Knowsley Road and all that, and look forward to more success, Wides To West, Tries Of Orgasmic Proportions and Random Acts Of Violence in our new abode.
Since the dawn of Super League in 1996 Saints have enjoyed outstanding success. They have been crowned Super League champions five times, won the Challenge Cup a further seven times, and secured the World Club Challenge twice. Yet it hasn't always been about glory and accolades. During my time visiting the old ground there has been a Tony Kaye for every Jamie Lyon, and a Paul Round for every Keiron Cunningham.
My earliest memory goes back to about 1984 when my Dad first took me. I'd be about 8 at the time and I remember we were playing Leeds. In those days there wasn't a Rhino in sight as Roy Haggerty, playing at centre, helped himself to a hat-trick of tries in a pretty routine win. Haggerty is a great reminder of those early days watching Saints, when the players were mostly just blokes from the town who had a day job aswell.
Roy in particular was very accessible to fans in a way that the modern Super League player never will be. His idea of extra training was to go for a run around the streets of Thatto Heath. While we'd be out using the neighbours' drive as a goalpost he'd pass through in the kind of tatty grey tracksuit made famous by Sylvester Stallone in the Rocky films.
"'Right Roy." we'd say as if we were his nearest and dearest;
"'Right lads." he'd reply, never breaking stride or even turning his head.
So we never really knew Roy, but as you get older, so the chances increase of someone you know turning up on the wing wearing a Red Vee. Ste Prescott was the first person I recognised from elsewhere to make his debut, but then there was Andy Haigh (who used to throw things at me in maths class) and Joey Hayes, both of whom were colleagues at Carmel College.
Preckie was a mainstay of the team for years at full-back, winning the very first Super League in 1996 aswell as two Challenge Cup winners medals. Never will I forget his first try at Wembley in '96, when my always over-exhuberant cousin Alex physically lifted me out of my chair and took me for an impromptu sprint down the greyhound track. He was significantly slower than Preckie, it has to be said, although to be fair I'm not sure how even a Saints legend would would fare with a 10-stone biff on his back.
After that I never really knew anyone in the team, but the damage was done and I'd somehow managed to get myself hooked on going to Knowsley Road. It was a great time to be a Saints fan, with players of the calibre of Cunningham, Bobbie Goulding, Sean Long, Tommy Martyn and Paul Newlove gracing the turf. The trophies which followed were glorious, but it is some of the smaller moments which stand out. Everyone seems to know where they were during the famous 'Wide to West' moment, when on the last play of a 2001 play-off game against the then formidable Bradford Bulls a combination of Long's outrageous kicking, Kevin Iro's handling and even an unusually useful contribution from Ste Hall led to the aforementioned Dwayne West making a break down the left before passing inside to the talismanic Chris Joynt who touched down for the win. I was there so it wasn't until I got home and watched the re-run that I was aware of Eddie Hemmings now famous commentary, during which it seems likely that he will spontaneously combust.
A less well known but no less memorable piece of commentary came during a mid-80's match-up with Hull. Saints were 10-8 down late in the game, when the otherwise unheralded winger Les Quirke took off on a majestic gallop down the left sideline in front of the popular stand. The club's local commentator, working on the official club video of the game, described the late match-winner as a 'try of orgasmic proportions'. It's doubtful whether commentary comes any better than that, and extremely doubtful whether that particular commentator has ever enjoyed a try more than he did that night.
Other highlights that stick out for me are Alan Hunte head-butting Martin Offiah in an otherwise depressing early 90's loss to the evil empire from across Billinge Lump, Jarrod McCracken knocking Dean Bell off his feet during the 1993 Lancashire Cup Final (another agonising defeat, this time 5-4 in a try-less classic), and Sonny Nickle realising the ambition of every self-respecting Saints fan by jawing Gary Connolly during the fabulous 41-6 demolition of the pies on Boxing Day of 1992. I don't know why, but there is something about random acts of violence which seems to excite rugby league fans, and in particular Saints fans if the random act of violence happens to be committed on a Wigan player. Even more so if we're losing, as we were for much of the late 80's and early 90's when they had those robotic sides featuring the likes of Offiah, Shaun Edwards, Andy Gregory, Ellery Hanley, Dennis Betts, Jason Robinson and Sky Sports buffoon and one-time rugby league superstar Philip Clarke.
Towards the end of my piece it is confession time. I haven't been to see Saints at Knowsley Road for about three years, maybe longer. My last memory of actually being there is when myself and a friend took my nephew to his first game. We were playing Wakefield and I think he might have been a little young to appreciate the real nuances of the game. What I do remember is that he danced whenever we scored, which you have to blame entirely on the club's insistence on playing crap chart dance music after every score. They do that these days, now that it is all about marketing and razamatazz.
The reasons I haven't been back are there for all to see. The very fact that the club is moving to a new stadium shows that even they realise that the old ground is no longer fit for purpose. Quite apart from the ground level views and the mud, there's the issue of total inaccessibility to all refreshment kiosks and bars and the fact that the newly franchised-based Super League keep threatening to kick us out if we don't literally get our house in order. I hate to say it, but we're miles behind the likes of Wigan (spits), Warrington and even Hull who have had brand and indeed spanking new homes built in recent years. Having visited them all I can safely say that watching Saints at home will be an altogether more comfortable, pleasant experience from the 2012 season onwards
And so to the last ever game, the Qualifying Final against Huddersfield. Winner moves to the Grand Final, loser packs a case. Keiron Cunningham's last season. Who should come up with the last ever try on the ground but the man who, in my opinion, is the greatest player to have worn the Red Vee during my time watching at Knowsley Road. Seventeen exhausting years at the top, many of which saw him revered as the best number 9 in the world by the proverbial country mile. The word legend is over-used. Not in his case.
But he has one more game. I've never been more desperate to win a game of rugby league as I am for Saints to triumph in the 2010 Grand Final at Old Trafford this weekend. That Wigan provide the opposition is probably the driving force behind that, but it would also be a fitting way to move on from Knowsley Road and all that, and look forward to more success, Wides To West, Tries Of Orgasmic Proportions and Random Acts Of Violence in our new abode.
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
Thatto Heath Crusaders ARLFC
Thatto Heath Crusaders Amateur Rugby League Football Club recently had a £900,000 make-over. A brand and indeed spanking new clubhouse overlooks the new playing facilities on Close Street just off Elephant Lane, and provides a top class setting for amateur rugby league.
I feel something approaching shame that I had never been to see Thatto Heath Crusaders play before now. I've lived there for almost my entire life but while they have been toiling away on the amateur scene, I have been hob-nobbing it with the superstars at Knowsley Road. Not that I haven't enjoyed it. Saints' first Super League title in 1996 was one of the greatest days of my life. So too the Challenge Cup final of that year and the so-called 'Ultimate Comeback' from 26-12 down at half-time to beat Bradford Bulls. Having college friends in the team at that time helped make it even more special and anyway, supporting St.Helens or any other sporting club is not just something you can turn on and off. I'll always consider myself a Saints fan first. Yet it's all very well picking up Super League rings and Challenge Cup Winners medals year after year, when is someone going to get their hands dirty?
In actual fact, watching rugby league at National Conference level and seeing for yourself how good these amateur players are only makes you appreciate further how good the blokes at the top level must be. This is a very fine standard of rugby league so it only serves to demonstrate the excellence of the professionals battling it out three levels above.
But back to the Conference, and the visit of Wath Brow Hornets all the way from Cumbria. Remembering that this game is a 7.00 kick-off on a Wednesday evening you can only admire their commitment and willingness to get bashed around for 80 minutes. A place in the team for this fixture must mean at least an afternoon off work and a very late night ahead of the next day's shift. Yet the Hornets played with bags of enthusiasm and no little skill in what turned out to be a heavy defeat.
The 56-6 scoreline was a little harsh on the visitors. For large parts of the game they had good possession and territory but the Thatto Heath defence scrambled well to defend an early 12-0 lead. The dam eventually broke but Crusaders managed to score in the next set and from then on never looked in any real danger of losing the game. Four of five of the tries were run in late on against an understandably tiring Wath Brow defence to give Thatto Heath their first win of the league season in this their second match of the campaign.
While the rugby league was entertaining and highly watchable, the facilities were also hugely impressive for a club this size. There is no opportunity here for me to bleat about disabled access (I'd probably just find a way to blame it on Northern Rail anyway), and my only minor quibble is that the viewing balcony railing is a little too high. Most wheelchair users will find themselves watching the game between the gaps in the railings, so this short-arsed one was always going to have to do so. There is a lower level, but again it looks as though the fence that stretches around the perimeter of the field would provide a similar obstacle.
One thing that seems to be the same at all levels of the game is the witty banter among the spectators.
"Oi you!" shouted one in the general directon of another.
"I hope you haven't been putting any more of those lovey dovey comments on your Facebook. What was it again?.........I love you like Jelly Tots? Bloody Hell I was nearly sick!"
Also in attendance was a great big Saint Bernard dog. Not like the giant man-in-a-costume fiasco you see at Knowsley Road, but a real St.Bernard dog. I don't know if it was a reference to the dog's breed or to the Saints themelves, but it wore a black bib with the words 'Ain't No Saint' emblazoned in pink across the front. I wondered if it was some sort of mascot for the club, or whether it's owner was just killing time. It disappeared just before kick-off, which was a slight disappointment but at least it left everyone to concentrate on what was a great night of real sport.
I feel something approaching shame that I had never been to see Thatto Heath Crusaders play before now. I've lived there for almost my entire life but while they have been toiling away on the amateur scene, I have been hob-nobbing it with the superstars at Knowsley Road. Not that I haven't enjoyed it. Saints' first Super League title in 1996 was one of the greatest days of my life. So too the Challenge Cup final of that year and the so-called 'Ultimate Comeback' from 26-12 down at half-time to beat Bradford Bulls. Having college friends in the team at that time helped make it even more special and anyway, supporting St.Helens or any other sporting club is not just something you can turn on and off. I'll always consider myself a Saints fan first. Yet it's all very well picking up Super League rings and Challenge Cup Winners medals year after year, when is someone going to get their hands dirty?
In actual fact, watching rugby league at National Conference level and seeing for yourself how good these amateur players are only makes you appreciate further how good the blokes at the top level must be. This is a very fine standard of rugby league so it only serves to demonstrate the excellence of the professionals battling it out three levels above.
But back to the Conference, and the visit of Wath Brow Hornets all the way from Cumbria. Remembering that this game is a 7.00 kick-off on a Wednesday evening you can only admire their commitment and willingness to get bashed around for 80 minutes. A place in the team for this fixture must mean at least an afternoon off work and a very late night ahead of the next day's shift. Yet the Hornets played with bags of enthusiasm and no little skill in what turned out to be a heavy defeat.
The 56-6 scoreline was a little harsh on the visitors. For large parts of the game they had good possession and territory but the Thatto Heath defence scrambled well to defend an early 12-0 lead. The dam eventually broke but Crusaders managed to score in the next set and from then on never looked in any real danger of losing the game. Four of five of the tries were run in late on against an understandably tiring Wath Brow defence to give Thatto Heath their first win of the league season in this their second match of the campaign.
While the rugby league was entertaining and highly watchable, the facilities were also hugely impressive for a club this size. There is no opportunity here for me to bleat about disabled access (I'd probably just find a way to blame it on Northern Rail anyway), and my only minor quibble is that the viewing balcony railing is a little too high. Most wheelchair users will find themselves watching the game between the gaps in the railings, so this short-arsed one was always going to have to do so. There is a lower level, but again it looks as though the fence that stretches around the perimeter of the field would provide a similar obstacle.
One thing that seems to be the same at all levels of the game is the witty banter among the spectators.
"Oi you!" shouted one in the general directon of another.
"I hope you haven't been putting any more of those lovey dovey comments on your Facebook. What was it again?.........I love you like Jelly Tots? Bloody Hell I was nearly sick!"
Also in attendance was a great big Saint Bernard dog. Not like the giant man-in-a-costume fiasco you see at Knowsley Road, but a real St.Bernard dog. I don't know if it was a reference to the dog's breed or to the Saints themelves, but it wore a black bib with the words 'Ain't No Saint' emblazoned in pink across the front. I wondered if it was some sort of mascot for the club, or whether it's owner was just killing time. It disappeared just before kick-off, which was a slight disappointment but at least it left everyone to concentrate on what was a great night of real sport.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Fantasy Football
I used to watch football for sporting reasons. Not at the ground, obviously. Paying £45 a throw to watch a team with whom my links are tenuous at best is not really for me. However I do confess to being a Liverpool fan and a fan of the game in general, and so watch as much as possible of the endless tripe served up by our friends at Sky Sports.
But my reason for doing so is changing quickly. For the last three seasons I have been watching my football with half an eye on my Fantasy Football team. It was just a passing interest at first, but it has gone so far that this past Sunday I found myself willing Manchester United to keep a clean sheet at Fulham. That they not only failed to do so but also conceded a last-minute equaliser irritated me greatly. Yes there was the consolation of knowing that their glory-hunting fans would be suffering, but what about the points lost for my team by Edwin Van Der Sar?
I now participate in five Fantasy Football Leagues and have become alarmingly competetive. The above is just one example. You should have heard my reaction when I learned half an hour before kick-off that Wayne Rooney would not be playing due to a stomach bug. I hate Wayne Rooney. Ok, maybe hate is a strong word, but I have little time for anyone who kisses his badge one minute and then swears at his fans the next. Rooney's foul-mouthed tirades against anyone who gets in his way on a football field show him up for the poor role model that he is. And he looks like a cross between Pob and an ape. But he is, or was this week at any rate, my Fantasy Football captain and his points would therefore have counted double. But two times nothing is nothing!
So far this season I have managed to avoid choosing anyone for my team who was playing against Liverpool. But this is not, as you may have hoped, because I don't want to have my loyalty tested, but more because of the difficulty ordinarily provided by playing Liverpool. Seasoned Fantasy Leaguers know there is little to be gained from players faced with a trip to Anfield or a visit from Roy Hodgson's side, even allowing for their recent decline. Far better to pin your hopes on a Chelsea player at Wigan or an Arsenal star at home to Blackpool. That way lies points, and points are all that really matter. As it turns out I could have thrown my lot in with Manchester City in last night's game and done quite well out of it, but the 3-0 drubbing they handed out to Liverpool was a result that few Fantasy League players will have seen coming.
Similarly, if I have considered but decided against selecting a Liverpool player for my team I will become angry if they do well. I wouldn't pick Dirk Kuyt for a park team, but if I know a league rival has him in his or her side I will curse furiously if he then goes on to do well. All of which all but eliminates the former joy I would have felt at seeing my team score. Thankfully, I don't expect Dirk or Liverpool to get that many this season on the evidence of the City debacle.
Of course the other major factor in Fantasy League is that it has no respect for gender. Professional football is very definitely a man's world but when it comes to Fantasy managers the ladies can be as good if not better. Not that I am the Fantasy League equivalent of Brian Clough or anything, but I was beaten by a female last season and I feel no extra shame. Only the shame I feel anyway at being bested by my office colleagues. The physicality of real football is removed here, so that anyone with a reasonable knowledge of the game can be competetive. So long as they remember to make their alloted transfers before the 11.30 am Saturday deadline.
Today is Tuesday and so there is another round of this madness looming in just four days. I just know that rivals everywhere are studying their team, going over possible permutations in their minds. Who to bring in? Who to leave out? Who's going to get a hatful against Wigan this week? Can they afford to bring in Theo Walcott now his value has shot up with that hat-trick against Blackpool? Yet nobody will make any changes, not yet. There are Carling Cup and European games for Premier League players to get through in midweek, and nobody can risk any of their choices getting injured. Otherwise they will end up with a Rooney situation, feeling disappointed that someone that they would otherwise loathe is unable to contribute to their points tally.
And for what? Bragging rights. That's it. No money, no prizes, certainly no extra kudos with the opposite sex (in fact considerably less if anything because you're now officially a geek), no nothing. Nothing but the right to say to your mates that you are better than them at predicting who might score, get an assist, save a penalty or get a clean sheet on a given Premier League weekend.
But my reason for doing so is changing quickly. For the last three seasons I have been watching my football with half an eye on my Fantasy Football team. It was just a passing interest at first, but it has gone so far that this past Sunday I found myself willing Manchester United to keep a clean sheet at Fulham. That they not only failed to do so but also conceded a last-minute equaliser irritated me greatly. Yes there was the consolation of knowing that their glory-hunting fans would be suffering, but what about the points lost for my team by Edwin Van Der Sar?
I now participate in five Fantasy Football Leagues and have become alarmingly competetive. The above is just one example. You should have heard my reaction when I learned half an hour before kick-off that Wayne Rooney would not be playing due to a stomach bug. I hate Wayne Rooney. Ok, maybe hate is a strong word, but I have little time for anyone who kisses his badge one minute and then swears at his fans the next. Rooney's foul-mouthed tirades against anyone who gets in his way on a football field show him up for the poor role model that he is. And he looks like a cross between Pob and an ape. But he is, or was this week at any rate, my Fantasy Football captain and his points would therefore have counted double. But two times nothing is nothing!
So far this season I have managed to avoid choosing anyone for my team who was playing against Liverpool. But this is not, as you may have hoped, because I don't want to have my loyalty tested, but more because of the difficulty ordinarily provided by playing Liverpool. Seasoned Fantasy Leaguers know there is little to be gained from players faced with a trip to Anfield or a visit from Roy Hodgson's side, even allowing for their recent decline. Far better to pin your hopes on a Chelsea player at Wigan or an Arsenal star at home to Blackpool. That way lies points, and points are all that really matter. As it turns out I could have thrown my lot in with Manchester City in last night's game and done quite well out of it, but the 3-0 drubbing they handed out to Liverpool was a result that few Fantasy League players will have seen coming.
Similarly, if I have considered but decided against selecting a Liverpool player for my team I will become angry if they do well. I wouldn't pick Dirk Kuyt for a park team, but if I know a league rival has him in his or her side I will curse furiously if he then goes on to do well. All of which all but eliminates the former joy I would have felt at seeing my team score. Thankfully, I don't expect Dirk or Liverpool to get that many this season on the evidence of the City debacle.
Of course the other major factor in Fantasy League is that it has no respect for gender. Professional football is very definitely a man's world but when it comes to Fantasy managers the ladies can be as good if not better. Not that I am the Fantasy League equivalent of Brian Clough or anything, but I was beaten by a female last season and I feel no extra shame. Only the shame I feel anyway at being bested by my office colleagues. The physicality of real football is removed here, so that anyone with a reasonable knowledge of the game can be competetive. So long as they remember to make their alloted transfers before the 11.30 am Saturday deadline.
Today is Tuesday and so there is another round of this madness looming in just four days. I just know that rivals everywhere are studying their team, going over possible permutations in their minds. Who to bring in? Who to leave out? Who's going to get a hatful against Wigan this week? Can they afford to bring in Theo Walcott now his value has shot up with that hat-trick against Blackpool? Yet nobody will make any changes, not yet. There are Carling Cup and European games for Premier League players to get through in midweek, and nobody can risk any of their choices getting injured. Otherwise they will end up with a Rooney situation, feeling disappointed that someone that they would otherwise loathe is unable to contribute to their points tally.
And for what? Bragging rights. That's it. No money, no prizes, certainly no extra kudos with the opposite sex (in fact considerably less if anything because you're now officially a geek), no nothing. Nothing but the right to say to your mates that you are better than them at predicting who might score, get an assist, save a penalty or get a clean sheet on a given Premier League weekend.
Monday, 19 July 2010
Joe Cole
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.
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.
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.
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