Man and Ball Issue One

ISSUE ONE - JULY 2011
MAN AND BALL
Let Sleeping Gods Lie
Waking Up Is Hard To Do > And Down Will Come Wire, Tower And Wall > Verily, Verily, Life Is But A Dream > KLM Flies From The Old Gum Tree > Smoke Two Johns In The Afternoon > Devil In Disguise > Swear Shed Be A Better Man > Follow The Bouncing Ball > Nancy, With His Laughing Face > Let The Game Pour Down From Gods Above >
1 10 < The Chairman Diaries David Hartrick with some deep, dark fiction 22 30 < No Club Left Behind Jonathan Lines on Germany since reunification 37 45 < Left Turn At Albuquerque Tomasz Mortimer presents a what if? story 64 67 < Rudolf Jozef Krol Mohamed Moallim remembers a forgotten great 74 80 < When The Drugs Dont Work > Stefan Bienkowski tell us a real life gangster story 85 93 < Size Matters Martin Palazzotto examines a worrying trend 101 107 < FIFA And The World Samuel Garuda scrutinises Sepp Blatter and co. 112 114 < Arsenals African Attraction Gary Al-Smith on the Gunners 120 126 < On The Pleasure Of Hating Jack Wilshere Andrew Thomas with a lesson in hate-loving 131 144 < Englishmans Guide To The Copa America Emelie Okeke previews Argentinas party
< CONTRIBUTORS
CONTACT >
Waking Up Is Hard To Do
Nigel came half awake and felt uncomfortably stiff. He tried to roll over but couldn't manage. Groaning, he attempted to stretch the kinks out. It felt like he'd overslept. He couldn't seem to do more than wiggle his toes a bit. Something was definitely wrong. When he tried opening his eyes, everything was still dark. Where in bleedin' hell was he? He tried to remember what he'd been doing last night. Strangely, he couldn't get a single recollection in his head. He couldn't even recall which was last night. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Frowning, he cast his mind further back, trying to grab a memory, any memory at all. Something niggled at the back of his mind. It wasn't a thought, though. Light! It was a bloody worm! He
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WAKING UP IS HARD TO DO
was buried alive! Thoughts became panic and panic frenzied action. He clawed at the soil around him and thrashed his feet madly. After a couple of nervous moments a hand broke through to the surface. Thank the Lord and Lady that he was only a few feet down. He hadn't been dead, then. He'd have been buried deeper for that. Relieved, he scrabbled his way through the top layer of soil and turf and tried to stand. It took some effort. Joints creaked and back discs popped but finally he was upright. A couple of stretches and and his limbs began to remember their assigned tasks. He blinked at the bright morning sun and felt gladdened to feel the
cool English breeze on his face. The sun ducked behind a cloud and, as his eyes adjusted, he tried to comprehend the massive edifice which rose just a few yards in front of him. It was a low wall with a railing, guarding the front of a cascade of brightly coloured chairs. There were row upon row of them, climbing steeply as they receded, divided into even sections by a series of smooth stairs. Amazing workmanship and materials. He'd never seen the like. He noticed that they seemed to be painted, red, white, and black, forming a sort of giant banner. He tried to make out the strangely shaped letters: S - T - R - E - T ... Something niggled at the back of his mind again and his hand half-raised
before he realised it wasn't a worm this time, but the beginnings of a memory. Still feeling tender in his bones, he gingerly turned around to get a better look at his surroundings. The wall of chairs encompassed him in all directions, although he was standing at one end his mind tickled him again and the opposite wall was over a hundred yards off. Directly in front of him was a large goal and, on the other side of it, a bunch of young men were kicking around a ball on some very neatly mowed sod, while one old codger barked out orders. Memories came flooding back. The Game! The Ball! Ages ago, he had become restless in the ether. All the heroes and dragons
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had been slain and humans were becoming organised. Perish the thought! Organisation was boring. It'd be the death of all the gods. His nostalgia drifted to fond remembrances of kicking the Sheriff of Nottingham's head from one end of Albion to the other, after that Robin fellow had dispatched him. Inspired, he had conjured up a ball of air covered in stretched leather to re-live the experience. Skulls never bounce true and they could damage your toes if you weren't careful. It had been quite fun for a while but kicking a ball on your own can get dreary. He tried to interest some of the neighbouring gods in coming out but they were all busy with their own projects. Old Hamish in the Highlands was trying to hit pebbles into
rabbit holes with a stick, Cwm was still sore at him for having stolen all his vowels and Padraig, over in Eyre, was all consumed in trying to perfect some new potion he called whiskey. He could have crossed the Channel but that group of Euro-trash were all pussy-farts on whom he wouldn't waste the time of day. So, he decided to head down to the firmament and give the game to Man. Man and Ball. He'd liked the sound of that. Only it took the buggers a century or two to get their heads together and decide on the rules - although, if he had to be honest, that was as much his own fault. He hadn't been exactly firm on codes and regulations when he'd invaded Man's dreams.
Musing wasn't his strong suit, nor governing. He could never make up his mind whether it was more fun kicking the ball about or picking it up and trying to bowl everyone over while carrying it tucked under one arm. Finally, the idiot humans had got their heads together and come up with not one, but two sets of rules: one for kicking and one for carrying. Compromise wasn't one of his talents either, but he had to admit that this one wasn't too bad. Once the mortals had things going, he decided to take on corporeal form and head down to Earth for a kick-about. Kicking appealed to him more than what Man was calling rugby now. He was a bit out of shape from a
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half-millenium of inaction and all that jostling looked a bit dangerous. Besides, Man had changed the rugby ball, giving it two pointy ends for some unfathomable reason. That was suspect, that was. He didn't like change. It crept up on you like a mouse and was full of nasty surprises. Status quo was much more comfortable. He took in the young lads playing in front of him now. This felt like the same place he'd come to play but everything had there was that word again changed. Outside the edifice he could sense great amounts of people. The place was just teeming with them! That didnt seem right. How long had he slept? This bunch was dressed in red and white with black
short pants, the same colours as the chairs. The long bank of stands to his right was painted 'Manchester United'. He began to remember now. It was that fellow everyone was calling Moneybags what was his real name? John something... yes, John Henry Davies! He had taken over a bankrupt railroad club named Newton Heath and was dreaming big things for it. Just the type of man Nigel liked, that. Was buying up the best players and had plans for a spectacular ground to attract paying fans. Not afraid to take a risk, this one, or to stare down those who found fault with him for achieving more than they had. So, once Nigel had decided to get in
a game, this United lot had seemed the best bet. The ground was going to go up in an abandoned area outside of the city proper, one with a strange name... blast! What was it now? He looked at the faade above the long stand and there it was! Old Trafford! This was the place, then. Apparently, Manchester had grown, much like London Town had been doing, and sucked in everything around it. Manchester United had been fortunate, then, to have their dreamer, giving a dying club the chance to grow along with the nearby city. Men like John Henry wouldnt just pop up whenever a club needed them, would they now? Yet, his dream had seemingly outstripped even the dreamers
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grandiose plans. Even here in the ground, Nigel could feel all the people pressing in on him. It was almost as if they were pushing into his mind. There were so many! Man called that Progress. Nigel called it overcrowded. Grumbling to himself, he began to watch the game to ease his mind. These lads weren't too bad. They moved the ball around as slick as a cat dunked in a barrel and they weren't afraid to get their feet in and break things up either. Nigel recognised the brogue coming from the old codger. So, some of Hamish's lads had taken the Game up while he was napping, then, had they? That would surely make it interesting. They were a rough and
tumble lot. Always good to get a few kilties involved when his lads got too 'organised'. Hamish's boys always lit a fire under his crew! Suddenly, the old Scot glanced in his direction. Nigel quickly willed himself invisible but the fellow still headed straight for him, jabbing his finger and mouthing something inaudible. Steam whistled out of his ears, and his nose and cheeks were as red as a horseshoe just out of a smithy fire. Still not sure of himself, Nigel backed up a few steps as the fellow approached. Oblivious to him, the white-haired old man stopped where Nigel had surfaced and pointed at the torn up turf. He was screaming now, waving his arms about like a man possessed. Nigel couldn't make out a word of the
thickly accented rant but it sounded just like Hamish when he had a wee bee in his bonnet. That brought a smile after all, it had usually been Nigel who had put the little buzzer in there. All the lads in red were shrugging their shoulders, shuffling their feet and doing their best to avoid looking at the hole, while making sure to keep a healthy distance from the old gaffer. Smart group, there. Or well experienced. The elderly bloke's tirade subsided to a dull rumbling, as he plucked a shiny piece of metal from his pocket, poked it a few times and began yelling into it. There was a sudden buzzing in Nigel's ears. It was irritating, but he could somehow better
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understand what the man was saying and what some poor fellow stuck in the tiny metal box was answering back. Then the old man slammed the metal box shut and Nigel winced for the poor bloke inside. That had to have hurt, did that. The buzzing had ceased, however. The codger stood there for a few minutes, tapping his foot impatiently while rotating his glare between the hole, the other end of the pitch and the heavens, all the while cursing up a storm under his breath. Another fellow, all in grey, emerged from an opening in the seats down the far end of the turf. He hurried over to examine the hole in the ground and began having a conniption of his own. Then, he too pulled out a little metal box and began yelling into it.
The buzzing started again. Nigel suddenly realised that the boxes enabled these men to talk to each other when they weren't together. It was like two-way prayer and Nigel was tuned in to it. Now that he understood, he became aware of a tremendous hum which seemed to hover in the air, on the edge of his senses. It was as though the whole world was hooked into this prayer network.
Startled, he realised that, in fact, it was. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that there might be some benefits to Progress, after all. Still, he couldn't imagine why anyone would want to talk to people far away when so many were crowded right on top of you. Man was a funny beast. A bunch of new fellows, with spades, hoes and all manner of equipment came running onto the scene and Nigel's eyes goggled. Behind them, a small wagon was trundling along with a fellow riding up front and squares of green sod piled up in the bed. It was a wagon all right, but where were the horses? Oh, right. That must be the evolu-
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tion of those rickety German automobiles. Daimler, wasnt it? Noisy smelly things, theyd been. Couldnt outrun a horse but could scare the innards out of one! If he'd said it once, he'd said it a thousand times: change can really sneak up on you. How bleedin' long had he been asleep? He raked his hand through his tangled, soil-ridden hair and the remnants of a bandage came loose. Finally, it all came back. The bleedin' game! He'd been having so much fun and one of the Newton Heath lads had brought a flask of some of Padraig's whiskey. Good stuff, really loosened you up. He'd heard a shout and when he turned around, the heavy ball was heading right for him and so was some punter's elbow.
He looked at his shallow grave again. No, he definitely hadn't been buried alive. The Newton Heath lads must have tried to revive him and, failing, had laid him out behind the goal and gone back to the game. They didn't know he was a god or that 'out of sight, out of mind' worked both ways for him. Over the years, he must have just settled into the turf as he slumbered. Now, he'd finally woken up to find these Manchester United fellows still at it, after the gods knew how long. Well, he didn't know, actually, but he was going to find out. Nigels reverie was interrupted by sudden sound and movement. Glancing up, he saw the old Scot yelling and waving between the grey man and his former resting place.
The grey man then turned to his men and mirrored the dance with his crew. They quickly sprang into action. Dirt was shoved into the hole, sod was laid, stamped down, and quick as you could say, 'Two mugs of mead, fair maiden', all trace of Nigels return to the land of the living from his internment behind the goal in the Stretford End had vanished. As the white-haired gaffer, finally smiling, shook the grey fellow's hand, Nigel walked behind them and casually lifted the little metal box from the gaffer's jacket. Such a thing would surely come in handy. He fiddled with it as he ambled off and soon had the knack of it. It had something in it called Internet Connection.
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What a wonder! It brought him the news from all over. He settled into a seat in the stands, pouring through this Internet Connection, while the United lads went back to their practice. He discovered a magic scribe named Wiki, who freely revealed news of strange lands, a new Queen in England, a Royal Wedding that he'd just missed the bride was a commoner but a real looker - and some people in other countries called Presidents and Prime Ministers. Bloody Hell! Man had become so full of himself and his Progress that he'd gone and organised Religion itself. What a catastrophe! The thought put him off the affairs of Man altogether. Searching for some sign of hope and tradition, he switched to the football, as it was
now called, sensibly enough. Naturally, he preferred to catch up first with the English game. That they were also calling this Old Trafford place the Theatre of Dreams gave him a laugh, given his long repose under its hallowed turf. When he was through with England, he began reading about some to-do called the World Cup. He snorted. Hand of God, indeed! If he'd been awake he'd have shown that arrogant little dwarf a real hand of god! Then he came to the final entry and the date truly sank in. 2011. By the Lady in the Lake! He'd been dozing for a century. Worse, while he'd been gone the whole place had
gone to hell in a hand basket. Most of the Empire was gone, the New World had revolted, the convicts Down Under were beating their betters regularly at cricket, and what was left of Brittania had joined some god-awful thing called the European Union. Had to be full of pussy-farts, that did. There wasn't much he could do about that but they'd gone too far when they had taken and corrupted his beloved Game. It had become so bad that his lads couldnt even beat those uptight Germans. That he was going to fix, if it took him an eternity. It might take that long, too, but he knew right where to start. Nigel rose from his bright red seat. He shook the remaining dirt out of
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his hair, bathed himself in a godlight, trimmed out his scraggly beard with a thought, and fashioned himself a nice English suit, not unlike the one the old Scot was wearing. Ready to set off on his crusade, he took one last look at the practice and a merry grin came to his face. Over behind the goal, the gaffer, his customary scowl deepening, was frantically patting down his jacket and turning widdershins as he searched for something he had obviously misplaced. Nigel slid the metal box a mobile phone, according to Wiki into his breast pocket, tugged firmly on his lapels, and hitched his belt. With a look of grim determination he faded from the Earthly plane.
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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES
David Hartrick >
EPISODEONE Day One Welcome to Hell What a shit hole. Alright, so I might have told the accountant I wanted to buy a football club, but this? I'm not sure if the car park's even t for dogging. Its no wonder that prick's not answering his mobile I'm going to stick it up his arse when I see him and he knows it. Why didn't I at least Wiki this lot before I signed the paperwork? I built an Internet Empire without having
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to resort to pornography, yet got too excited at the prospect of owning a football club to do the homework. Jesus, leaping in with both feet like that Im Nigel de Jong. I might not have Premier League or even Championship money but I thought the budget stretched further than this bloody Vauxhall Conference football. Saying that, I may as well try to get into the spirit of things for as long as it takes for me to work out an exit strategy bloody Blue Square Bet Premier football. I've at least heard of this lot but that's mainly down to an FA Cup third round appearance in the 80s. Memo to self: research business de-
cisions beyond the 1984 Grandstand vidiprinter in future. I thought an established club at nonLeague level wouldn't be this run down and this is just staring through the 50% tint on the car window. Looking up I can see a painted name on a once-famous sign, now reduced to a faded shadow. Looking down, the word 'pothole' barely seems adequate for the innumerable hippo's yawns littering the car park. This isn't even disappointing this is frightening. I had visions of at least being able to park my car in a neatly white-lined space marked 'Chairman'. As it stands Ive been forced to abandon the Range Rover in something resembling the 26th minute of Slum-
dog Millionaire. Thank God I didn't bring the Aston. As I open the car door I notice the air is thick with fried onions and burgers, apparently made of roughly half meat, half carpet. Prada shoes meet B&Q gravel as I step out to gaze upon my new empire. To repeat: what a shit hole. To the left of the car park a steady stream of bobble-hats are parting with their hard earned vers to enter a structure rather hopefully entitled the 'Grand Stand'. A Range Rover with private plates is being viewed as something akin to witchcraft by a queue of people with whom I have nothing in common. I've seen the odd eyebrow cocked in
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my direction so I assume word's got around the new chairman's in town. To my right I see a door marked 'Sta Only' which I guess is my entrance. With a deep breath of icy air I make my way towards it, lighting a Benson for comfort as I go. The smoky lter just beyond my nose does nothing to improve the view as the Rice Krispies snap, crackle and pop beneath my feet. As I reach the door a man appears, opening it wide as if expecting me. He looks about early 30s. The suit that hangs about his body would disgrace a charity shop sale rail. If I combine his attire with his body language, general demeanour and what looks suspiciously like a wig, Im guessing whoever he is, hes yet to marry.
You the new Chairman? I nod a response and ick the barelysmoked cigarette away to my right. He thrusts out a hand covered in a mixture of dirt and white paint to clasp mine and introduces himself as Richard, Club Secretary. He turns and leads me into a corridor that runs beneath the small stand; I follow without a clue where we're going, observing a discomting lack of windows. It feels like the journey to the centre of the earth. A door appears from the midst of the cave with a sign marked 'Manager' on it. Shit. I've just realised I don't even know who the manager is. Richard half trips as he opens the door and I'm thankful the wig stays
in place. As he crosses the threshold I catch him mouthing the words He's here. Entering the small oce I nd two middle-aged men, one slumped in a tracksuit behind a dusty, paper-strewn desk, another standing over him with a face like he's been chewing pine cones. Thank you, Richard. Now take that awful wig of yours and fuck o. Richard complies with standing angry mans order and shues out somewhere behind me. Even though I now own this little corner of Mordor, I get the feeling I'm being told who really has the power. You've met Richard then. I've no doubt he told you he had some fucking job here but he's just a fan we
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use for the shit I can't be bothered with. I'm Bryan Ramsden-Smith, club director for life due to the fact my family founded this place, and no doubt the person putting out the res once you've pissed o back to your ivory tower. What the? This is Terry Maclean, he's your manager and resident club alcoholic you'll be pleased to know if we paid him more he'd have a raging drug problem, as well. Now you're here hes your problem. I look at the tracksuited man. His outfit is stained with that I really hope is beer, and as he melts further into his lopsided chair I realise he's not just drunk, he's wasted.
Now do you want some boots and a ball so you can piss around on the pitch like a dancing fucking bear before kick-o? Show the fans how much of a football man you are? When I answer it'll be the rst words out of my mouth since leaving an extremely abusive message on the accountant's phone. Hes going to get another in about ve minutes. I stumble and fumble out the words No, I'm not Michael Knighton. Michael Knighton? Why you *hic* talking talking 'bout Knight Rider? With that comment Maclean nally slips all the way from the chair that had been clutching desperately to his last shreds of dignity. As a body disappears under the desk in front
of me Bryan Ramsden-Smith bumps past and leaves me one last outpouring of bile. Welcome to the club Mr Chairman. Sarcasm drips from the words Mr Chairman like a dew drop hanging from a snotty kids nose. We're bottom of the league, the grounds fucked, your manager's a disgrace and they're all your problems now. I cant say it enough. What a shit hole.
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Day Three Gym Weeks & Happy Endings Terry sits in front of me with bloodshot eyes that tell me all I need to know about his quiet night in. As an ex-pro his name still carries weight in certain pubs and clubs in town, something I hear hes become very adept at exploiting. If the eyes hadnt given it away, the abundance of some shit aftershave hes lathered over the smell of stale beer would have. So, Terry, losing 5-1 at home is probably not where we want this club to be, is it? When I see we I now have to mean it. After nally tracking the accountant down to a 24-hour casino not far
from his oce, he explained that the deals already been completed. I now own this place, lock, stock and two subsiding changing rooms. Any room I had to wriggle away from this heap has gone and believe me, Ive checked every bastard angle. Selling this place as quickly as possible now depends on my nding someone as stupid as me, or turning things around and making it a viable proposition for a buyer. Having thought long and hard about it yesterday, I came to the conclusion that I just cant rely on nding as big a prick as me out there. Im going to have to do this the hard way. Thing is, Chairman, had my hands tied havent I? No money you see, work with shit you get brown hands eventually.
I dont really understand the metaphor but Ive decided not to shake Macleans hand again. Hes talking in bullet points a classic sign of a hungover mind struggling to ll in the crossword clues that make up a full conversation. Regardless of that, Terry, what concerns me more is that your illness meant your assistant had to take charge of team aairs on Saturday. A moments silence draws its awkward ngers down a chalkboard as Terry considers the statement. Have I got an assistant? No. Almost unbelievably the question
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was asked without a hint of shame. Taking up a position in the home dugout come 3pm on Saturday afternoon were me (perfect excuse not to have to mix with RamsdenSmith or the bobble-hats), Richard (in a tracksuit top that I dug out of the teams kit bag that, judging by the smell, had been there a long time) and our physio, who couldnt move as hed pulled his hamstring putting up the massage table (and whose name I didnt nd out, nor care to, either). I ll Terry in and he feigns astonishment. Richard? Hes thick as pig shit. Hardly the point, but hes bang on the money.
I know, Terry. I discovered that when one of the lads went down with an ankle knock in the rst minute and he ran on and rubbed Lucozade into it. Time to up the ante a little. Maclean needs to understand that hes only got three choices left at this club: lead, follow, or get the fuck out the way. Terry, when are the lads training this week? Gym week, Chairman, told them all to go and work on their stamina, at the gym and that. What did they do last week? Err gym week.
When was the last time there wasnt a gym week, Terry? Ah, well, see what youre getting at, but as an ex-professional, Ive identied a lack of err, conditioning, as one of our biggest problems. I compose myself, even though the room is now thick with bullshit as well as Brut. I want to drag ex-professional footballer Terry Maclean over this desk and backhand him. Professionalism dictates we do this through discussion rst though, and Ive got a couple of lines of attack planned. You may believe conditioning is partly to blame for the teams current league position but I have my own theories. Do you want to hear
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one? Instantly I see Terry prickle at the direction he thinks this is going to take. Listen, Chairman, I run the team, I decide whats right, and whats going wrong. If youre coming here to get involved with on eld matters, then Terry, Terry, Terry. Let me speak. I agree the lads conditioning isnt great, but I think there are one or two other problems to consider. For example, due to your various absences with illness, our captain, Paul, has come to the fore and is picking the team, deciding on the formation, telling the bench when to substitute players and doing all
this while trying to do a job as a striker himself. I pause and wait for any sign of recognition. Now Pauls a ne player and an excellent captain, but maybe not the best centre-forward in the world. Any idea why, Terry? Hes beginning to realise there are only two ways this can end: shape up or piss o. He shakes his head in mock bewilderment. I think hes struggling up front as he spent the rst 21 years of his career as a fucking goalkeeper, Terry. With no visible response I take the opportunity to continue.
Since youve been here youve managed to personally see o an assistant manager, a tness coach, and an entire reserve team. Your antiMidas touch has managed to make every area of the club worse for your involvement. The team are dogshit, the crowd knows it, the clubs fucked, and youre an addict. Ive got his back up now. Hes beaten but I know hes not going to go quietly. Now listen here, Mr Chairman, I handle team aairs, Im the ex-pro this clubs lucky to have me. If youre saying we cant work together, you better start thinking about a pay-o, I wont resign. I thought youd say that Terry, thats
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why Ive decided to give you a chance. If you make a commitment to knuckle down and manage the team properly, use your contacts to bring in some decent players, hit some performance targets that I set, stop drinking, and cease using what is now my oce as a place to hide your cocaine, we might be able to work together. He turns his shoulder like a petulant child. Taking a few seconds to think about it he composes a predictable, laboured response. I cant work with these, baseless accusations, so Im afraid youll have to oer me, a suitable severance package. I smile. It doesnt feel great to do
this but hes left me no choice. Well I tell you what well do, Terry. Well part ways and as a severance package Im oering you the chance to stop me ringing your wife. You see, I think she might be able to explain something in the club accounts thats come to my attention. Theres an uneasy sense of recognition creeping across his face. It started with a phone call that led me to an outstanding bill from Delilahs Massage & Sauna Centre. They rang us this morning chasing their money, claiming you told them to charge the club for two girls, a full service and a happy ending. They know it was you because you were so pissed and coked-up youd
managed to leave, among other things, your club jacket with your name and fucking initials embroidered in it, you dickhead. Five minutes later Im all alone in the oce and looking for a new manager. Ill ring the local paper and give the sports guy an exclusive. Ill have to tell them weve parted for football reasons but I dont care, hes someone elses problem now. Better ring Delilahs and ask them to return that jacket too.
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Day Seven Mascots & Misunderstandings Do you think we need a mascot, Richard? My second match day and it strikes just how grim this place really is. The grounds got more in common with Colditz than Old Traord. Now its raining I honestly cant think of anywhere Id want to be less. Adding to the picture perfect view is the fact the team are still playing some absolutely dogshit. After Saturdays 5-1 mauling any hope of a rousing midweek response was put to bed by a 6-0 away defeat which, mercifully, I had to miss due to a prior commitment. That commitment was actually half a bottle of
scotch, Come Dine With Me repeats and attempting (unsuccessfully) to have a little roll around with the wife but they dont need to know that. Dragged here again kicking and screaming by the fact I now own this white elephant, getting rid of Terry has done nothing to make it feel less like a chore. With no manager and the chairman, the village idiot and an injured physio in the dugout again, any distraction from the steady abuse coming from behind us is welcomed. I turn to the oblivious Richard and ask him the mascot question a little louder. How do you mean, Chairman? A character. A man in a big foam
costume. How do you mean, Chairman? A man doing a bit of a dance and celebrating if we score, geeing the crowd up, getting the kids involved a bit, try and get a few more people down here. How do you mean, Chairman? For fucks sake. What I mean, Richard, is a bloke in a big silly outfit promoting and selling the club on match day, and at the local schools, trying to return us to the community if you will, making this place look a little less like Chernobyl and more like somewhere youd actually want to spend your
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Saturday afternoons. Richard pauses and I can almost hear cogs turn. I do want to spend my Saturday afternoons here. Before I can go any further weve conceded, and with twenty-ve minutes of the rst half gone I know the games over. Oi! Chairman! Ive quickly realised that although the dugout lets me hide from certain situations, theres no escaping the dissenting voices behind me. Every. Single. One. Chairman!
The voice is deep and denitely comes from one of the older bobble-hats. I dont want to stick my head out and glance back but it keeps calling me out. Tentatively I step forward and turn my head over the dugouts plastic roof to look at the terrace behind me. While one side of the ground boasts the Grand Stand, this side has a long, raised paved area with a wooden roof that leaks like a tramps shoes. Even through the drumming of the rain I can instantly pick out the source of the shout. Standing about twelve feet behind us are two men who were stood in exactly the same place last week. I get the feeling theyve stood in that same space for a long time. On the left is the one Ive nicknamed Jimmy
Saville, solely on the strength that the two times Ive seen him, hes had the same shitty Adidas shell suit top on. The one on the right I call FA Cup because he has the biggest pair of ears Ive ever seen on the side of a human head. Fucking Alex Ferguson couldnt lift this shower of shit so you best get Jesus on the phone - we need a miracle. I nod and roll my eyes mockingly. Sir Jimmy made the comment, and it appears now he has the Chairmans attention he isnt willing to let it go just like that. Have you got someone lined up? No. Since sacking Maclean Ive had
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the sum total of zero phone calls enquiring after the job. It may have only been four days but I thought someone would have at least sent in a shitty CV. Few irons in the re, you know how it is. Please dont ask who, please dont ask who, please dont ask who, please don Who? Saville wont leave it. avoid or lie? Avoid. Embrace,
A tactful lie on which to lower myself back into the dugout. Its just that I spoke to Richard and he says he overheard you on the phone saying itd be easier to get someone to throw themselves o a bridge than nd a manager for this shit hole. I look across at Richard and he smiles at me. Thats my Uncle Tommy, Mr Chairman, hes been coming here years. For fucks sake. Need to keep that oce door shut from now on. I smile the smile of a man caught naked, climbing out his neighbours bedroom window by an irate husband, and slink back into my plastic
seat with a squeak. From behind my shelter I can still hear the mued tones of Uncle Tommy. Richard also said youd told them that you just wanted to get this place stable enough to og on for as little a loss as possible... Running true to form, Richard is grinning at me without a care in the world. which in our eyes makes you a full-weight prick. And on cue it begins. The inevitable, pre-planned song. The Chairman is a wanker, the Chairman is a wanker
Couldnt possibly say at this point, its very early to be giving you names.
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DAVID HARTRICK
Two voices become ten within the rst line, ten become thirty by the second. I reckon all told we have about 500 in today and within seconds the fty odd who chose to stand behind the dugouts are in unison. Ive only been here a week. The place is a shit hole and the crowd already hate me. I sh around in my pocket for my Blackberry and cigarettes. Time to leave my fucking accountant yet another abusive message. To be continued...
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And Down Will Come Tower, Wire And Wall
Ottos lot had always been a hostile bunch. Nigel didnt mind a bit of aggression, now and then. In fact, he respected it. His lads had done pretty well in carving up the world, even if theyd let it slip from their grasp during his nap. Otto used to drone on about how his Wunders in Prussia and Bavaria were bullying the rest of Europe as if that was hard. Africa, America, The East and West Indies now that was impressive. And when Ottos bunch had the nerve to try and poach it all in one go, his lads had shown the Jerrys just how impressive by kicking them all the way back into their own patch. Of course, the Yanks and Tavars cutthroats had done their part. He wished hed been around to watch
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AND DOWN WILL COME TOWER, WIRE AND WALL
Winston do his thing, though. We shall never surrender indeed. How soon people forget, if you let them. Well, he was awake now. If it was the last thing he ever did, he was going to remind this generation of hand-holding, ask questions first, shoot later pussy-farts the meaning of resolve. It shamed him to call his own children such a name but you never got anywhere without facing up to the truth of things. Half of them so wanted to be part of the modern world that they were afraid to do anything which might offend the bloody community. He hated that word. Worse, the other half, who werent afraid to speak up, thought that everything was theirs by right.
Fools. Taking something was only a tenth of the job. Holding on to it and crafting it into something of which you can be proud... ah, that was the real test. Couldnt beat Germany, couldnt they? Well, he was going to make them understand why there were Three Lions on their shirts. First things first, though. He wasnt the sort to sneak up from behind. There was no honour in that. Besides, it always helped to know the lay of the land and hed been gone for quite a while. He wasnt exactly looking forward to seeing Otto though. While his own lot had been serving up conquered lands like mulled wine at a banquet, Ottos crew had quietly
been building up their strength. You had to admit, they were a patient bunch and knew when to strike. The Frogs may have cooked up this European Union ragout but the Jerrys were the muscle behind it, even if it was in trade, rather than more straightforward strength at arms. He was going to have to be careful until he knew exactly what he was about. Unfortunately, his temper didnt always take that into account. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the Ether and back into the earthly plane. He hadnt lost his touch. This was Berlin, even if there was an ugly scar cut right through the middle of it. A large broken wall, surrounded on either side by a wide swath of weed and rubble-strewn emptiness, stretched into the distance in either
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direction. The air was fairly crackling with the buzz of this new alchemy called communications. The Jerrys always did know how to get the best use out of any tool. Underneath the surface noise he could sense a more subdued no stealthy humming. He focused on it until he could penetrate the interference around it. These were obviously important people, if they were going to such troubles for privacy. Some bloke named Guido was speaking in urgent tones to a frau named Angela. Did he really just refer to her as Madame Chancellor? Oh, thats right, they did have a bird running things here now. It was happening everywhere wasnt it? It had all started with that Bathsheba
tart and then Cleopatra. The worst was that Joan of Arc twit. Trust the Frogs to really stir things up. Ever since her, the fairer sex had been getting really pushy. The Lord and Lady knew he had nothing against a pretty maiden but life became very complicated when you let them get the upper hand. Realising that he needed a refresher course, he invoked Wiki again while waiting for Otto to cotton on to his arrival. A lost war. Another lost war. A Great War indeed! How humiliating for poor, proud Otto. He had turned things around, though, when war had gone out of fashion. Ottos boys had outstripped his lads with World Cup wins although he still wasnt sure about that idea they had named the goblet after a Frog,
hadnt they? That led to a disturbing thought. Sooner or later, those meddlers Pierre and Gaston would poke their greasy little oars in, sure as Guinevere had a wandering eye. One thing at a time, though. Hed cross that Channel when he came to it. His bunch had really cocked up this FIFA thing. Hed given them the game in the first place because he didnt have anyone to play with. Then theyd decided to keep it to themselves. Boneheads! A godly gift wasnt something to waste. It was inevitable that others would see them playing and, soon enough, try it for themselves. Theyd get good, too. Anyone could. That was the genius of the game, after all.
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When the Frogs had organised everyone his lot were too put out and kept to themselves rather than taking the lead, as hed intended. In truth, theyd deserved all the misery that had come as a result, but punishment had been meted out in proper measure. He was back now, however. It was time to set things right. There was a shimmer of light off to his left. Ready for the worst, Nigel turned as, announced by a thunderous symphony, Otto arrived. He was dressed in a tailored suit, much like Nigel wore, although the pinstripes did nothing to straighten out Ottos exceptionally rotund form. What had happened to his hair, though? He used to have shoulder length locks, trimmed to frame his rosy cheeks and full lips. Now he was as
bald as a friar, with a treble chin forcing its way out from under a tight collar, to boot. There was more than a hint of a flab around his middle. That used to be all muscle. Talk about letting yourself go. He looked to be enjoying life, however. There was a ring of blazing gold with an enormous diamond on his right pinky and a shining chain, also of gold, hung from his jacket pocket. On his left arm was an understatedly large woman, dressed in a long red gown. Her exceedingly ample breasts were covered by armour plates polished to a sheen, and her cascading blonde hair was covered by a helm with curled horns protruding from either side. Even in her vastness, Nigel might have called her fair if only she was a bit
more judicious with the facial paint. Yet she was perfect for Otto. He was nothing if not ostentatious. Nigel? the Teutonic god intoned, his crisp syllables sounding less than pleased. What a surprise. Where have you been keeping yourself? Nigel shrugged. Been on a bit of a sabbatical, you might say. They sized each other up for a moment more, until Nigels eyes flickered over to Ottos female companion. Ottos lips curled into a half-smile and he nodded to the woman. This is Ramona, he said in introduction. She is my good compan-
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ion. Ramona, this is Nigel, a... friend from England. Ramona separated herself from Ottos arm and extended her hand as she performed a half curtsy. Nigel took the proffered hand, fingers covered in rings and a heavy tangle of bracelets jangling from the wrist. He gently brushed his lips across its back. Enchanted, he murmured. Ramona, is it? Yes, she replied, batting her eyelashes at him as she settled back onto Ottos arm. Her voice had a high but powerful trill to it. But its just a stage name. Otto gestured to a nearby section of
the ruined wall, little less than waisthigh. A platter appeared on a stand with an array of delicious-looking repasts and two large flagons of fine German ale. Shall we? Otto invited. Nigel helped himself to some wellcooked bratwurst with just a spoonful of sauerkraut, hefted his huge mug and took a seat on the wall.
Otto did likewise. Ramona took a rather generous sampling of meats but seemed pouty about something. Suddenly, a silver goblet filled with chilled wine appeared in her other hand. Squeaking with delight, she gave Otto a smothering kiss on the cheek. Otto looked over to Nigel, a momentary blush appearing on his features. It was going to be difficult carrying on a serious conversation, having to stare all the while at the huge smear of rouge implanted by Ottos consort. In a desperate attempt to wrench his mind from it, Nigel took in the ruins again and nodded towards them. Whats all this, then?
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Ottos light blush returned, deepening to a full crimson. He answered Nigels question in pained tones. It is what is left of the Berlin Wall. Nigels open expression invited further confession. In the last war, my people got... shall we say... somewhat carried away. I am sorry to say that the man I raised up as leader had far less control over his personal demons than I had anticipated. Your followers did quite well in your absence, to put him down. In your absence rankled a bit, as likely intended. Otto was recovering quickly from his embarrassment. Ramona, meanwhile, had left them
to it while she packed away the feast, chewing furiously and lost in the view. Otto went on with his story. They were aided of course. Their descendants on the far side of the ocean proved very powerful and, of course, it was a mistake to attack Tavar before consolidating our western position. His general turned out to be as much a butcher as mine, if not crueller. Yet Tavar had to pay a much heavier price, in the long run, for the atrocities he permitted. Nigel nodded. According to Wiki, the waste of life in Russia after the War had been outrageous. It is life which sustains a god, after all. Life and faith. Tavars chosen general had turned, taking both from his protector, through the pogroms and the
complete, merciless ban on religious worship. Otto was winding down his tale, now. The Russians came down on us out of the east and the Americans and you English from the south and west. When they had us beneath their boots, they couldnt agree on what to do with us. So, they divided the country in half and my beautiful city in four... Four? Nigel interrupted. Us lot, the Yanks and Tavar make three. Yes, but the French had to have their piece, even though they had to be liberated by the others.
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Nigel sympathised with that much, at least. Thats Pierre and Gaston for you. Always trying to argue for what they cant take by force. Otto nodded in disgust and continued. So, they chopped Berlin into quarters and walled Tavars butcher off from the rest. It was called the Cold War, because there was no killing. It was like a siege which lasted a generation. In the end, we built ourselves back up, though. We always do and always will. There was pride in his voice but it was quickly subdued. Of course, we have done our best to make sincere amends for our transgressions and, as much as I wish for my Wunders to prosper, I do my best to not let them forget their shame.
Although my younglings were long separated, they finally became strong enough to reunite and the wall was taken down. Raising his eyebrows, Nigel looked around. Not your usual thorough job, though, is it? Ottos eyes flared in anger. It is left here as a reminder of our folly. Still, its a bit of a mess. Ottos cheeks were reddening again and a thunderhead was forming on his brow. Ramona was still nibbling and failed to notice, as Nigel continued his baiting. In fact, its a veritable eyesore, if you ask me. Especially those watchtowers. Can see them from miles away. A real shame, that is!
Plate and flagon flew in separate directions as Otto came off his perch. He could still move fast for his girth. Before Nigel could get his feet under him, Otto thumped him with a heavy right hand, sending him tumbling backwards off the wall. With a roar, half of rage and half glee, Nigel popped right back up, leapt over the ruins, catching Otto full in the chest and bowling the two of them over. They began rolling about in the rubble like a pair of schoolboys. As he rabbit punched Otto in the kidneys, receiving a finger in the eye for his trouble, Nigel revelled in the happy thought that some things, at least, never change. Ramona, suddenly aware of the commotion, squealed in distress and
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danced nervously over them, trying to break up the melee. Boys! Boys! she cried. Stop this foolishness at once! You will hurt yourselves. Besides, there is no need. There is more than enough of me for both of you! As the two gods happily renewed their long rivalry, another piece of wall cracked loudly and fell to the ground, unnoticed.
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NO CLUB LEFT BEHIND
Jonathan Lines >
Its been a dicult couple of decades for the football clubs of the former East Germany. Take FC Lokomotive Leipzig, a successful club in the years of the German Democratic Republic. They reached the Cup Winners Cup Final in 1986/87, losing out to Dutch opponents Ajax, for whom legendary striker Marco van Basten scored the winner. In the 1993/94 season Lokomotive, renamed VfB Leipzig, were competing in the Bundesliga. By 2004 they were bankrupt and the club was dissolved. Reformed by fans, once again as Lokomotive Leipzig, the club has
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since climbed back into Germanys fth tier. However, although the new name invokes the heyday of the GDR era and though the club has certainly retained a loyal fan base, these supporters cannot escape the feeling that their teams glory days are not only over, but will never return. Clubs rise and fall, but any fan of a once great team will tell you that 20 years is a long time for a football club to fall, and fall this far. It is also worth remembering that Germanys biggest clubs have not traditionally come from the east. During the swift period of industrialisation its urban population grew rapidly, especially around the industrial Ruhrgebiet. The countrys biggest clubs were born out of the Ruhr and North Rhine Westphalia of
western Germany, where the people and the money could be found. Even today, the best teams are still from these areas, with clubs from the single state of North Rhine Westphalia making up a third of teams in the top two leagues last term. But the plight of Lokomotive Leipzig is symptomatic of a much wider problem in the former East Germany. After reunication in 1990 East German clubs had to be immediately incorporated into an existing, already highly competitive and successful capitalist sports system. It was inevitable that most clubs struggled in a system with which their owners and administrators were not familiar and where they were at a signicant economic disadvantage.
Saddest of all was the demise of successful GDR clubs Dynamo Dresden, Carl Zeiss Jena and FC Magdeburg, the Manchester United, Liverpool and Arsenal of a country which no longer existed. Added to this, western clubs quickly snapped up the best talent from their defenceless eastern counterparts, with players available at low cost and keen to play at the top level. The German Football Association, the DFB, was particularly keen to see players like Jens Jeremies, Ulf Kirsten and Carsten Jancker move to the bigger western clubs, something which became a feature of 90s German football. One of the late movers across the erstwhile border was Bernd Schneider, who stayed with hometown club Carl Zeiss Jena
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until 1998. After a year with Eintracht Frankfurt he signed for Bayer Leverkusen, and, aged 25, made his debut for Germany. He went on to win 81 caps. Over the course of the 90s the once-great teams of the East found themselves falling down the leagues one by one. There have been a few exceptions, with Hansa Rostock and Energie Cottbus putting up a ght around the turn of the millennium, but 2010/11 was the third season in the past six years without a club from the former GDR in the top ight. There will be none next season either. Not only have eastern clubs struggled on the pitch, there has also been trouble in the stands. The rise
of right-wing extremism among fans Rot-Weiss Erfurt and Carl Zeiss Jena of eastern clubs became a worrying is often marked by crowd trouble trend, reective of a wider political and anti-Semitic chants from Erfurt problem, after 1990. As these areas fans towards their rivals. Even recontinue to struggle with economic cently, the passion of some fans, and social woes following the reunilargely, though not entirely, on the cation, eastern Germany has beErfurt side, has seen opposition ags come fertile ground for Neo-Nazism, burned. although both critics and club owners struggle to pinpoint exactly why. This hooliganism is by no means the Several clubs have experienced rst instance of violence among racist chants, political demonstrafootball fans, and sadly, it wont be tions and res at the last. Who can forgames, particularly Who can forget get Englands darkest during local derbies. hour, in the 70s and This peaked around Englands darkest 80s? Fan violence bethe mid-Noughties, at hour, in the 70s came characteristic of the English game, and a time when unem- and 80s? was often tinged with ployment was still racial and political motivations. Seraround 20% in some of the new bian football currently faces similar states, more than twice the national problems. Economic and social average. The local derby between
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hardships are a common contributing factor to the rise of the far-right, and the terraces of the local football club can become a close community. With football traditionally more popular among the working class, a clubs fans are hit hardest by unemployment, particularly those from industrial areas. Fans can share not only a passion for their club, but also a bond in circumstance, which can lead to a dangerous fusion of group mentality and social disgruntlement. For an increasing number of clubs in the former East Germany, eorts to curtail the problem of extremism has led to the banning of supporters showing symbols and carrying ags of far-right groups inside stadia. While no doubt a positive and necessary step for the clubs administra-
tors, it does not seem to have fully curtailed the problem. Dresden, a city known for extremist political activity, can be studied as an example of how to reduce fan violence at a football club. Over the past few years both anti-fascist and neo-Nazi demonstrators have held mass demonstrations on 13 February, marking the anniversary of the Allied bombing of the city in World War II. The 2010 display, marking the 65th anniversary, was a particularly violent one. Dynamo Dresden have appointed a fan liaison coordinator, and the club now claims to have had no incidents of extremism for the past few years. Overcoming a reputation for hooliganism and Neo-Nazism among their fans will be crucial if Dynamo want to again
be a large, popular football club. But it will take much more than that for eastern teams like Dynamo to rise again. In both footballing and economic terms, the most obvious solution is investment and time. Dynamo have signalled their ambitions to become important on the national stage again with a new 32,000 capacity stadium. Die SG earned promotion to the 2. Bundesliga for next season a late surge saw the club qualify for the relegation playo, in which they defeated VfL Osnabrck after two legs and extra time. Dynamo have the fan following, the ambition, and even the quality on the pitch to compete short-term in the higher league. The money certainly seems to be in place, as well, when you consider
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that the team was constructedprimarily through transfers, rather than youth development. Still, life in a higher league will be tough, especially given that the club will lose their Bundesliga-bound top-scorer, Alexander Esswein, who joins FC Nrnberg in the summer. A further problem they will face is increased scrutiny of fans behaviour. Though doing well to overcome the extremist reputation, Dynamos supporters have not kept themselves completely out of the news this season. After clinching promotion, the club was shrouded in embarrassment and forced to apologise after a group of followers invaded the pitch, started res and tore chairs from the stands at Osnabrck after the nal whistle. The
match itself had to be stopped when a re was started at the visiting fans end after Dresdens equalising goal. Other incidents this season have included isolated instances of violence, and, as Dynamo seek to rise back up the leagues, they will want to leave behind this darker side of their identity. Like Leipzig, Dresden is a huge and beautiful city. Dynamo have many extremely dedicated fans who largely provide excellent support and fantastic atmospheres for their team. With an average attendance this season of 15,000 in a ne new stadium, the club is potentially very attractive to investors and new players. If Dynamo can keep on their path of gradual improvement and increased revenue, the tools are cer-
tainly in place for them to reach the Bundesliga again. But, in truth, they will nd it dicult to reach the level they once did, and compete long-term with the bigmoney, big-reputation teams of the German league, which is itself growing in stature. A more intriguing development can be found in Dresdens neighbouring city, Leipzig and herewith our journey into football in eastern Germany nishes in the city in which it started, a city which embodies the paradoxes and diculties as well as the bright future of German reunication. This little Paris is one of the countrys biggest and best cities, with a population of over half a million. Its locals are deserving of
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SSV Markranstdt, essentially founding a brand new club for the 2009/10 season. The Austrian comUnfortunately FC Sachsen Leipzig pany cannot completely buy out the faced similar problems to its old city club, given DFB regulations which rivals, Lokomotive. prevent investors from Many clubs are nally Theyre as outside the club from looking to the future, owning more than 49% much a Red now more than 20 years of the clubs shares (at Bull product as least 51% of any club is after the Wende, but former GDR Champions the German always owned by the Sachsen were liquidated system can clubs members). So, on 30 June 2011, having while Red Bull cannot legally allow spent the last two years fully own the club in the in administration with same way as it does the debts of up to 2 million. The citys New York Red Bulls or RB Salzburg, footballing woes look to be continuthe re-invented team, known as ing. Rasen-Ballsport Leipzig, use Red Bulls logo whenever possible. The Enter Red Bull. With the city yearnclubs initials also implicitly carry the ing for top-class football, the comcompanys name; theyre as much a pany bought the licence of minnows Red Bull product as the German sys-
a football club in a higher league than the fth tier.
tem can legally allow. The added investment has had an immediate eect. RB Leipzig have already been promoted to the Regionalliga Nord (Tier IV), and the club have made no secret of their ambition to reach the Bundesliga within 10 years. They have also moved into the Zentralstadion of course renamed the Red Bull Arena the fabulous 44,000 capacity stadium which was renovated for the 2006 World Cup, and was the only stadium from the former GDR to be used for the tournament. Much of RB Leipzigs success will depend not only on investment but also on youth development. After deciding against taking the now defunct FC Sachsen Leipzigs place in
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the Oberliga (Tier V) for a reserve team, the clubs chiefs stressed the importance of continuing the reconstruction of their under-23 squad. German clubs across the board are turning to youth, with a host of fresh-faced academy players gracing the Bundesliga last season. The Leagues top two, Borussia Dortmund and Bayer Leverkusen, each boasted ve nationals aged 23 and under who were playing regular rst-team football last term. With the Bundesliga average at more than three such players per side, the national team certainly has an exciting few years ahead. That RB Leipzig are so keen to focus on their youth, too, shows they really are thinking like a big club a big German club, that is and will ide-
ally start to develop some talented prospects themselves. It would be wonderful for the new states, and for the country as a whole, to have an eastern player, from an eastern club, turning out for the Nationalelf again in the near future. It remains to be seen whether Red Bulls Leipzig experiment will work, but it will surely be fascinating to track their fate over the next few years. Understandably they have popular support, with 70% of those polled in a local newspaper, Leipziger Volkszeitung, saying they would support the new club, something which had been a huge potential stumbling block in a city with two traditional football clubs already present. Germany has made some important breaks from the
past since the fall of the Berlin Wall, and while for some fans it will never be what it was, there are signs that teams from the East can rise again. What a ne occasion it would be to see Leipzig take on Dresden in the Bundesliga in ve years time.
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Verily, Verily, Life Is But A Dream
The water lapped quietly up against the side of The Serenity as it chugged along. The sun was going down well beyond the port side bank of the Danube. Hues of pink, grey, orange and yellow mixed wonderfully but the shore was beginning to be swallowed up in the twilight, with the twinkling streetlights beginning to compete with the darkening silhouettes of structures along the shoreline for the eyes attention. With evening upon him, Nigel retired to the comfort of the bar. It was mostly empty, which suited him perfectly. He touched his right cheek gingerly. The swelling around that eye and in the jaw had gone down considerably, and the only remaining sign of Ottos massive fist was a little yellowing around the orbital
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VERILY, VERILY, LIFE IS BUT A DREAM
bone. Thankfully it was washed out in the soft lighting of the lounge. The staff were chatting quietly between themselves, while playing a card game that was foreign to Nigel. Lively music drifted down from the deck above where there was some sort of knees-up ongoing. It was a proper posh do, too. Hed overheard some of the passengers discussing the grand celebration of a recent victory, something about the European Cup. Some Magyar side had apparently won it for the tenth time. He frowned. Now, as when the group of revellers had first surrounded him up on deck, tooting their ridiculously nasal party favours, hed felt something wrong in that. Yet he was reluctant to mingle with
the party-goers to put his finger on just what troubled him. They were exactly the type he couldnt stand, Hooray Henries, born with silver spoons shoved so far down their pitiful throats they couldnt speak a word of sense. He was all for a life of luxury, but it had to be earned, had to be grafted for. This lot were as nasty a display of Nepotism as anything Albion had ever put out. Spend time with that lot? No, thank you. Hed learn more from some silent time alone with Wiki. Settling into a large, cushioned armchair, he ordered a glass of Padraigs Irish Malt and set up his laptop on a coffee table. Over his shoulder was a large, round porthole, opened to offer a bit of a cool breeze, although it also brought the faint sounds of the
still raucous celebration. Looking out one last time before getting down to business, he could see the ruins of a once great castle floating by on the crest of a hill. He smiled ruefully. What would Arthur have thought of the evolution of his Camelot? As he mulled over what had become of the world during his absence, he returned to browsing the Internet to continue his re-education. So much had changed in what, to him, was such a short time. Improved, according to many, but he was yet to be convinced. This war between East and West was a peculiar matter indeed. The two ends of the world had always had
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their differing philosophies, yet geography had usually kept people from each others throats. No longer, it seemed. Still, Otto had told him, before their little donnybrook, that this Cold War had been ended with the collapse of the Berlin Wall. Shouldnt it all have blown over, then? Well, the Europeans had gone all lovey-dovey with the advent of this bleedin European Union, but the ill feeling had not been contained to one continent. The murder of some fellow named Bin Laden by the Yanks had recently stoked things up again. Reminded him of Khartoum. Still, he was more interested in the local history and pulled up a file on Hungarys role in the Second War.
Engrossed in his studies, he almost didnt notice the newcomer. It was the sound of a steel-tipped cane on the wooden deck planks which alerted him to a presence. He glanced up and saw a silhouette approaching slowly from the other end of the bar. As the shadowy figure neared the light brought into focus a hunched over old man with an incredibly bushy white moustache, a feature that completely obscured not only his lips but the best part of his chin, too. His eyebrows were equally unkempt; they sprouted from his skin at all angles but were curiously coloured in neat stripes of white, grey and black. The old man slowed as he neared Nigel, who had returned his focus to the monitor in front of him, hoping
the interloper would continue on past. Instead, the character stopped, then addressed the disinterested god with a shake of the head and a mumbled, muffled word. Not wanting to be interrupted by one of the silver-spooners and hoping this fellow might take a hint, Nigel bent himself further over his laptop and feigned concentration, accompanied by a few token clicks. Unperturbed, the man crumpled into the seat opposite, exhaling loudly. Nigel gave in and looked up to see the man adjusting his hat a widebrimmed, patched-up black cloth specimen, of a type hed never seen before. What he could see of the mans face was more weather-beaten than wrinkled, and Nigel estimated
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he still had a few years before his wick was at its end. Protruding from his impressive whiskers came an unlit clay pipe, and as this was removed and placed into a breast pocket of his long, beige overcoat, Nigel caught a glimpse of three yellow, crooked teeth. With the pipe stored away, the man repeated his greeting, more clearly this time. Not being a native, Nigel didnt understand its literal meaning but assumed hello would be an adequate response. Ah. English. Long way from home, my friend. Nigel wasnt in the mood for friends; pest was a better word for his unwanted companion. He was still suf-
fering from the lingering effects of the massive headache Otto had gifted him. This getaway was supposed to be a calming experience, a bit of quiet time to sort out his thoughts and nurse his bruises before getting on with business. He was not here to be badgered. Perhaps the fellow would get the hint if Nigel gave him the monosyllabic treatment. Yes. Holidaying, perhaps? Nigel decided the boat was illnamed; he was apparently not going to get much peace on this trip. He grunted in the affirmative then turned his attentions back to his computer, hoping to kill the conversation without having to be too im-
polite. Like Dreher? He nodded towards the glass of Padraigs finest and then did a double-take. It was empty. He hadnt remembered finishing it. Well, if he wasnt going to be left in peace, a drink was a fair price to pay for the interruption. If this Dreher was the stuff theyd been brewing here a century or two ago, then yes, he did like it, as it happened. He nodded again, this time in acceptance of the offer. The stranger raised a hand to a passing member of staff, and within the minute there sat two large glass tankards containing a clear, golden liquid with a frothy
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head. Just the one drink, then hed be rid of this intruder. He nudged the computer lid down and took a long pull on the tankard. He couldnt help but smile. It really was good brew. He raised the mug to his lips again. Was born during that war, you know... The old fellow was livelier than he appeared. Somehow he had managed a peak at the screen before Nigel had lowered it. ...Lucky son of a gun I was. Papa was a soldier from somewhere or other. So, a son of a gun in more than one sense, eh my friend? His joke didnt even crack a smile on Nigels stony face. As though he hadnt noticed, the old man went on
with his story. We were a travelling family, most of us carted off to the camps, but we escaped so I was told, anyway. I was only a baba. Mother said she didnt know what had saved us. Divine intervention, I say. The eyebrows almost reached down to the bushy moustache as the old
man cocked his head and smiled at Nigel. Man plans, God executes, dont you think? Nigel took a closer look at the old man. That remark hit a bit too close to home for comfort. The eyes which smiled back were deep, impenetrable holes, well shielded by the bushy tufts of hair and craggy face. Nigel waited for his unwanted guest to go on. Sooner or later hed get around to whatever it was he wanted. You a football fan, friend? You could say that. Nigel didnt like the hints that were being dropped here but he had no recollec-
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tion of ever running across a fellow who even resembled this cagey gaffer in the slightest. Im here for the same reason as those up there. The man thrust a dismissive thumb towards the ceiling. Couldnt get a proper conversation out of them, though, if you held one down and rubbed smelling salts under his nose and, believe me, Ive tried. No, I won my ticket in a TV competition. Spent a fortune on phoning in. Nigel was slowly coming round to this fellow; it seemed hed misjudged him. If he was one of the upper-deckers, hed have been dressed much more elegantly and would probably trim his facial hair once in a blue moon. Yet, he wasnt
harmless. Whoever he was, it seemed he was here to deliver a message. Nigel wished hed just spit it out rather than playing this silly charade. Win a trip of a lifetime: a cruise down the river Danube to celebrate Honvds tenth European Cup victory, it said. Well its a bad trip, if you ask me, friend. There was a long pause after this remark, as though the old fellow was hoping something would sink in. Least, Ive finally found one sensible soul on board. Im as proud as the next chap, dont get me wrong its an impressive record we hold, now, but (added but)Im starting to wish Id stayed home and had a quiet
night in, watching videos of Sebes World Cup heroes of the sixties. Something flickered in the back of Nigels mind, but with another sip of Dreher it was gone as was the last drop of his drink. He waved towards the bar staff for a refill. Hed give this fellow the time of day then, if he was going to fill him in on the Game. Missed the start of the glory years, the fifties. Too young to know what was going on and it was hard to follow in those days, didnt have televisions, us peasants. Newspapers only any good if you could read. Too much politics around that time, almost ruined it all. Poor old Ferenc almost didnt make it back to Hungary, what with the Revolution. Your fellow lent a hand in that, and the American.
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Nigel had no idea what he was on about now. He wasnt helped by those bastards at UEFA, though, when he did get back. Theyd only been around for a couple of years and already theyd lost the players registration forms, so they werent allowed to play for a couple of months. The man tutted as he looked to the heavens. This UEFA bunch sounded as useless as the pussy-farts at the EU. Nigel guessed the Ferenc to whom he was referring was Ferenc Puskas, and enquired as such. Of course. The one and only. Nearly signed for Manchester United, did you know? After Munich, the old man made the sign of
the cross, they were left with half a team, but in the end Ferenc decided to stay put. Wouldnt have worked out anyway, he couldnt speak your language. Flirted with Spain too, but Madrid thought he was past it at 31. Turned out to be the worst decision they ever made and look whats happened to the buggers since. Nigel blinked. What had happened to them since? Hadnt they won a whole bunch of these so-called European Cups? There was that fellow named di Stefano, Argentine wasnt he? Hed been their captain. And hadnt Puskas gone there? He could have sworn he did. Wiki hadnt led him down the lane before. Recently, thered been a French fellow, too, with a funny name. Zim Zam, Ziba or something. Had a temper, hed
heard. And they didnt call them European Cups anymore did they? He was certain this tale the old man was spinning was wrong. But then, why was everyone upstairs halfway to the moon over this Honvd side? He looked up to question the old fellow, and the seat was empty. A dark shadow was drifting towards the door, with the tap of the steel-tipped cane faint now. Well. Apparently the message had been delivered. He re-opened the laptop to see what other incongruities this place held. Hed been crossing back and forth across the Ether for ages, so he knew that you could sometimes take a wrong turn. So, it hadnt been Wiki, but he had
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been led down the lane. Hed find out who was responsible, although he already had half a thought on that score. It wouldnt be a problem to get back, though. He just had to find where the split in reality had occurred.
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LEFT TURN AT ALBUQUERQUE
Tomasz Mortimer >
As the 1966 World Cup approaches, we at the BBC have decided to produce a special multimedia supplement, looking back on Hungarys great successes from the past fourteen years. We will attempt to piece together what has made the Magyars so successful, not just on the international stage, but also in club football. Well also try to predict how theyll fare at this years competition, at last taking place in the cradle of the game, England, and whether the more distant future is as bright for the World Cup holders. The upcoming battle for the Jules Rimet Cup cannot come soon
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enough for the English population, but as you dust down your Union Jacks and polish your rattles, pause for a moment to think what this tournament means to the people of Hungary. Runners-up in 1954, and winners in 1958 and 1962, the nation at the centre of the edgling Eastern European Union is looking to set an incredible record, by reaching four World Cup nals in a row. Moreover, they could become the rst team to win three world titles in succession, as incomprehensible as that sounds. Such an achievement could not be exaggerated. Real Madrid and Budapest Honvds three European Cups in three years is a triumph for all to behold, as we will discuss later, but to be able to dominate the world for more than a decade would be truly remarkable!
Can they do it and at the expense of the country which gave birth to the sport? This supplement will also be the rst of its kind; a feast for all the senses. You will be guided through our mini history lesson with a combination of the written word, radio commentaries and television footage. Therefore, to fully enjoy the experience you will need access to the following: Videotape player: Ampex 2-inch Quadruplex VR1000, VR1200 or VR2000 Cassette player: Philips EL 3300 or similar
1952: Olympics The journey started in 1952. National team coach Gustav Sebes had set up a scouting network which scoured the country for the best talent available ahead of the upcoming Olympics in Helsinki, Finland. Dierent tactics were tried and tested, but thanks to the pioneering methods of Englishman Jimmy Hogan, almost 40 years earlier, Hungary already knew the way they were going to play. Their system was completely dierent to anything that had ever been seen before and their uidity, both with and without the ball, confounded everyone they came up against. For the most part, the stars of the team hailed from Budapest
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Honvd, the dominant club in the Elit Bajnoki. There was Zoltn Czibor, Ferenc Pusks and Sndor Kocsis, with other superb talents like Nndor Hidegkuti thrown in for good measure. Hungary easily beat Italy 3-0, Turkey 7-1 and Sweden 6-0 before coming up against friendly rivals Yugoslavia in the Olympic Final. The Magyars won it at a canter, with the 2-0 score very attering to the Slavs. The Hungarians were happy just to return home with gold medals, however much to the delight of friends, family, and an adoring public. The world had been given their rst glimpse of the Mighty Magyars. Much more was to come.
1953: Match of the Century A year later, Hungary lined up against England at Wembley, on a cold November night. It was a game readers will no doubt remember, and probably never forget. Since the formation of the FA, England had been comfortable in its superiority with regards to the game it invented. Its governors saw no need to become too involved in any football aairs beyond the home nations. Nor did the FA or club chairmen see any need to evolve our basic tactics or training methods. Our position as founders would carry us through any challenge. As a result, innovative thinkers, such as Jimmy Hogan, were more welcome in the cafes of Budapest and Vienna
than they were at the local pub. The Three Lions had never been beaten at Wembley by a foreign team, but nothing lasts forever. Sebes men relished the chance of becoming the rst visitors to come away from the cradle of the game as victors. [Play rst video reel] BBC video transmission. First aired 14.12 16.04 GMT, Wednesday 25 November 1953. England versus Hungary. Empire Stadium, Wembley, London. Attendance: 105,000. Commentator: Kenneth Wolstenholme. Broadcasting House.
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14.14: England, then, defending the goal to our right, and now there's an exhibition of ball control. Just look at that from the inside left, Puskas. Well, we see a great deal of that, I think we're gonna have an awful lot of trouble holding these unbeaten Hungarians. Lined up in their usual formation, with a front ve of Budai, Kocsis, Hidegkuti, Pusks and Czbior. 14.15: Well, everybody has always said, these continentals can't shoot, but if that's a sample of what we're going to have this afternoon, then England are going to be in dire trouble. 1-0 after 45 seconds, then, for Hungary. 14.54: And that was Puskas, the inside left and captain, who scored
that one, and my goodness, if he can turn on tricks like this, we ought to have him on the music hall. I've never seen such tremendous ball control as that exhibition of that back-heel and the quick shot. 3-1, then, for Hungary. 14.57: Well, before the game, everybody was telling me that it was a lot of ballyhoo about these Hungarians, England would win. Well, here we are, 27 minutes gone, 4-1 down. 15.36: They seem to play football as the Harlem Globetrotters play basketball, this Hungarian side. 16.02: So thats it. Six goals to three, all the goals coming within the hour. An expectant crowd of
over 100,000 has been shell-shocked today. England looked to be rallying when Mortensen got the score to 42 but Puskas, the Galloping Major they call him, and I can see why, pranced through the England defence all afternoon, and Hidegkuti scored three. Englands long and illustrious home unbeaten run against non-UK opposition has come to a sudden end. These Mighty Magyars have sent shivers down the spines of so many footballing nations here. [ENDS] 1954: World Cup Hungary went into the Swiss World Cup as massive favourites. They were on a 31-game unbeaten run which stretched back all the way to
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1950. This included wins over Italy, East Germany and Austria among many other nations, and they had just beaten England 7-1 in their last warm-up game before the nals. After cruising through a group including West Germany (8-3) and South Korea (9-0), the Magyars proceeded to beat both Brazil and Uruguay by four goals to two (the latter after extra time), to set up a rematch with West Germany in the nal. On 4 July 1954, under heavy rain, the stage was set. After taking a knock in the rst game against the West Germans, Pusks was not quite fully t, but Sebes decided to eld his star man nonetheless. The decision looked justied as Pusks
put Hungary ahead after just six minutes. When Zoltn Czibor added the second goal two minutes later the favourites seemed destined to ease to victory - just as they had in the group stage - and thus take the trophy. However, West Germany would not lie down, and quick-re goals from Max Morlock and Helmut Rahn had them level. Hungary were stunned but managed to reach half time at 22, both teams having missed several promising chances to take the lead. The second half continued where the rst had left o, with both teams were pouring forward, desperately trying to nab a goal to no avail until With six minutes remaining, disaster
struck for Hungary. Rahn reached the ball 20 yards from goal, deceived the Hungarian defender by feigning a right-foot shot and scored with his weaker left. An equaliser from the supposedly under the weather Pusks was ruled oside by the Welsh linesman. It all seemed unreal for Hungary. Pusks goal wasnt oside and they should even have had a penalty in the last second, but at the end of the day Hungarys unbeaten run had come to an abrupt end in one of the biggest upsets in the history of football. It would be dicult for the Mighty Magyars to bounce back from such an emotional defeat and two years down the line, the side had fallen
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into disarray. In the summer of 1956 Sebes was sacked, and then came an event which could have ended Hungarys footballing system altogether. 1956: Revolution The stunning success of the Hungarian revolution was pivotal to the nations footballing revival. Under communist rule, Hungarian football had ourished but just prior to independence, Magyar Foci was on the decline. The players were being treated like second-class citizens. Sebes was rst undermined by the government and then removed when results went against him. Hungary fell into Russian hands at the end of the War. The USSR took every penny that Hungary had and managed Budapests aairs from
Moscow. In 1953, when Joseph Stalin died, the people of Hungary were given some hope that they might be free from Soviet rule. Alas, life only became worse for Hungarians as the new Soviet Premier, Nikita Khruschev, turned the screw (or the sickle, for the poetic among you). Many Hungarians were out of pocket, barely able to survive. On 23 October 1956 students and workers took to the streets of Budapest and issued their Sixteen Points, which included personal freedom, more food, the removal of the secret police, and the removal of Russian control. At rst, Kruschev was content to let
the protest be handled by local authorities. Within a fortnight, it became apparent that the movement was gaining momentum and Budapest might fall. Russian forces mobilised. Amazingly, students and tradesmen in both Czechoslovakia and Poland, the latter dissatised with Moscows interpretation of the Warsaw Pact, launched protests in support of their Hungarian brethren. Kruschev suddenly had brushres to put out in three cities. Then the supposedly non-aligned Marshal Tito took a hand, oering encouraging words and calling on western countries to oer support. Kruschev, unfazed, simply called up reinforcements. England and the US were content to
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stay out of the fray. Not only were the Soviets now also a nuclear power, but the US would look foolish, to say the least, if they condemned Soviet intervention in Hungary while supporting British and French intervention in the ongoing Suez crisis. In London, however, ex-Prime Minister Winston Churchill was meeting with former US President Harry S. Truman. Very much against the wishes of their governments, the two somehow managed to y into Budapest. Once there, the pair announced their presence to the press and on the radio, insisting that they would not leave until Kruschev himself arrived to negotiate a peaceful end to the uprising. Suddenly, with two of its iconic leaders in the thick of the
uprising, NATO was intensely interested in the fate of Hungary. With grudging Soviet permission, NATO emissaries arrived in Budapest to escort Churchill and Truman to safety. The old men refused to depart, insisting upon negotiating a lasting peace and an independent Hungary. A month-long stalemate ensued, with Yugoslavias Marshall Tito, long a thorn in the side of Moscow, volunteering, as a neutral party, to airlift supplies into the besieged city. Kruschev was incensed at the cheek of Tito but, with Truman and Churchill on the ground, he was unable to refuse without sparking another war. With the frightening spectre of nuclear conict the likely result, neither side was willing to re the rst shot.
Finally, with no other alternative, Kruschev arrived to negotiate. The talks lasted another month but when all was said and done, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland and Yugoslavia each signed new non-aggression and mutual defence treaties with both the Soviet Union and NATO. Under the Budapest Accord, which usurped the more Soviet-biased Warsaw Pact, the Eastern European Union was founded, with the four nations forming an economic partnership, which Romania, Albania and, nally East Germany joined. The EEU served as a buer between the democracies of the West and the totalitarian USSR. The twin mutual defence pacts kept either side from encroaching on the edgling
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states, enabling them to develop in a peaceful, if tense, environment. When the East Germans joined the Budapest Accord in 1958, Bonn was unhappy, as it prevented re-unication, and NATO and the Soviets were upset that they were politely but rmly asked to leave Berlin. In 1959, Churchill and Truman, the man who dropped the rst atomic bomb, were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Ten years, later, the EEU is a thriving industrial bloc and the Mighty Magyars, who were on the brink of oblivion, along with the rest of Hungary, are the dominant force in football. While Churchill, Truman and eventual Hungarian President Imre Nagy were negotiating with Kruschev,
most of the Hungary players were stranded in Spain, being in Bilbao with Honvd for a European Cup match. Fearing for their lives, they were reluctant to immediately return home. Left in limbo for weeks as the Russians and Hungarians negotiated, Honvd lost the tie, 6-5 on aggregate, having to play the return leg in Heysel. Finally, the Russian troops and ocials withdrew. The players could y home, be with their families and play for the national team, once more. The whole episode couldnt have gone much better for Hungary. It lifted their morale, not just socially, but in football terms too, which most Hungarians lived for. Sebes was back in charge and the 1958 World Cup was in their sights. Could
they rebuild in such a short time and banish the memories from the Nightmare of Bern? 1958: World Cup Hungary entered the 1958 World Cup in stark contrast to their previous World Cup campaign. They were no longer favourites for the tournament, no longer a communist country, and had the best team in the world to compete against, in Brazil. Nevertheless, Hungarys squad wasnt too depleted for the tournament and heroes from the Olympic side of 52, Pusks, Czibor and Kocsis were all there to participate alongside greats like Hidegkuti, Gyula Grosics, and Lszl Budai.
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The Magyars were in a group with Mexico, Wales and host Sweden. On paper, it seemed a simple prospect but the hurried preparations after political reformation had made everyone nervous. Hungary only played one warm-up game before the tournament, against a poor Finnish side, whom they managed to beat 2-1. The performance was well below what was usually expected of them and the odds makers were unimpressed, making the Magyars longshots to win, at 11-1. After the Finnish result, the Hungarian FA panicked and reinstated Sebes. As fate would have it, the move turned out to be a stroke of genius. Reunited with their mentor,
the squad suddenly looked like themselves again, defeating Wales (2-1) and Mexico (4-0) before drawing to a erce Swedish side determined to defend their home ground in front of a watching world. In the quarter-nal, Hungary drew their former occupiers, the Soviet Union. The match was a reection of the Budapest Accord, with the Magyars exing their independent muscle and the Soviets looking hesitant and unsure. At half time, tensions boiled over, with the two sides brawling on their way into the clubhouse. Each side received two red cards but luckily for the Magyars both of theirs were incurred by reserves. When the two sides returned, the
Russians were refusing to take the pitch, down two men. Sebes huddled with the match ocials and FIFA president Arthur Drewry and sportingly agreed to play with just nine men. The match resumed and the more skilled Magyars used the extra space to eect, scoring twice to claim a 2-0 victory. Hungary then defeated old foes West Germany (3-1), which went some way to avenging their loss in Berne. This set up a tie against the best team in the World: Brazil. The Brazil side looked incredibly strong on paper but so did Hungarys and importantly, the Magyars had gained in condence as the campaign had progressed.
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[See back of Gustav Sebes/Ferenc Pusks poster]
Gustv Sebes. Interviewed by Imre Olh. First published in Nemzeti Sport, 6 July 1958. All rights reserved.
IO: Congratulations on your 2-1 victory Gusztv. How did the players feel going into their second World Cup Final in a row? GS: Many of the players felt a lot more nervous than last time actually. You could see in their faces just before kick-o that they were thinking of the game four years ago, and it was up to me to lift the spirits in the dressing room. I started to talk about how we convincingly beat
the World Champions in the seminal, and all the other fantastic performances throughout the tournament. Id like to think it really red them up. IO: What did you say to the players at half-time when you were leading by a goal to nil? GS: Again, I had to make the players believe in themselves so I just told them to carry on playing their game, and if they did that theyd win the game. I was obviously nervous about some of the individual talent that Brazil had out there, like Pele and Garrincha, but I really believed my boys would bring the trophy home. IO: Explain your emotions when
Zagallo equalised in the last minute for Brazil. GS: I was shell-shocked. After everything that we had come through to get to this point, I thought that the Football Gods had at last smiled upon us but, going into extrat time, I had to tell the boys to carry on believing. I believed that one goal, if we could nd it, would be enough and thankfully it was. IO: It was a ne winner from Pusks. In your view, is he the best players whos every played the game? GS: Without question. The boy can do things the likes of which Ive never seen before. Hes transformed the game into a modern age, almost
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on his own. He can do anything, dribble past defenders, score from range, pass, cross. Hes the perfect player and a great friend. Even so, hell be the rst to tell you to keep an eye on that young Brazilian, Pele. [ENDS] Hundreds of thousands converged on Budapest to celebrate the players incredible achievement. It was not just a win for football, but it was a win for freedom. 1959-61: Honvd Times Honvd struggled to make as much of an impact in the newly formed European Cup following the Hungarian Revolution, only managing the quarter-nal on two occasions and
the last-16 on another. But with a team full of players fresh from their World Cup victory, it wasnt going to be long before they made their mark. In a bold move they replaced their coach with the great Jimmy Hogan, who had by then reached the grand old age of 77. There was a lot of excitement about the appointment of the former MTK Budapest boss, but also a lot of scepticism: was he too old for the job? Could he work his magic on a new generation of footballers? These questions were dismissed by the majority though; Hogan had already been credited with the football revolution which lead to the Hungarians demolishing England 63 at Wembley, so if this was anything to go by success was sure to come.
And success did come. 1958/59 was the start of Honvds three-year continental dominance. They began the campaign with a tricky visit to Polish champions Polonia Bytom, who they comfortably beat 6-1 over two legs, before the competition really started to hot up. They were pitted against the title-holders from England, Wolverhampton Wanderers, and lost the rst leg at Molineux 3-2, thanks to a hat-trick from Peter Broadbent. The second leg was built up as the Game of the Decade, but it sadly didnt live up to the hype. Honvd strolled the rst half, and were 3-0 up after just 20 minutes thanks to goals from Kocsis and Pusks. The second half didnt get any better for Wolves, who were duly thrashed 6-0.
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The quarter-nal was even easier for Honvd: they beat Standard Liege 72 on aggregate. Only Stade de Reims stood in their way. Once again, however, they walked over their opposition, winning 2-0 in France and 3-1 back in Budapest. The nal was to be a much harder task. Honvd were up against the reigning European champions, Real Madrid. While Hungary teetered on the brink of obscurity, the Spaniards had won the European Cup in the rst three years of its existence, but they had not had an easy route to the nal this time. They squeezed past local rivals Atletico Madrid in their semi-nal a play-o was required after their two-legged tie ended 2-2. Real won 2-1.
[Play second video reel]
Honvd, of Hungary. 17.04: [KW] Nearly 80,000 here in Stuttgart, to witness these two play out the nal. Real Madrid have won the rst three but Honvd, and Ferenc Pusks in particular, will provide sti opposition this evening. But its already 1-0 to the Spaniards, Mateos with the goal after only one minute was on the clock. 17.27: [KW] Here goes Di Stefano, and Di Stefano, has kept up his amazing record of scoring in every single European Cup nal. He scored their rst goal in 1956 against Stade de Reims, he scored their rst goal in 1957 against Fiorentina, he scored their rst goal against AC Milan last year, and this year, hes had to be content with scoring their second
BBC video transmission, in association with ARD (German National Broadcasting). First aired 17.03 18.47 BST, Wednesday 3 June 1959. Real Madrid (ESP) versus Budapest Honvd (HUN). Neckarstadion, Stuttgart, Attendance: 72,000. Commentators: Kenneth Wolstenholme, Walley Barnes (Frank Phillips, introducing). Broadcasting House, ARD.
17.03: [FP] And thats the end of the news summary. Now, until a quarter to seven, we have live commentary from the fourth European Cup nal, contested between Real Madrid, from Spain, and Budapest
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goal. Its Real Madrid two, Honvd nil, from Real Madrids favourite player, and how well it was struck by Di Stefano. 17.45: [KW] Three goals to one Real Madrid lead at the interval then, worth their lead. 17.46: [WB] Their English coach, Honvds English coach, Jimmy Hogan, will have a hard task getting his team back into this one. Very, very tall order now for the Hungarians. 18.05: [KW] Theyve really come out of the blocks like Bobby Joe Morrow, and theyre deservedly level at 3-3. That goal from Budai and the two from Pusks, the second from a free kick, have all been top drawer,
really perfect. They were calling this the Game of the Decade and its living up to the billing this time, unlike their tie against Wolverhampton Wanderers, in the, earlier in the tournament. 18.05: [WB] Much better game, this. Much more enjoyable. So much talent out there. 18.34: [KW] Mateos scores, and thats his second of the game and Real Madrids fourth. Do the Hungarians have any punch left in them? 18.40: [KW] Pusks with his head, and its in, theyre level, 85 minutes played and were all square, 4-4. What a player this fellow is, three goals from him, what a time to score.
18.44: [KW] Hungary not sure what to do here, waiting for someone to move into position. Its thrown in. Kocsis, still Kocsis, and its there. Kocsis has scored, and surely won the game for Honvd. All his own work, Kocsis, left foot, through the goalkeeper, 5-4. Wonderful play from the inside forward, Stanley Matthews would have been proud of that play. Genius play. [ENDS] Honvd had well and truly Broken Read Madrids spell, and with a side that included Pusks, Kocsis, Czibor, Jzsef Bozsik, Lszl Budai, Gyula Lrnt and the national team goalkeeper, Grosics, they won another two European Cups, matching Di Stefano and co.s record. In
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1959/60, Hogan gracefully and gratefully retired and Kroly Ss, pried away from rivals Ferencvrosi, took over. Honvd didnt miss a step, thrashing Eintracht Frankfurt, 7-3, in the nal, with four goals coming from the talismanic Pusks. The hat-trick of titles was completed, ttingly, against Real Madrid in 1960, this time by a more comfortable 4-1 scoreline. 1962: World Cup As the 1962 World Cup approached the Mighty Magyars were an ageing side, and arguably werent quite at the peak of their powers but still boasted class acts from the great Honvd side such as Pusks, Kocsis and Czibor. They also included some new names, like the highly talented
Flrin Albert and 22-year-old Ern Solymosi . The Magyars went to Chile with a lot of optimism and were looking to become just the second nation to win back-to-back World titles, after the great Italian side of the 1930s. Yet no European side had yet won one the Jules Rimet on South American soil. The players arrived in South America a month before the tournament was due to begin, which gave them a long time to prepare, bond and get used to the conditions which the unfamiliar continent had to throw at them. They scheduled warm-up games against both club and international sides. Things didnt begin well though, as they lost their rst two preparation
matches. A Pel-inspired Santos beat them 3-1, and they also fell to another Brazilian team, Sao Paulo, 4-3. The team gradually started to gel though, as they beat Argentinean opponents Estudiantes and River Plate 2-0 and 5-1 respectively. As the team moved on to Chile, condence was brewing within the Magyar camp and they were greeted by a rapturous reception as they arrived in Santiago. The Chilean fans appreciate good football, which was clear to see as the fans lined the streets to welcome the Hungarians into their country.
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[Play second audio cassette]
will do in your next match, against Colo Colo? FP: We played OK but lost twice [in Brazil]. Now we are getting used to the weather here, the food, the pitches. Now we win our next two, so people start to talk about us again. We dont worry too much about the scores at the moment, so I wont make a prediction. And for me, personally, I am scoring so I am happy. DC: Youre always Whats the secret? FP: There is no secret. scoring.
BBC audio transmission. First aired 14.30 14.34 BST, Tuesday 8 May 1962. Ferenc Pusks, Interviewed by David Coleman, Via translator Sndor Koman. Broadcasting House.
DC: How have you enjoyed your time in South America so far? FP: Very good. Here, it has been unbelievable. These people [the Chileans] treat us like we have just saved the world from disease and famine. We are greeted as heroes, not football players. DC: And how do you think you
teams chances in the tournament, can you emulate the Italian team of the 30s and claim back-to-back World Cup wins? FP: I dont make promises, but all I say is we are playing well and we are experienced. We have been in the last two nals and lucky enough to win one, but there are a lot of good teams this year. I am just glad we are free to play football if we win, then all the better. [ENDS] The rst game in Chile was special, as more than 50,000 fans ocked to see Colo Colo take on the Hungarians. The visitors ran out comfortable 9-2 winners, with Pusks predictably scoring six on his own.
(Long pause) DC: So how do you see the
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Not worried by the result, the Chilean fans continued their goodwill and Hungary left the eld to a standing ovation. If their competitors didnt know it before, they now knew the Mighty Magyars meant business. They then moved on to beat Everton (of Chile), prior to defeating the national sides of Venezuela, Japan and the USA, before the real event began at the end of May. Many of the pundits had tipped Brazil to secure their rst world title. They had a great side, including Garrincha, Pel, Vav and Amarildo plus, like Hungary, the backing of the Chilean crowds. They could also claim some form of home advantage, being familiar with the continent, and this would give them an
edge over the European contenders. Hungary cruised through the group stage defeating England, Argentina and Bulgaria, before knocking out Czechoslovakia in the quarter-nal. They defeated Yugoslavia 4-1 in the semi-nal thanks to braces from Lajos Tichy and Albert, which set the nal everyone wanted (not least the Chilean fans) a tasty aair with Brazil. With Pusks failing to recover from an injury sustained against the Czechs, the Hungarians task looked a tricky one indeed. They may have been expecting a good level of support from the Chilean crowd after their amorous welcome a few weeks ago, but the fans inside the Estadio Nacional gave their full backing to Brazil, who had been even more
rampant than the Magyars on their way to the nal. Almost 70,000 people were to be disappointed though. Albert opened the scoring for Hungary inside of a minute, before Solymosi added a second just two minutes later. Suddenly, the match was being played in a vast canyon rather than a stiing cauldron. Coming out in the second half, the crowd tried recovered some of its voice and attempted to carry the Brazilians back into the match. One man, especially, picked up the banner for the Brazilians. Young Pele, now twenty-one, showed the world that Puskas was not the only footballer who could take over a match. Time and again, he made inroads into the Magyar box but Hungary keeper Grosics held the game score
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less for almost the entire half. Finally, in the eighty-seventh minute, Pele broke through, literally. Shouldering o three defenders he weaved into the box and, leaning to his left, sent the ball o the outside of his right foot, deceiving Grosics and bringing the Selecao to within one. Three minutes into stoppage time, he was in clear again on a perfect through ball and buried his chance, only for his joy to turn to despair upon seeing the linesmans ag raised high in the air. The Brazilians surrounded the match ocial, ironically a Soviet, but to no avail. The call stood and, as the Magyars felt they had been wronged eight years earlier, in Bern, it was now the Brazilians turn. Hungary, not with-
out controversy, had conquered the world for a second time in succession. Footage of the play is grainy and one is unable to simultaneously view the ball being released and Pele splitting the defenders, so history will never know whether the goal should have stood. Regardless, Hungarys run in the nals over the past three tournaments remains an astounding achievement. The players were greeted in Budapest by thousands lining the streets, signing Ria Ria Hungaria. The scenes were reminiscent of the victory parade four years before, but this time they had achieved greatness with an unfancied, ageing side. This proved to the world that the
Mighty Magyars should never be written o. 1966: Three in a row? Legends Hidegkuti, Pusks and Kocsis have all retired, and several others will be joining them after this years World Cup. Young players have come through to replace these three, but this is no doubt a weaker Hungary team than the one that had dominated world football over the past decade. Still, Hungary will be the team to beat, no doubt about that. The Brazilians are of course always a threat, and a repeat of the 1962 nal looks a distinct possibility. England will have home advantage,
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and with a good, condent leader in Alf Ramsey they will be looking to get to the semi-nal at least. The former Ipswich Town manager predicted an England triumph when he took over the national team three years ago, and well see if he can pull it o. This England team will have been told the tale of the Magyars rst memorable victory and, should the two squads meet, will be motivated to redress that blemish on the Three Lions record. As well, the part played by Churchill in securing Hungarys independence has had an eect on the English game. It is still very rough and tumble, with players as happy to get a boot in a players way as they do on
the ball, but the days when forward thinking in tactics was scoed at are well and truly gone. It was late in life but Jimmy Hogan was at last given a top ight chance with London side Tottenham, and he made the most of it with three runners-up nishes in the league and an FA Cup to put in his trophy case. Hogan was said to have been considered for the England job, but when Walter Winterbottom was retained, he went into retirement, until that one nal swan song at Honvd. So, there is a healthy mix of strength and imagination within the England side under Alf Ramsey and the Three Lions are eager to take the torch from the Mighty Magyars,
Future With the Hungarian economy experiencing something of a decline, after its initial post-Soviet revival, it is hard to think that a signicant amount of money will be injected into the game. History has shown that dominance within the sport tends to be cyclical and Hungary have been pedalling far longer than anyone previously has. As mentioned, they have lost some truly great players and only time will tell whether their replacements can match their feats. As well, the younger stars are beginning to be attracted by the money on oer in Spain and Italy. Playing in foreign leagues may be the wave of the future but one wonders how
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much it will erode the unity that the Mighty Magyars have always been able to bring to bear? The 1958 side, in particular, was such a special team, the likes of which may never be seen again. Tactically, they were revolutionary. Under Hogan for one last season, they perfected the old mans teachings. The individual talent on show, such as Pusks with his drag back against Billy Wright, was ingenious. Yet, this sort of thing was seen as commonplace within the Hungarian side. They werent just a side of great individuals, but they were a team who played for each other and blended magnicently well. The Mighty Magyars will never be forgotten, and if this current crop are half as good they may be waltzing
back to Hungary with an historic third trophy.
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KLM Flies From The Old Gum Tree
Nigel felt a little green around the gills. The pressure in the first class cabin was uncomfortable, to say the least. The stewardess had offered him a piece of chewing gum to help him adjust to the sudden change in altitude. She was certainly a pretty one, hair shining like corn in the sun, eyes as blue as the ocean, and a gorgeous smile. Amazingly, she had been charmed by his little history lesson on the origins of chicle. It had been nice to come across something that Man hadnt completely overhauled, despite it being around for five millennia. Basically, chicle had become chicklets. Chewing gum was simple and the simple things were the best. An aeroplane, on the other hand, was
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not a simple thing. Build a contraption out of dense steel and iron, stuff it full of people, use an explosive chemical propellant to rocket it into the heavens and then try to avoid lightning storms, mountainsides and innocent migratory birds minding their own business, before somehow touching gently down to Earth again, on the other side of the planet. It was insanity to even consider such a contrivance! Yet, Man claimed air travel was safer than crossing the street. So, he had been daft enough to give it a try, just for the experience. Safe? Right. Tell that to where was it again? He tapped a few keys. Ah yes, Lockerbie. Tell it to those folks or the poor sods in the World Trade Center. Of course, he wasnt making the expe-
rience any better by spending it researching air disasters. Thankfully, it was only a short flight, from Vienna to Amsterdam. Having retraced his path back from the alternate Budapest, hed decided to keep on with his reconnaissance of the modern world before he did anything rash about the state of the Game. The last War fascinated him. It had certainly reshuffled the deck in Europe. Many of the old powers were gone or reduced to bit-part players in the game of houses, and new nations had sprouted up all over the place. He needed to get his bearings and Holland was the perfect place to do that.
They had managed the War, coming out relatively unscathed, despite being trapped between the Jerries and his lads for the duration. The Dutch had always been like that. Here they were, tucked into a tiny corner of the continent with bullies France, Germany and England on every side. And lets not forget the Sea, which had been battering their defences for centuries, hoping to swallow them up. Yet, they had held their own, thrived even. Until the Swiss took over in the early twentieth century, they had been the worlds bankers. Amazing, when you think about it. A tiny country surrounded by giants who all owed it money, and they had somehow managed to keep their heads attached to their necks. You had to re-
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spect that and, if you used your noggin, learn from it. As cramped as they were, the Dutch had some peculiar but handy ideas about space. They saw it differently, filling it, but never to the point of overcrowding, using it, but never using it up. Both imaginative and efficient, their ideas had translated well into their football. This Michels fellow and his Total Football impressed. Pity hed been napping and missed his chance to watch the chap in action. Michels best player, Cruyff was it, had done well, too, bringing the Dutch game to Catalonia. He had changed it a bit from the original, though. So had this young fellow, Guardiola. Always tinkering and perfecting.
That was Mans way; forever changing, too seldom remembering. Some of the best ideas in Michels design had been forgotten, as had some of his best players. Shame, that. A soft hand gently touched his arm. He looked up and it was the pretty young hostess, smiling at him. They had landed and he hadnt even noticed. Hmph. Maybe this type of flying wasnt so bad once you became accustomed to it. Not that hed give up the usual method. No, the old ways were often the best. Still, it was always worth keeping an eye on what Man was up to. Perhaps hed check out the Chunnel next. Fly the friendly skies and journey to the centre of the Earth. The best part of Man was his boundless imagina-
tion. He waited until the last passengers had disembarked, then took his leave with the young woman on his arm. She was chatting merrily, telling him all about Holland, as she flagged down a hansom to take them to her flat in the Jordaan. Well, the Chunnel could wait. He was not one to turn down the invitation of such a fair maiden.
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RUDOLF JOZEF KROL
Mohamed Moallim >
The internet, and YouTube in particular, has become a wonderful tool for the football junkie; endless hours wasted basking in nostalgia, whether it be great memories, goals, moments, or even the odd controversy. But something Ive come to lament is the lack of individual highlights, show reels, compilations call them what you like of some of the great players from a bygone age. Players who should be forever crystallised, their memories echoing through time. My favourites have a common denominator; see if you can guess it: Johnny Rep, Rob Rensenbrink, Ger-
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rie Mhren, Arie Haan. Have you got it? Im sure you have. However, one name Ive omitted from that list is the biggest scandal of all. A player who I believe has no equal, either during his generation or since, in Europe or further aeld. His name should be synonymous with Total Football, rampaging fullbacks, elegant sweepers. His name is Rudolf Jozef Krol. Here I must jump ahead somewhat to stress the term total football has lost its original meaning today, where its associated with free-owing, passing, attacking football. Theoretically no side has played Total Football system since the mid 1970s and frankly, it may be a long time until we see another side achieve
the same level that Krol and co. did. Where to begin with Krol, this marvel, this legend of the game? Superlatives soon start to dry up. In the modern game, many get carried away with Dani Alves attacking prowess even I do sometimes but Krol was on another planet, if not another galaxy. Yes, he was predominantly a left-back (early in his career, anyway), but I also believe his mate and counterpart on the other ank, Wim Suurbier, was also a greater player than Alves will ever be. But thats another article for another time. Krol, on his day (which was more or less every time he took to the eld), dominated the entire left ank. It was his domain; no-one touched
him. Its amazing, considering that as a youth player he was mainly right-footed. When Theo van Duivenbode left Ajax in the summer of 1969, Krol was drafted into the squad. His coach, Rinus Michels, set him a challenge: take that vacant spot. But Krol needed to change his game slightly. Michels wanted Krol to be as eective with his left foot as his right, to maximise his attacking potential, while also thinking of the various ways he could counter the opposition that would pose him problems. Michels also knew of the one major stumbling block to his development: his party lifestyle. He even commented that the biggest threat to Krol wasn't wingers, but the Amsterdam nightlife.
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Before he could get his head around where he was in his career, the 20year-old Krol was lining up for the national team. His dbut came against England, and despite playing well the Netherlands lost In his rst pre-season for Back on the the game 1-0, which was the club, the defenders domestic front, no shame against the impressive displays then world champions. against Schalke 04 and things werent Two months later in the Manchester City justied always rosy reverse xture Krol Michels belief, and he played again in a goalless was given an opportunity to prove draw. After an imperious performhimself in the league. In one of his ance against him, England winger rst games he scored a spectacular Francis Lee labelled Krol as the nest goal against Sparta Rotterdam, left-back he'd ever faced. catching everyones attention. The following day in training Michels acHowever, back on the domestic knowledged that he was on the right footing, things werent always rosy; path with a simple pat on the back despite an impressive start his place
Krol accepted the gauntlet. He would spend hours after training working on his left foot, with Michels watching on. Deep down, Krol knew Michels truly believed in him, and that he could reach for the stars if he applied himself correctly.
and word in the ear.
in the rst XI wasnt always guaranteed. Ajax had started to build a reputation as a slick-passing attacking team, and as their fanbase grew, so did the level of expectation. The fans demanded to be entertained. Michels noticed this, and in order to sate their appetite he would often in the home games at least bench Krol in favour of a more attackminded player (often the forward Dick van Dijk). However, when Krol was benched for a tricky away game against MVV Maastricht, he went to see Michels in his oce the following day to ask him about his decision. Krol later reected on that moment: I know there were always exciting stories about me and how I lived my life, but in those days I was a serious pro-
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fessional. I simply asked for the reason and since then, I started in all the games. An early setback saw Kroll miss Ajaxs rst European Cup triumph, against Panathinaikos in 1971 (he was sidelined with a broken leg which he picked up against NEC just before the semi-nal against Atltico Madrid). This was the lowest point in his career. Krol later described the agony of missing out on what would have been his rst European Cup nal: You would stand there in the wide tunnel in Wembley, waiting to go onto the pitch. You had to wait a bit for the formalities. That feeling then and there, the sound, the excitement, thats why you play football.
The best players in the world stood there and they all felt the butteries. And there I was, with my leg in a cast. And the noise from the stands swells up. The orgy of sound, of hope, singing, chanting, yelling. Nowhere in the world is a venue noisier than Wembley. And I was there, among the players, but they got to play and I could only watch. It was the hardest moment of my career. That disappointment quickly left him the following season. Krol became an integral part of the all-conquering side that won every piece of silverware up for grabs, setting all kinds of records in the process. He was tailor-made for Michels sys-
tem, which was continued by the coachs successor, tefan Kovcs. Like most if not all of his team mates, Krol was adept in various positions on the pitch, in what became known as the Total Football philosophy. Krol would often drift into the centre of the pitch, if the passage of play required it. Once that happened, defensive midelder Arie Haan would take up Krol's original position. As Krol moved into this central position, it was more than likely he would take up a deeper role. This was mainly to cover for elegant centre-half Barry Hulsho, who liked to continue his forward runs and join the attack. His partner, the sweeper Horst Blankenburg, in the same passage of play would shuttle across to the vacant rightback position, and Suurbier would
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end up as a right-winger.
was the philosophy.
game he attributed to Velibor Vasovi, the great libero: I was always looking what Vasovi was doing. I watched what he did, how he did it. I tried to think and move like him. Vasovi played so many games without making one mistake. I learned a lot from him. He was the conductor. Krols biggest strength was undoubtedly his tenacity. In the space of about two years he made the step up from talented junior player in the fourth class Rood-Wit Club to internationally respected Ajax defender. This takes more than just talent. His rst contract was 2,500 guilders per year, with an extra 60 coming in bonuses for games won. This equates to around 22,000 in
There was no rushing in the Ajax sysKrol's intelligence meant that he was tem there was no need to. It was often the organiser at the back, at built to make sure the players were times in tandem with Johan as fresh at the end of the game as Neeskens, the instigator of the they were at the teams pressing start. Krol explained If I run 70 metres up game. But where he the simplicity of the the wing its not was deadly was in system: his natural domain: good if I immediately often more of a leftIt was also a solu- have to run back 70 winger, alongside tion to a physical to my starting place the likes of Johan problem. How can Cruij, Piet Keizer you play for 90 minutes and remain and Johnny Rep, he would cause strong? If I, as a left-back, run 70 plenty of problems for the opposimetres up the wing, it's not good if I tion. immediately have to run back 70 to my starting place. So if the left midMuch of his attacking prowess he atelder takes my place and left tributed to studying and learning winger takes the mideld position, from Keizer, with whom he was then it shortens the distance. That close. The defensive side of his
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todays money. He later said, I knew it was hardest for me to go to Ajax, what with the competition and all, but I also knew that if Id make it there I could make it anywhere. As a student of the game, Krol was ever learning. When Ajax played Celtic in the 1970/71 European Cup, Jimmy Johnstone often got the better of him to the extent the left-back was made redundant in the game. Nevertheless, words of encouragement from Michels put paid to that. The manager, who would later be crowned FIFA Coach of the Century, urged Krol to rethink his approach and adapt to the situation, instead of letting it get to him. By doing this he could get one over on his tormentor, and that he did.
The 1972 European Cup nal triumph over Internazionale was the game that cemented the teams legacy. Although Cruij would go on to claim the individual accolades, he remained humble in praise of his team mates, often saying Krol was one of the nest players he played with, if not the best. Back to the international scene. Krol was as eective in orange as in red and white. His brilliant play on the left ank was key to The Netherlands near-success at the 1974 World Cup, no more so than as provider of Cruijs now famous goal against Brazil. However, that brilliant Dutch side were denied the success that Krol and Cruij enjoyed at club level, nishing as runners-up to West Germany, who defeated
them 2-1. Four years later and now minus Cruij, they came even closer to glory. Now captaining the side and playing as a Vasovi-esque sweeper, Krol almost scored the winning goal in the nal: his free kick from deep in his own half was missed by Rensenbrink, and the ball rebounded o the post. Yet more agony. The game went to extra time, where Argentina triumphed 3-1. Krol won 83 caps for lOranje and was the most-capped Dutch player until Aron Winter broke his record in 2000. Only eight players have represented The Netherlands on more occasions than Krol. Despite playing over 300 games in
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12 seasons for Ajax, he felt that his decision not to leave along with Neeskens, Keizer and Cruij may have hindered his career. This in no ways besmirches the club it was clear for all to see that the glory days were waning. He did eventually depart in 1980, when he moved to the States to play in the North American Soccer League with the Vancuvoer Whitecaps. He returned to Europe after a year, where he played for four seasons at Serie A side Napoli. There, he became an instant fans favourite and is revered to this day. After playing for a further two years in France for Cannes, Krol hung up his boots in 1986. Three years later, unsurprisingly he took up the managerial game, starting out at KV Mechelen. Six clubs and 22 years
later he is still at it, managing the Orlando Pirates in the South African Premier Soccer League. YouTube may not have much of his individual highlights, but no matter what any poll or survey says, he is the greatest left-back that has ever been. No equal, no question. Its a real shame that generations to come will not witness the brilliance of one of the nest players to have played the game.
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Smoke Two Johns In The Afternoon, And It Makes Them Feel Alright
What, all of you? Really? Yes, Jonathan, all of us. The customs been passed down for ages. Wouldnt make this sort of thing up, would I? What about Davies?" (Nod) Coleman? (Bigger nod) Wolstenholme?! Are you kidding? Ken was the grandfather of it all, he loved the stuff. He popularised the fatty in England! Seriously Jonathan, Im telling you, were all at it. Come on,
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SMOKE TWO JOHNS IN THE AFTERNOON
give it a try. They only do the pure shit here now, since the tobacco ban three years ago. The two men were speaking in hushed, secretive tones, but Nigel had little trouble making out their conversation from across the sparsely populated Amsterdam caf, even with the ceiling fans whirring and clicking away. They were from his neck of the woods, these two. He wasnt familiar with their faces but recognised their voices from somewhere. The sceptic, Jonathan, was middleaged, with a round, stubbly face, topped with dark, wavy hair that had won its morning battle with his comb. He was dressed in a plain but rumpled pastel blue shirt, baggy
black trousers and a pair of sensible black brogues. His cheeky companion looked a good twenty years older. His washed-out hair was neatly trimmed and slicked back, but the twinkle in his eye and his rosy cheeks gave the impression of a youthful spirit. A bright, ill-fitting ensemble confirmed this suspicion. The light orange t-shirt with black sleeves, and matching black shorts were embossed with the letters BFC. The kit was completed with a pair of black stockings, pulled up to the knees. On his feet sat a pair of bright green sandals. Nameless was polishing what turned out to be a pair of thick-rimmed sunglasses with his napkin. He looked
even more pretentious than he sounded when he put them back on. Returned to their station they now perched themselves on the end of his nose. What was the point of dark lenses when the dim light barely punctuated the dense smoky air? The conversation became more animated as Nameless tried to cajole a still unconvinced Jonathan. I dunno. Really? You having me on? Well, I better just say, in case there are any pesky gutter press listening in, this is all made up and in no way representative of my professional beliefs. Jonathan looked relieved. Oh.
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So its not true? No! Of course its true, its all fucking true. That was just a disclaimer, my son. Nameless sported a mocking grin as he passed Jonathan a rudimentary cigarette. He leant forward and held out a lighter at arms length, pointing it at his partners head like a revolver. With a metallic flick and click a flame appeared and Nigels nostrils flared at the faint but pungent odour of butane. Nameless motioned for Jonathan to light the cigarette. Jonathan obliged. Copious coughs ensued. A waiter appeared by Nigels side, interrupting the show momentarily, so a drink was ordered to keep up ap-
pearances. These two were providing ample entertainment to justify whatever ludicrous price he was about to be charged for a mug of hot water and sprinkle of coffee bean. Tea wasnt even on the menu what had these Europeans been smoking? A small bell sounded as someone left the caf, and a light breeze swept through the room. Nameless took a large sheepskin coat from the back of his chair and draped it round his shoulders. He left his arms and hands unhindered to craft another cigarette. They were both at it now, inhaling loudly and spluttering broken sentiments. The latest creation was passed across the table to Jonathan, and it was eagerly received this time.
Frees the mind, see? Yup that it does! Youve never never done this before going live on air though, surely? The older gentlemans cheeks were redder than an urchins spanked backside now. Aha! All the time, Jonny boy. You dont think I could come up with half my shit with a clear head, do you? Those falsetto moments dont come out of nowhere. Jonathan looked bamboozled, almost crestfallen. Oh. Mine do. You know sometimes I forget where I am and accredit a goal to Matilda or Sir
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Killalot. Spent six years doing that, force of habbit, yknow? Guess what the Beeb do to cover it up. Nameless arched an eyebrow in reply. They just use the time delay to edit it, extend whatever Id said just before into one long screech. Makes me sound silly. The older gentleman furrowed his brow as he flicked the drooping end of his cigarette into a small porcelain figurine of a nude lady that was doubling as an ashtray. Yes I suppose it does. But its your catchphrase. I know. They take the piss though,
the runners, the tea-makers, even the cleaners. The other day a road sweeper trundled past me in the early morning as I was going for a jog. He shouted Morning Jonathaaaan out the window of his little buggy, in a real high-pitched voice. Made me want to give it all up. Nameless stood up and removed his glasses. He examined his younger
companion from head to toe, assessing him with exaggerated seriousness. Disbelief was written across his face like a neon sign in Piccadilly Circus. You go jogging? For a moment, Nigel thought the question would elicit an angry response. By Pans hooves, it took less than that to set Otto off. Jonathans mouth motioned as if to reply, but he bit his lip. He stared at Nameless. Nameless stared back. The silent shootout continued for what seemed like an age, until Jonathan broke the impasse with a snigger. Nameless followed suit. This progressed into a titter, and then a full giggle. Within seconds tears
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were streaming from both mens eyes. The madness lasted a couple of minutes with Nigel looking on, his face a picture of bewilderment. Eventually the merriment subsided, and Jonathan rekindled the conversation. Reckon maybe I should cut my losses. Jump ship. Make one hell of a splash! More giggles.
No, Bee Sky. BSkyB? Thats the one. Whyd you call it that then? Everyone just calls them Sky. Dunno. To make them sound like more of a faceless corporation, I guess. You know, dont you just hate those wankers down at BSkyB? Sure do.
Should I go for it? Work for them? Work for who? Sky! Sky? Oh, yeah. Nah, you dont wanna go there. Bunch of tossers. Anyway, theyd bully the likes of us. Gotta have a nice suit, tight trousers and a smooth face to get on there. How the devil did Gary manage it then? The pair erupted into more laughter at this point, so much so that Nigel thought it a good time to pay a visit to the outhouse. Hed found out theyd been moved indoors these days, which he admitted did stop him catching a chill when going
Again, Jonathan regained himself first and tried to continue. Whatre they called, Bee Sky? Thee Sky?
Long pause. So? So what?
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about his business. When he returned the men were still in fits of laughter, but they were now slouched over what looked like beached manatees, over in the corner. Jonathans manatee was leaking; what looked like small marbles were escaping from the ripped cloth each time he shifted his weight. Nigel assumed something similar was going on in the mans head. Nigel left with the two men rolling about on the floor, smoking and laughing in equal measure. As he walked out into the bright summer sunshine he heard the older gentleman yip with delight. This stuff just gets better, and better, and better!
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WHEN THE DRUGS DONT WORK
Stefan Bienkowski >
In recent weeks, the spotlight beaming down on FIFA has never shone so bright. It has burned through the media etiquette and ignorance of past establishments and highlighted an almighty revolution that will no longer allow fans to stand by the illadvised bureaucrats who run the game. Never before has the line between right and wrong been so evident in football. Yet that hasnt always been the case; the sport has had enough conspiracies, bribery scandals and match-xing accusations to be well-versed in coping with the pressure of distinguishing which direction it treads on
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the road of morality. But what happens when the lines of distinction become a little blurred, and peoples priorities are diluted with the necessity to make money? Welcome to distorted history of Colombian football. Pablo Emilio Escobar was the rst character of questionable principles to express an interest in the game, 30 years ago. A man who oversaw 80% of the worlds cocaine trac, and later controlled Colombian football with just as much of a stranglehold, Escobar dened Colombian culture in late 1980s. A notorious drug lord, he made no secret of his profession, simply because he didnt have to. He would pay o prosecutors, judges, cops, and build hospi-
tals, schools and churches as long as it kept him out of jail. A connoisseur of public relations, Escobar spent a fortune building football elds and sports centres, and supporting countless charities and youth teams. His reputation as Medellns Robin Hood grew by the day. For most Columbians, Escobar was a saint. Sure, he may have been a drug dealer, but he was a man that the people of the countrys secondlargest city loved and respected. Of course, men of Escobars nature dont simply plough money into such ventures without expecting a return, and as a result Colombian football descended into a hotbed of
corruption among ocials and association leaders. Between 1981 to 1986, Amrica de Cali won ve consecutive league titles but the abundant bribery of ocials meant the game had reached a point where a league title was no longer won on the merit of the strength of your squad, but the inuence of your chairman. With Escobar heading the list, notorious drug barons names and inuence had spread throughout Colombian football to a point were removing them would entail the death of the game. It was an evil, however necessary, that dened Colombias troubles not only with drugs, but a highly corrupt football system.
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Having the richest drug dealers in Colombian football and Escobars the world at your disposal did have Atltico Nacional in particular its perks. Through Escobar at reached a new level of continental Atltico Nacional, Jos Gonzalo success when the Medelln club won Gacha at Millionarios and the Rothe Copa Libertadores de Amrica in driguez Orejuela brothers at 1989. They beat Olimpia of Amrica, Colombian Paraguay 5-4 in a football experienced For the first time in penalty shout-out, a surge of invest- 15 years Colombian after two legs of ment that was unheated action saw football turned on heard of in world the teams deadthe hand that fed it football. locked at 2-2. Salaries went through the roof, average attendances went up to an alltime high of 15,423 per game, and stars like Csar Falcioni and Ricardo Gareca ooded into the league as Colombia swelled with pride. The rest of South America watched in envy. Over the course of the late 80s Colombian sides would reach the nal of the Copa Libertadores on four occasions, and perhaps more signicantly ushered in a threeyear gap were no Argentine, Uruguayan or Brazilian club would reach a nal.
While the rest of the world looked upon Colombian societys struggles with drug-laundering and crime with a sense of pity, the nations football fans were celebrating in the streets, proclaiming a golden era for the sport. Football had well and truly become the opiate of the masses. Yet, with all things in this sport, nothing lasts forever. Escobars and thus Colombian footballs days were numbered. Along with the new decade came a new resolve among the Colombian government to clean up the countrys top drug lords. With pressure from the United States, the Colombian government sanctioned the extradition of criminals to the US
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under the Colombian Constitution of 1991. Escobar ed. After two years of ghting throughout the city of Medelln he was caught and killed by a joint Special Forces task group, made up of American soldiers and vigilantes funded by Escobars rivals. Although Escobars death didnt immediately lead to the fall of Colombias cocaine empire, it did spell the beginning of the end. Whereas previously the nations motto, Liberty and Order, had seemed laughable, now its national anthem, O Unfading Glory, was looking the more nave. The second of July 1994 was perhaps the most signicant date along
the road to recovery for the beautiful game in Colombia. Ten days previously, Los Cafeteros (The Coee Growers) were knocked out of the 1994 World Cup at the hands of the United States, by an own-goal from defender Andrs Escobar. That night Escobar would be murdered while entering his car outside a local diner, by a group of men seeking vengeance for his gae. His death led to a debate within Colombian football that few had deemed possible. Politicians, lawyers and Public Ocers died when they got in the way of drug money all the time, but never had this happened to a beloved football player.
In a country where football was more important than any election or religious holiday, the assassination of one of its national footballers was deemed an attack on Colombias people. For the rst time in 15 years, Colombian football and the nation as a whole began to turn on the hand that fed it, ironically, in the name of morality. For a short while, the Orejuela brothers gained control of the market, but they were rounded up in 1995 and tried in America. Colombia had nally dealt with its criminals and football would suer for it. Without the drug market bankrolling the league, clubs began to struggle to maintain a prot. A
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decade of free-spending had left little appreciation for conservative budgeting, and most top ight clubs found themselves in uncontrollable debt. Average attendances fell in correlation with salaries, as the big players all moved back to Argentina and Brazil. Colombian football began a long transition period of living within its means. It still struggles today. Now, drug money in the sport has never been so low. New initiatives from the government, forcing clubs to cooperate with the Ministry of Finance to extinguish money-laundering and nancial crime as well as imposing more transparency in the process of investing in clubs, have
encouraged other businesses and sections of society to stick their nger in the newly baked pie of Colombian football. Nevertheless, a shaky future looms. While it may be presumed club owners will sleep soundly having hit the straight and narrow, they could still face many a restless repose as nancial burdens replace ethical ones. Lets hope one day Colombia can enjoy success, this time without having to compromise its morality.
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Devil In Disguise
Nigel stood in the shade of the Verawood tree at the top of the hill. Its bright yellow flowers and leafy green branches made him nearly invisible to passersby. Those who did notice him took no heed of a man simply getting out of the hot midday sun. Hot was an understatement. It was bloody scorching. Under his tree, however, it was cool and, when a soft breeze kicked up, even pleasant. Still, he was getting damned tired of waiting. He looked down the dusty street to the compound a hundred yards off. Its walls were chipped, reddishbrown adobe, its gates heavy oaken wood and wrought iron. There were men with automatic rifles walking
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the rampart and two more concealed in the alcove at the gate. Not that theyd be any trouble. It was their boss who he had to worry about and maybe his guests, too. They had certainly thrown him for a loop. Coming down for breakfast, at the out-of-the-way hotel in a sleepy barrio on the edge of Medellin, he had sensed them just before walking out onto the balcony which overlooked the lobby. He drew back and stayed in the shadows. Seemingly, they hadnt noticed him. A couple, young in appearance, both blonde, immaculately groomed and dressed casually in brightly coloured polo attire, fresh denim and expensive trainers, were chatting with the rather seedy looking fellow behind
the desk. The husband also sported an expensive watch and the missus a shiny tennis bracelet and gaudy wedding ring. They had Rob Us written all over them but anyone who tried would get the surprise of their lives and probably the end of it. He had never seen them before and he had always made it a point to be aware of the competition. Still, his senses didnt lie. They were gods. They should have felt his presence by now, as he had not seen them until it was too late, but they were either very good at masking their awareness or were totally oblivious to him. Having gotten what they needed from the clerk, they walked out into the street, both now chatting on cell
phones as they held hands. Well, he supposed that yuppies needed representation, too, although theyd find none of their constituents in this neck of the woods. Deciding that hed better find out what they were up to, even if it was a trap, he masked his presence and followed at a safe distance. Down the street, some children were kicking a ball in the middle of the road. It got away from them and rolled to the feet of the lady. Laughing gaily, she popped it into the air with her right foot and juggled it for a moment or two. Not too bad, Nigel thought, impressed with her skill. Giggling, she headed the ball to her husband, who scrambled to keep the ball in the air. After two lunging
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kicks, he deposited it into a fruit cart on the opposite side of the street. That at least partially explained his not knowing them. They were obviously American. With the children laughing at the mans ineptitude and the vendor gesticulating wildly over his spoiled merchandise, the fellow sheepishly pulled out a large billfold and handed over several American notes. The aggrieved vendor instantly became his best friend, offering the best of the undamaged fruit, while the children clamoured after a bit of booty for themselves. Smiling benignly, the lady produced a few bills from her clutch, passed them out and shooed the ecstatic urchins on their way.
As they ran down the street, the woman watched them go, slipping a maternal arm around her scowling beau and reaching up to peck him on the cheek. His face brightened a bit as he looked around. His searching eyes passed right over Nigel, who had sat in an empty chair outside a doorway, trying to blend in. Satisfied that all was well, the Yank led his lady off down the road. He let hem have another fifty feet before he rose to follow. Imagine his surprise when, after following them all the way through the barrio, he realised that they were heading to see the same person he had traveled halfway round the world to meet. They had been ushered into the compound as though they were expected and had been in
there for two hours now. Their host was not one to be trifled with and as the time passed, he began to wonder if he should go in to find out if they were alright. They had seemed oblivious to him and to their surroundings on the stroll from the hotel to their destination, yet none of the many street toughs which they had passed had paid them any mind. Conversely, as he followed, he had found it necessary to discourage a handful of them. Just what the couple were was a mystery. Then, as he finally stirred, his patience at an end, the gate swung open. He settled back against the Verawood trunk, twirling a yellow blossom in his fingers as they strode
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up the hill. He stared directly at them, expecting a response, but both were chatting away on their cells again, not even sparing him a sideways glance as they went by. He waited until they turned a corner in the distance and moved towards the compound. Walking at an easy, unthreatening pace, he attracted nothing more than glances from the wall. It wasnt until he stopped directly in front of the gate that the two doormen stepped out into the sun. Qui usted quieren al viejo hombre? one of them sneered. You really should be pointing your weapon at me, if youre going to insult me, Nigel thought.
Old man? he asked in an aggrieved voice. He shrugged when neither took the bait. Tell Seor Capac that Nigel is here to see him. Quien? Ni-gel. He phoneticised it this time. The guard who had spoken chuckled. No, seor, you do not understand. I do not know any Seor Capac. Nigel let out a frustrated sigh, I dont care what hes calling himself these days, just tell your Jefe that Nigel wants a little chat, yeah? The guard stiffened slightly at the curt tone, then glanced at his partner,
and up at the wall before his gaze settled back on Nigel. Wait here, he commanded, spitting at Nigels feet. Turning, he went through the huge wooden doors. It was only a few minutes when he returned with a tiny, officious looking man, dressed in a tailored suit. If you will follow me, por favor, Seor, Nigel followed as the little man led him through the gate, across a dusty compound and into a stucco building with a tiled roof. The interior was well ventilated, cooled by large ceiling fans. They trudged up one set of stairs, down another, through a
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labyrinth of hallways and catwalks, and down one final flight of stairs. Nigel had the feeling that his guide was deliberately attempting to disorient him. Finally, however, the man opened another set of impressive oak doors and ushered him into a large salon. The room was at least fifty feet by twenty-five, with white stucco walls and huge crossbeams of stained oak in the ceiling. The walls were adorned with rich tapestries and there were pre-Columbian carvings set on pedestals and on the end tables and coffee table which surrounded a trio of large divans in the centre of the room. At the far end was a massive desk with a red leather chair, unoccupied.
Behind the chair was a huge bay window, framed by sheer draperies. Clinging to one curtain was a large green chameleon with a thick torso, telescopic eyes and a long, thin tail. One eye turreted towards Nigel for a moment, then ratcheted away to locate another target. Nigels guide gestured to the sofas. Please be comfortable, Seor. My employer will join you momentar-
ily. The little man bowed his head and backed out of the salon, pulling the doors closed behind him. Nigel took a seat on the couch farthest from the desk, so that he could face it directly. He sat patiently, glancing from tapestry to statue to tapestry, every so often interrupting his circuit of the room to check on the lizard. It remained unmoved, except for its eyes, clinging to the curtain, seemingly willing to wait as stoically as its new companion. The pairs silent vigil stretched on for several minutes but Nigel remained unperturbed at being left alone for so long.
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After another ten minutes, a fly buzzed into the room through the open bay window. It flew lazily about the area around the desk before finally nearing the curtain where the lizard hung. Quick as lightning, a tongue flicked out and the fly was gone. Oh, for pitys sake, Manco, Nigel exclaimed. That was just disgusting! When are you going to come down from there? The green lizard suddenly blurred, its shape, as well as its hue, shifting. It let loose of the curtain but before it could hit the ground grew into the shape of a man, approximately five and a half feet tall, with dark brown skin and shocking black hair. He was dressed in a white linen guayav-
era, similar to Nigels, with matching trousers. When the transformation was complete, Manco let out a cackling laugh. Shit, mano, I thought I had you fooled. Nigel shook his head. Hs host shrugged ruefully and came around the desk to shake hands. When he made to expand the greeting into a hug, Nigel quickly stepped back. Manco put on a chagrined look. Que paso, amigo? Come, come, it isnt like that between us, is it? I think I know you a little better than those Yanks, Manco. Done
away with three older brothers to take over the family business. That beats Cain and Abel by half! You may be a little bastard, amigo, but you are a bastard. Manco cackled again but then offered up a protest. Come now, Nigel, that isnt fair. You exaggerate my condition. One of my brothers ran off and hid. Noone has seen him in ages but I didnt kill him, amigo. No, I didnt harm a hair on his head. And if he walked through that door right now, Manco, would you welcome him with open arms and offer him a place in your little empire? Or would you snap him up like that little fly, just a moment ago?
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Mancos eyes flashed for a moment and he seemed ready to strike out, but then the tension left his body and another hoarse cackle escaped his lips. Ah, Nigel, you know me too well. And apparently you know my Yanqui friends, as well. Funny, they did not mention you. Weve not yet been introduced. Maybe you want to arrange that? No, amigo. That I cannot do. They have already left Medellin, if I am not mistaken. Well, what can you tell me about them, then? Nigel, Nigel. They are business as-
sociates. A god in my position has to maintain certain confidences or he cannot do business. Nigel grunted. Business? Is that what you call it? It suits you, though, Manco. Right down to the tee. Its a real nasty business. Manco wasnt smiling any longer. Why are you here Nigel? No one has seen you for a century and suddenly youre popping up everywhere. What do you want, Ingles? Popping up everywhere? You seem to know a lot about my travels. Who have you been talking too, Manco?
Mancos eyes flashed again but he simply shrugged, showing his hands, palms up. Yes, yes, confidences. I heard you. Why am I here? Well, in those travels you seem to know so much about, Ive been coming across a lot of your handiwork and Ive learnt that youve been pushing your poison in my patch, while Ive been busy. Thats not proper and I dont like it, Manco. Its filth. You keep it away from my people. Keep it away from them, Ingles? How can I do that? I have agreements to honour. Dont talk to me of honour, Manco. You wouldnt know honour if it dripped out of your nose and bit you
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in the arse. Just get your shit out of my patch. Ill not tell you again. Or what? Or well have words, mate. Entiendas? Understand? Mancos eyes were full of fire now but he was still holding himself in check. Ill tell you what I understand, gringo. Your people came over here to the Americas and they brought their own poison. They wiped my people out with their small pox and they brought down the one thing Ive done in my life that might be called good. And they did it just for a bit of gold. Now its my turn to bring the death and disease and take back my gold
in the bargain. Ive waited a long time to have my revenge and you think you can come in here and have words and Ill just back off like a coward? Maybe you dont know me all that well, then, eh Gringo? Oh, I know you, mate. You and your so-called good work. What did the Incas, the Mayans and the Aztecs do that was so worthy? They may have had some science and knowledge but they were always ready to put a knife to an innocents throat to get a little more, werent they? Sooner or later, the price has to be paid. Yes, the price must be paid, amigo. And now it is your turn to pay. If you want to stop me, youd better
bring more than words. Now get out, before I forget that you are my guest! Nigel stood up from the sofa and took a step towards Manco. The Incan god clenched his fists and scowled fiercely but took a step back. Nigel smiled at the show of fear and then faded from site. Hed keep his promise but there was something else he had to know first. As he left, he heard one last sniggering cackle.
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Martin Palazzotto >
Fair warning: this debate has nothing to do with the fairer sex. OK, now that I've lost ninety percent of my audience with the rst sentence, let me explain to the rest of you that what it does concern is the sporting world's predilection with size. None of them coming back, then? Bugger. Our fascination with BIG is having a major impact on sport. Unfortunately, that impact may prove damaging in the long run. It is already wreaking havoc in America. All four of the major team
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sports on the other side of the Atlantic, those being baseball, basketball, gridiron football and ice hockey, are aicted with serious dilemmas stemming directly from the increase in the size, strength and speed of their athletes over the last two decades. Two important factors have ganged up to lead American (and Canadian) sport down a blind alley. One pill makes you larger First, sports science, funded by the exponential growth of sport as a marketing tool, has made tremendous advances with regards to training methods, nutrition, medical procedures and rehabilitation. The USA's consistent haul of medals in
the Olympics bears this out. Where would Sugar Ray Leonard, Michael Phelps, Carl Lewis and Mary Lou Retton be were it not for the ubiquitous Wheaties box? Lance Armstrong owes much of his success to the sponsorship of the US Postal Service. Tiger Woods, who not only advanced the cause of minorities in golf but in athletics as a whole, is supported by his relationship with Nike, the same company which welcomed Wayne Rooney to its Oregon sports complex, last fall, to rehabilitate a persistent ankle injury. Elite athletes make most of their money not from their sport of choice but from lucrative endorsements. Yet those marketing dollars depend upon performance. If you're at the top of your game, the
world will camp at your doorstep. Thus, health and tness are actually a higher priority than technical skill if an athlete is to maximise his or her earning potential. It's such a priority, in fact, that sports science has been used to cut corners. Every major American sport has suspended athletes for using steroids or other performance enhancing drugs. Surprisingly, baseball, which demands far more technical prociency from its players than athletic ability, has been hit the hardest. Hall of Fame candidates Roger Clemens, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Rafael Palmeiro and Manny Ramirez have all had their legacy threatened by positive tests or seri-
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ous allegations of steroid use. Home run king Barry Bonds was recently convicted of obstructing justice (for refusing to co-operate fully) while being acquitted of four counts of perjury for allegedly lying to prosecutors investigating the wide-reaching BALCO Labs scandal. Olympic athlete Marion Jones served time in jail after being found guilty of similar charges. All-Star third baseman Ken Caminiti admitted to having used steroids for several seasons, beginning in 1996, and died shortly after his retirement, overdosing on a cocktail of cocaine and opiates. Caminiti was alleged to be suering from severe depression, understandable when you have severely altered your body chemistry for several years, hoping
to prolong your career and the fame which comes part and parcel, only for it to all come crashing down before you're prepared to move on.
sick, and I'm scared. Ninety percent of the athletes I know are on the stu. We're not born to be 300lb (140kg) or jump 30ft (9.1m). But all the time I was taking steroids, I Gridiron football star Lyle Alzado knew they were making me play died of a malignant better. I became very brain tumor in 1992. Ninety percent of violent on the eld He was forty-three and o it. I did things athletes I know are and had only been only crazy people do. retired from the on the stuff. Were Once a guy sidegame for seven not born to be swiped my car and I years. Although othout 300lb or jump 30 ft. beat the helllook of ers denied his asserhim. Now at tions, he claimed me. My hair's gone, I that his condition was the direct rewobble when I walk and have to sult of continued use of anabolic hold on to someone for support, and I have trouble remembering steroids. things. My last wish? That no one else ever dies this way." "I started taking anabolic steroids in 1969 and never stopped. It was adGiven that its almost twenty years dicting, mentally addicting. Now I'm
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after Alzado's death and professional sports are still arguing over drug testing with their players, his wish is unlikely to be granted. In American football, steroids are obviously used to build up the body, so that it can take and dish out more punishment in what is a very violent game. However, the drug is thought to have become so prevalent in baseball more for its incredible recuperative powers. In either case, athletes have been driven to cheat by the desire to maintain their amboyant lifestyle. The competition, money and fame are just too dicult to leave behind. The spectre of chemically enhanced athletes hasnt spilled over into European football in the way it has in
cycling, track and eld, and other Olympic sports. The signs are there, however, that UEFA, despite having been proactive in adopting stringent testing procedures, had to do so out of necessity and that they cannot afford to let up their guard, even if they have a jump on the problem. Kolo Toure, the Manchester City defender who dipped into his wifes stash of diet pills to battle his weight problems, serves as a warning that temptation hasnt been wholly discouraged, while Adrian Mutus cocaine addiction hints that the more traditional drinking culture pervasive throughout the game, with athletes, pundits and fans alike, is crossing over into more dangerous areas.
Even the strange treatment oered at a Serbian clinic, where athletes such as Robin van Persie have gone to have uid of horse placenta dripped on their injuries, has a connection to the issue of anabolic steroids, which are derived from the proteins contained in horse semen. Im not a bio-chemist but it seems to my lay mind that there cant be much dierence between two substances involved in equine birthing, even if one is taken from the stallion and the other from the mare. Given that it took decades to learn the full eects of steroids on the human body, it would seem prudent to proceed very slowly with the development of placenta based treatments for football players.
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One pill makes you small While athletes in American sports have been seeking out the best and worst that science has to oer, increasing their size, strength and speed, the arenas in which they play have been shrinking, or at least not increasing proportionately to accommodate the growth of their practitioners. Thus, the eects of uber-developed muscle, force and movement have been amplied by the lack of space in which these American gladiators can operate. The result is, naturally, an increase in violent collisions, injuries and reckless play. Unsurprisingly, fans have bought into the increased mayhem in a big way. Yet, for NFL and NHL players the cost
of entertaining their supporters has, in more and more cases, become a signicant decrease in life expectancy. Both gridiron football and hockey are dealing with the frightening eects of concussion on their athletes. An NFL eld is 120 x 50yds (including the end zones). An NHL rink is 200 x 80yds and enclosed by a 42 inch high wall, topped by glass barriers at each end. In football, virtually every player on the eld is expected to collide with an opponent on each play. In hockey, the players rotate on and o the ice in 30-45 second shifts, during which time, they are coached to take at least one shot and make a minimum of one bone-jarring check. In both cases, when looking to incapacitate an opponent, the head is a
very inviting target. Now factor in that the average player has grown 4-6 inches and put on roughly 30lbs in the past three decades, that coaching and sports science have evolved the pace of both games to sixty minutes of continuous hyper-drive and that, as a result of that combination, there is far less space to operate on the playing surface. Unsurprisingly, serious injury is on the rise in both games. The situation has become so dire that the US Congress has stepped into the debate. The NFL, which has long put o serious research into the eects of concussion, is now having to play catch up. Retired players are dying prematurely at an alarming rate. It has reached the
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point that one former star, Dave Duerson, committed suicide to end his misery but shot himself in the chest so he could donate his brain to researchers.
The NHL, which, as a bi-national league is less concerned by the authority of Congress, has not suered as seriously from the eects of conThe dierence between American cussion. Players have not died but sports and football, of course, is that more than one major the beautiful game star has had their cais hands o. In only reer curtailed. The The English game is using ones feet, it is most notable is Eric as close as football rare for players to Lindros, who was ex- comes to the ethos knock heads. It pected to inherit the does occur on 50/50 of American sport mantle of best in the headers but is game from Wayne hardly predominate. Gretzky and Mario Lemieux. InYet, there are issues with size in stead, a series of vicious hits left him football. on the injured list much more often
than he was on the ice. This year, the Pittsburgh Penguins lost the latest darling of the sport, Sydney Crosby, to concussion in December. He did not return all season and, while now skating on his own, has yet to be cleared by specialists for physical contact.
And the one that Blatter gives you... Compare the styles of play in the Premier League and La Liga, for instance. The English game is as close as football comes to the ethos of American sport. Work ethic denes play in the Premier League. Ask Dimitar Berbatov what Man United fans think of players who hunt patiently for time and space, blending into the background until its time to strike, as opposed to human Tasmanian Devils such as Carlos Tevez, who are prepared to run down anything that moves, be it a lazy back pass, unwary goalkeeper or simply a squirrel which has wandered into the wrong six yard box at the wrong time. A
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Premier League match is all about harrying your opponent refusing to allow them any time or space. The Primera Liga is less bloodthirsty. No one is any better than closing down time and space than Barcelona, but they prefer to be elegant and rened in going about it. Ironically, however, that elegance cannot be achieved if you do not have room to operate. How do Spanish clubs solve this paradox? Well, a typical Premier League pitch is 105 x 68, although one or two are a bit more cramped. A La Liga surface is 107x72, however. Wow, you say. Big deal, two feet longer and four more in breadth. So what?
Actually, the dierence amounts to an extra 564 square feet, or almost eight percent more space in which to work your magic. If it still doesnt sound like much, take a look around your at and imagine what you could do with an extra salon or two bedrooms. One thing you might be able to do with the added space is hide from Nigel de Jong. Or Karl Henry, Ryan Shawcross or, as Andrew Thomas will get into later, Jack Wilshere. You see, while football players arent growing at the rate of American athletes, they are still getting bigger, faster and better conditioned. They are also being encouraged by managers, supporters and media to transfer all that new power into la-
tent aggression. Tackles are coming fast and furious in the English game, with its comparatively small pitch. Is it just me, or does a rough average of one broken leg per month not suggest a problem? Football has two intrinsic qualities which oer a measure of immunity from the fascination with size. One, as already mentioned, the game is played with your feet, and two, the playing surface is overly spacious. In baseball, basketball, gridiron football and even hockey, the use of your hands naturally gives tall players an advantage and the close quarters aid give more impetus to a powerful build. In football, its naturally easier for a compact player to control the ball with his feet and large, bury defenders are continually
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exposed by quicker, smaller attackers. At the moment, Barcelona provide the ultimate in small attacking football. To beat them, you have two choices. Option one: build a better La Masia and grow your own new and improved Xavis, Iniestas and Messis, which would take at least a decade. Good luck with that. Option two: hire Jose Mourinho, buy tall players with speed and skill and taller defenders with speed and aggressive tackling. This known in the football world as negative football. Thats life, though. Negative players cancels out positive ones, ugly play
mars its beautiful rival. In Spain, that extra space makes it more dicult for negative play to gain a foothold. In England, the crowded pitch allows it to thrive. Of course, for English fans, the price for their style is that they struggle internationally, where ocials arent as tolerant of bullying tactics. It would be interesting to see what would happen in English football if they increased the size of the pitches at every level. So, while the beautiful game is ahead of the sporting curve in being accessible to players of any culture, nationality, race, creed or body type, has dierent issues and faces dierent challenges, it too must come to grips with the fact that size matters.
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Now, this was a bit more like English weather. Nigel had coalesced on the edge of a grassy park during a light drizzle. The sky was cloudy but not too overcast and sunlight was breaking through the shower in spots. The air was cool and the temperature mild. Not far off, the Cascades were holding the rain clouds between themselves and the mighty Pacific Pugets Sound was a far cry from the sweaty rainforest of Colombia. A shrill sound caught his attention. There was a pitch marked off with bright orange cones in the center of the park, with a goal set up at either end. The American goddess was standing to one side of the pitch, now dressed in navy sweatpants and a white long-sleeved kit, trimmed
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with navy and gold. It was her whistle which had startled him. Now, she was shouting encouragement to a gaggle of young girls, probably eleven or twelve years of age, who were attempting to dribble through a series of smaller cones laid out on the grass. Where was hubby? Nigel looked around and saw a man reclining in a folding chair under a large willow tree. He was gently rocking a perambulator and cooing to the infant apparently inside. Nigel strolled over. The man looked up and smiled disingenuously. He was wearing a lime green kit with an X emblazoned across his breast. Sounders FC, the crest read.
Hello, friend. Nigel nodded and smiled back. Friend? With someone who had dealings with Manco? Not bloody likely. Boy or girl? he asked, trying to keep his rising temper in check. The man laughed. Girl, he replied. Shell be seven in January. Seven? In a pram? He moved around to the other side, curious but careful to peer into the carriage while simultaneously keeping an eye on this lunatic. When he focused on the tiny passenger, a hairy little face, all brown, black and white, with beady little eyes stared back at him. Then it snarled, showed its tiny
fangs and began yapping at him in a high pitched squeak. By the Dragon! It was a bleedin dog. What the bloody hell was it doing in a pram? He backed off and tried to get out of its line of site but the little bugger wouldnt shut up. The man cooed at it urgently and rocked the dog house faster. That only made it yip louder. He heard footsteps behind and turned to find the missus hurrying over. Whats going on? she asked, a touch of concern in her voice. Behind her, the young girls were going through their paces as though she still had her eye on them.
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Its okay, sweetie, the man answered over the increasingly insistent barking of the miniature hound from hell, Toto was just startled by this gentleman. Nothing to worry about. The woman looked back and forth between her husband and Nigel, before sighing and reaching into the pram and removing Toto. The scrabbly little thing fit right in her hand. It immediately stopped barking and embarked on a serious quest to lick its mistress face. The woman tolerated it for a moment, then kissed it on top of its scruffy head and placed it back into the pram. Straightening, she put her hands on her hips, fixing Nigel with a stern gaze.
And just what do you want? Honey, thats no way to talk to the gentleman. He didnt mean to startle Toto. You know shes just high strung. Oh, do shut up, Todd. The scorn was dripping from her voice. I swear you dont pay attention to anything. Dont you recognise him? Nigel tensed. Todd gave him a good once over, with a bemused look on his face. No Tail, I dont. Should I?
you not to call me that in front of other people?! Todds face went red. Sorry, honey. He turned towards Nigel, holding out a hand. Im sorry if I dont remember you, buddy, although I cant think why I should. The names Todd and this is my wife, Taylor. And you are? Nigel was confused. Was this fellow that dense or just trying to throw him off? Taylors exasperated voice cut through the haze. His name is Nigel.
Tail nearly screamed in her frustration. How many times do I have to tell
Todds face still didnt register any recognition but Nigel spared a glance at the woman. She was wait-
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ing for him to make the first move. Nigel? Oh, for Heavens sake, Todd, get with the program. Hes the one who followed us in Colombia. Finally, some concern crept into the dim reaches of Todds brain. Reflexively, he moved to position himself between Nigel and the pram. Taylor rolled her eyes and let loose with a string of invectives, some of which Nigel made an impressed note to remember. Hes not after Toto, you moron! Hes here to find out about us. He is? Oh. Well, thats alright, then.
The hand came back out again. Nice to meet you, Nigel. Nigel shook the proffered hand. No one could be that devious. Todd definitely had a few thunderbolts missing from the quiver. Nigel took the measure of Taylor now that he re-
alised there was no immediate danger. She was definitely tanned and fit. The badge on her kit registered with him. LA Galaxy. So that was the way of it between them, was it? It didnt quite add up, however, for instance how did she know who he was? He opened his mouth to ask but Taylor beat him to it. Relax. I asked around when I made you in Medellin. You want to know what were doing with a piece of shit like Manco, dont you? Well, she certainly didnt mince words. He nodded. Ive got to get back to the girls.
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Walk with me and Ill explain. Nigel fell in step, after glancing at Todd. He was in the process of getting a facial from a frantic Toto. Look, we cant stand him, either, but he isnt exactly easy to be rid of. And hes got plenty of friends, too. Some of them carry a lot of weight in the community, if you know what I mean. Nigel nodded. He knew. Fair enough but I dont understand why hes saying youre in business with him. We are, sort of. Taylors face looked uncomfortable. She barked out some instructions to the girls and
then turned her attention back to him. Look, we havent been at this god thing very long. Basically we answered an ad in our college paper, looking for eager go-getters with an interest in soccer. Todds interested in football? I was in Colombia, remember. She laughed. I played in school. He was a cheerleader. It reverses the stereotype, I know, but hes pretty handy once you get him pointed in the right direction. Plus, he gives a really good back rub. Ill take your word for that. Taylor laughed again. She was attractive when she didnt look like she was about to try to rip your
throat out. Anyway, wed love to be rid of Manco and his friends but we dont have much power. The other football rules the roost here and theres three or four others between us and him. None of them really care about their charges. Theyre true American Gods; in it for the power. So, weve had to get creative. Weve made ourselves available to the authorities. Nigels eyes bugged out of his head but before he could get his own litany of invectives out, Taylor gripped his arm and reassured him. No, no. They dont know who or what we actually are. They think
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theyve recruited us to run an undercover sting on him. She lifted up the side of her kit. Hooked on the waistband of her tracksuit was a gold star mounted on a black leather case. Nigel laughed. Youre going to try to put him in jail? No human prison will ever hold him. I doubt a godly one could. I realise that. What were trying to do is map out his business and, one by one, remove his contacts. Then, when hes forced to run, well hunt him down and finish it. On your own? Nigel snorted at the thought.
No, not alone. Weve made a few friends of our own in the community. Nigels eyes narrowed. Who?
Well, youre coming to the Game, right? The Game? Taylor rolled her eyes again.
Wouldnt you like to know! Taylor smiled deviously. Id love to know. In fact, Id be more than happy to lend a hand. Really? Well, Ill talk to the rest and let you know what they say. Youre not exactly thought of as a boy scout yourself, you know. Nigel sighed. It was true; he was not the best at making friends. When will you be in touch?
You really have been out of touch, havent you?
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FIFA AND THE WORLD
Samuel Garuda >
Most people have no idea what FIFA actually does thus when some kind of debate occurs they attack the governing body and not the issue itself. Nowhere is this more prevalent than in England. Of course, it follows that, to everyone else, England begins to sound like the nation that cried wolf. FIFA is the international governing and regulating body for arguably the only truly global sport on the planet. It organises international competition and supervises regional and national federations and protects the interests of the game from political
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interference. FIFA has more member nations than the United Nations. Some argue that there is no need for the body at all. I sat down, and tried to think of the best way to present my counter to that claim. There was an advert recently, for what product I forget, which reminded the audience that half time used to mean a change in rules, as well as ends. For the rst half, the home team would dictate the rules, for the second, it would be the visitors An international body like FIFA standardises the rulebook. They make it possible for a team like TPMazembe
of the Congo to play Internazionale. Or the Central Coast Mariners. Or LA Galaxy. Anyone they like, actually. And on a level playing eld. Everything is ocial and agreed beforehand, and when you might have teams playing in so-called friendly competition after their respective nations have suered a long history of bad blood... well, ocial is important. Organising the World Cup is no small feat either. Theres a great deal of negotiating and diplomacy behind the scenes at FIFA. Basically, if FIFA didnt exist, we would have to create it. The problem, of course, is that some people dont like the version we have. Not needing to be account-
able to anyone fosters an environment in which corruption and bribery ourish. Because FIFA has to exist, theres no pressure on its members to be upstanding, moral citizens and because of the bodys lack of transparency, theres little chance theyll be caught in the act in any case. So, when it comes to important matters, such as deciding who gets to host the highly lucrative and prestigious World Cup, there can be discrepancies. Famously, two members of FIFAs executive committee tried to sell their votes to undercover reporters. This tends to raise eyebrows and ire, especially when the English Football Association subsequently sees its bid for 2018 crash and burn.
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Caught bang to rights, FIFA banned the members in question, then ned them but steadfastly refused to delve any deeper. If you nd what looks suspiciously like a landmine when youre weeding in the garden, you dont dig deeper, do you? In cases of severe and endemic corruption, though, a leader must arise and tackle it head on. In FIFAs case, that leader is Sepp Blatter. Or at least, he is portraying himself as a crusader for ethics and transparency. In the midst of a damaging scandal, Blatter conveniently won an uncontested election that has made him President for another four years. Its the same brand of no-holds-barred democracy championed by Soviet
Russia, Zimbabwe and North Korea. Everything is just so much simpler when theres only one name on the ballot. And choosing can be so stressful. In his rst speech after re-election, Blatter went o on a geometrical/nautical tangent.
had demanded that the election be postponed in light of the corruption scandal. Blatter said it quite clearly: Dont worry about the English. And this is what great big chunks of the British media (and their readers) fail to understand. Blatter couldnt give a shit what England thinks of him because he has a lot of the world in his corner. In the end, just 16% of member states abstained or voted for the election postponement. Despite a massive and bloody obvious corruption scandal, Blatter had 84% of the footballing planet on his side. This is what great big chunks of the
Our pyramid is intact. I want to get the ship out of troubled waters and once again in a safe harbour so we can yet again build this pyramid whose base is on national associations. Despite his mixed metaphors and smug nonsense, the message concerning the FAs little rebellion was quite clear. The FA and Scottish FA
Despite his mixed metaphors and smug nonsense, Blatters message was quite clear
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British media (and their readers) fail to understand. Blatter couldnt give a shit what England thinks of him because he has the greater part of the world in his corner. So the FA can throw a tantrum but it only has two choices: get back in line, or drop out of FIFA completely, as it did twice before World War II. The rest of the world might not love Blatter although evidence suggests strongly that they do but they certainly dislike England and the UK After spending centuries acting like belligerent arseholes themselves, England were never going to win a popularity contest with anybody. Yet, before Brits lay into FIFA, they should remember that our own dear FA attacked BBC Panorama for un-
covering a little corruption within its own ranks. When I say a little corruption Barebones of it: the FA have no right to accuse FIFA of anything. If it had been England who bought the World Cup instead of Qatar, would we have demanded FIFA change it back? Or depose Blatter? Not bloody likely. The FA are just pissed they didnt think of using their chequebooks rst, or were simply too cheap to be willing. But are there any alternatives? MP Damian Collins has gone as far as helping ChangeFIFA draw up an alternate FIFA manifesto. Its all very interesting he repeatedly writes in favour of shared governance, al-
though he doesnt make too much noise about the UK getting an automatic vice-presidential place at the table. I suppose it is us, after all, and you can trust us you just cant trust anybody else. Best make the FIFA President an automatic Brit, just to be on the safe side. He also lists Lionel Messi and Barack Obama as the people to challenge the status quo. Now why the hell would Messi decide to get involved? He also lists Lionel Messi and Barack Obama as the people to challenge the status quo. Now, why the hell would Messi decide to get involved? Does constructing the next Super Lego set qualify a twenty-four-year-
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old to rebuild footballs global governing body? And Obama? If it were FIBA, maybe, as hes a huge basketball supporter, but then, the US is just as unpopular as Britain and for much the same reason. As the scandal drags on, CONCACAF President Jack Warner has resigned and has refused to cooperate with the FIFA investigation into the allegations against him and Qatars Mohamed bin Hammam because it is being run by an American, former FBI Director Louis Freeh. He has labeled the accusations of corruption hypocrisy, noting that the giving of gifts has been a practice within FIFA since its inception. England sees that as something which must change. Yet, much of
the rest of the world is quite happy to oer bribes. In many countries, to not do so is an unforgivable insult. Lets face facts. FIFA is not going to award the World Cup to a country which cant handle the responsibility because they would lose far too much money and all credibility. Thus, becoming host of the tournament is a popularity contest between capable candidates and what makes someone more popular than passing out nice gifts when they come to visit? If England (and America) are too self-righteous to understand that, then FIFA are more than happy to let them stew in their own juices. Warners replacement as FIFA
Deputy, Jim Boyce, shed a little more light on his organisations opinion of the FA: I can assure you that I will do all in my power if asked to help the English FA. Perhaps its just me, but that if asked part sounds very much like it could be replaced with if begged. As in oh, you boys are in so much trouble.
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Follow The Bouncing Ball
Nigel sat in the corner of the pub, trying to sort through everything he had learned over the past few days. He invoked Wiki and Google endlessly, trying to piece together the intelligence that Taylor had hinted at. He wanted to know who was backing Manco within the community. Sun Tzu was right, the crafty little bugger. It paid to keep your enemies close. Not that he was ever too quick on the uptake when it came to subtlety, but he was having a devil of a time sorting this mess out. It didnt help, either, that the pub was having a karaoke night. Khalis knickers! Hed heard shagging alley cats that could carry a tune better than this sorry lot.
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FOLLOW THE BOUNCING BALL
Suddenly his laptop chirped. Nigel sat up straight. What the bloody hell? There it went again! He minimised the Wiki page on Qatar and underneath there lay a box with an envelope sealed with the number 1. Youve got mail, it said. Who would know how to send him mail? He wasnt exactly on the information superhighway. More like a private lane off the beaten track. He adjusted his specs and peered at the user name. Haggis1. It was Hamish, the cheeky Scot. He clicked on the envelope and the message appeared.
Go to the VIP window at the Emirates, tomorrow noon. Therell be a ticket in your name. Want to introuce you to a friend. With a few taps, Nigel had called up the Arsenal website. The Gunners were up against Fulham in the last match of the season. Not as massive as the rivalry with Spurs, but it would do for his first London Derby. Nigel alternated between wondering who this new friend might be and trying to sort out his enemies, but the caterwauling refused to allow him to concentrate. A few more taps and an Elvis Presley songbook popped onto the screen. Well, if you cant beat em...
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ARSENALS AFRICAN ATTRACTION
Gary Al-Smith >
Yesterday, George Manneh completed his exams. Hes just 19, and he has many questions about this life, as youd expect of an impressionable teenager. Among them: why does Arsne Wenger not buy? Manneh lives in Banjul, capital of the Gambia, in West Africa. He met Arsenal under strange circumstances. He recalls sitting on a sofa one day, looking for the Lakers Heat basketball game on ESPN. On his way there, he passed by channel 39. He stopped. It was football game. Whoever was running commentary was screaming.
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Threeeee! The little Russian nukes Liverpool. This is Arshavin. And this is the Arsenal. Then the replays came on.
dominated and won 2-0, with two Ivorians starting! Even better, there was a Cameroonian and a Togolese on the bench! He was hooked to the Arsenal.
Damn, that was tight, he thought. So he stayed on and watched the rest of the game. The Little Russian nuked Liverpool again. The game ended 4-4. With his laptop next to him, he checked Andrei Arshavin out. He watched the midelders YouTube clips. By the time he was through a series of compilations, match reports of this latest game were online. He found when next theyd play it was ve days later against Middlesbrough. He watched that game, too. Arsenal Almost 4,000 miles (6,500km) south-east, in a very dierent part of Africa, an Arsenal fan for the past 17 years is not in such a positive mood about his team at the moment. For the rst time in the years Ive been supporting Arsenal, Im feeling really disappointed in them more specically in Arsne Wenger, she sighs. I mean, really? When we last won a trophy my baby had just been born. Now hes almost six, and even
he has won something an eating competition at the Baby Fair. Arsenal has nothing. Any time I ask JuJu why he does not like Arsenal he says: Daddy says you are poopoo! I would be very annoyed if my husband succeeds in making JuJu a blue. Thats Bongeka Gumede. Obviously, shes pissed. She lives in Praetoria in South Africa. She has a loose anity for Mamelodi Sundowns and SuperSport United, the local teams, and usually goes with the whoever is doing well these days attitude. But for Arsenal, its more than that. These are just two of the millions of Africans who follow Arsenal. Arsenal is the most widely supported Premier League team in Africa, fol-
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lowed by Manchester United, Liverpool and Chelsea. And in another year where the North London club recorded healthy prots, the lack of trophies does not seem to be taking the number of supporters into the red. In my own study of 300 people, 54% voted that they were not happy with the inactivity of the club in the transfer market. Would they stop supporting Arsenal? 87% said no, 8% said they were undecided and the rest had converted to United, Barcelona or Real Madrid, in that order. Im aware that three hundred people cannot be representative of a continent of one billion. However, it brought me to the larger question:
why is Arsenal so popular in Africa? Arsenal arguably had the most Despite the eternal questioning of votes. Thierry and his Invincibles Wengers policies by some fans, the were at the height of their powers love for the club remains. This may and went on to win that last trophy be due to the emoa year later. This tional reasons respon- The Gunners seem song, by Dry Gin and sible which caused Frakaz, spoke of more effeminate, these fans to join ArHenry, Bergkamp and senal in the rst place. more vulnerable Pires. It also mentioned Cristiano Football teams see an upward surge Ronaldo, Rooney, Giggs and van Nisin their supporter numbers when telrooy. The dominance of Arsnes they do well and win trophies. The boys swung neutrals toward ArseArsenal is no dierent, with a large nal, as they wanted to be associated section of its youthful fan base being with a winning team. attracted during the glory days of the Invincibles. Some time in 2004, And then, theres the owing football. In writing this piece, I got reKenyan football fans woke up to sponses from Arsenal fans in sixteen Gani Kali kati ya Man U na Arsenali, African countries, mainly through a hit Swahili song asking Which is the wonderful world of Twitter. greatest between Arsenal and Man Every single one of them mentioned United?
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sexy or beautiful in their descriptions of the teams style. No surprise, then, Arsenal is referred to as the ladies team in many parts of the continent. Its believed that the grit and hard nature of United and Chelsea appeals more to the male psyche, while the Gunners seem more eeminate, more vulnerable (and thus more injuryprone). Yet, in my own woefully inadequate study, 12% of female Arsenal fans ticked Id sacrice baby-faced Arsenal players for mean-looking game winners any day. One of my good Arsenal-supporting friends always says he would like to see Denilson break more opponents legs, get the marching orders and get three points rather than listen to the
boys inching at every other tackle and having Wenger blame a lack of referee protection after the game is lost. Football is not a fair sport; you are not judged by chances created or missed but by the score at the end of a match. That said, this love of sexy football may be traced to the way Africas national teams traditionally play. The prevalent crosscontinental style is predicated on air and creativity. It was encouraged, among many others, by the legendary Sir Stanley Matthews, who visited Africa many times between the early 1950s and his death a few years ago. Again, even though the number of African imports at the club has fallen
over the years, with the departure of Kolo Tour to Manchester City being the most recent, an earlier legacy is at play in hearts across the continent. The initial acquisition and eventual elevation of Kanu Nwankwo (Nigeria), Lauren Etame Mayer (Cameroon), Emmanuel Adebayor (Togo) and others did a lot to cement the teams reputation. Its a pity there werent many pre-season tours to this part of the world at the height of the African presence in the team. In later years, the legacy of feeling an African-ness or black kinship with the club has continued. Sociologically, many African Gunners like to identify with the team because it seems African-friendly. Arsne, they point out, does not make excuses
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about the biennial African Nations When he spots a talent in any comCup being a reason he would not munity he goes for it. Among us sign African players, unlike the other footballers we hear a lot of weird top teams in the Premier League. stories about clubs where scouts are Going deeper into the picky about who they teams youth ranks, Venables, if he take. Arsenal has almore such talents are had any fucking ways been a very given opportunities to sense, would have open place, which is ourish and genuinely why we have some of brought through challenge for spots in the best gures black players the rst team. around when it comes to racial representaGhanaian-born Emmanuel Frimtion in the youth teams. pong was discovered at nine and was nurtured along with many othAnd it appears theres a historical diers, just missing out on a rst team mension, too. An elderly colleague, place to Jack Wilshere (partly due to Lenny Amartey, tells me of what he injury). Now 19, Frimpong has repcalls the North London Black Coresented England at youth level and nundrum. He lived in the area for speaks glowingly about Wengers the best part of two decades, until all-embracing nature: the late 90s, and, despite being He does not see black or white. African, is thoroughly British in his
mannerisms. According to him, Arsenal appeals to the black community more because of this kinship. People think it has to do with when Ian Wright joined the Gunners in 91. It goes back further than that. To the days of Viv Anderson. To Paul Davis. To Michael Thomas. To the late David 'Rocky' Rocastle. Those days. Amartey goes on: What I saw at the time was a historical distrust of black people by that other North London team. People felt inuential [Tottenham] players like Jimmy Greeves were racist. Terry Venables, too, when he was their manager. He reminds me that Venables took charge of Spurs in 1987, a time
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when the North London area held the second-largest black population in the whole of the United Kingdom. Venables, if he had any fucking sense, would have brought through black players to get them more goodwill, at least. How many did he get in? Venables had none, which naturally swung the black supporter base in Arsenals favour. When Venables eventually became the England manager in the mid 1990s, quite the same thing happened. He should have drafted [Les] Ferdinand and/or [Ian] Wright because they were two of the best England strikers at the time. He chose Alan Shearer and [Teddy]
Sheringham. People may argue that the race card is a delicate issue but its relevant to the story of Arsenals healthy numbers in Africa. Nigeria has Arsenals largest support base, followed by Kenya. These two countries have been in the news for more (extreme) fan-related behaviour in the past two years than any other nation. I could not believe my eyes when I read, in 2009, that 29-yearold Suleiman Omondi had hanged himself from the balcony of his house in Nairobi after Arsenals 3-1 loss to Manchester United. Wenger may not know about these cases. Or about Manneh in Gambia, who also says hes not leaving the club now despite the trophy no-
shows. Or about Gumede in Praetoria, who jokingly threatens to shift her love to her dads favorite South African rugby team, the Blue Bulls. If the Frenchman knew, maybe, just maybe, it would prod him to delve into his pocket for more hardy acquisitions to key areas of the team. If only to stop that one young fan from labelling his team poopoo!
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Nancy, With His Laughing Face
A short gentleman with perfect pores opened the door to the Heritage Suite. Nigel, holding a glass of twelve-year-old Scotch, neat, stepped inside and nodded to the man as he pulled the door closed, leaving the god to soak up the Arsenal Heritage. The room assaulted the senses. Three banks of dining tables, done in the modern style, dominated the foreground. The tables were clear glass, the chairs black leather, mounted on undulating black tube. The service was silver and crystal. The entire room was lit by halogen track lighting, which, from the vestibule, gave the effect of search and rescue helicopters intruding on a
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romantic interlude. Once you moved into the room proper, however, the lighting promoted an elegant, intimate environment, very easy on the eyes so long as you didnt look up. Nigel blinked to clear his vision and continued to the other side of the suite. Behind the bank of tables was a wall of booths done in plush red leather and hardwood. The booths looked out onto the pitch from a perfect centre line vantage point. As he gazed out the window, he realised that his view was distracted by three heads bobbing just on the other side and below the glass. Leaning over the booth to gain a bet-
ter perspective, Nigel was greeted by the sight of a beige fedora with a shiny satin band, from which a colourful feather was protruding, a red and green plaid tam and, in the middle, a freckled scalp in the advanced stages of male pattern baldness, ringed by curly brown hair. Nigel tapped on the glass and Hamishs face looked up from under the tam, smiled, and pointed to Nigels left. Finding a door in the shadow along the wall just next to the booth, Nigel exited the suite proper and joined his companions in their reserved seats. Coming round the corner, Nigel found the other three on their feet, waiting to greet him. Cwm had a frown on his big round face.
Was he still miffed about the vowels? Some people had no sense of humour. Behind him, the pom-pom on Hamishs tam was bobbing furiously as he gestured for Nigel to keep the peace. It was the tiny fellow closest to him, though, the fellow in the felt hat, matching plaid suit and slacks, and patent leather shoes, that brought a huge smile to his face. Nancy, lad! Its been ages, good to see you, man! The little black man in the hat laughed as Nigel rushed forward and fairly crushed him in an affectionate embrace. Nigel stepped back and looked at his friend and then gave him another bruising hug.
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Eyes, man! I wasnt expecting to run into you. And in London, no less! Fortune bite my arse! Nancy laughed again. The sound came easy to him. He shrugged his shoulders and twisted his neck, like a man just escaping the chiropractors clutches, went into a shadow crouch with his dukes up and waded playfully into Nigel. The bigger man laughed and responded in kind, which quickly brought a mock surrender from the diminutive fellow. Nigel laughed again. When did I last run across you? Lord and Lady, what was it? Seventy-one? Seventytwo? It was seventy-one, my friend. I am pleased that you remember.
Nancys voice was full of cheer, and had a musical quality to it, with an alto-tenor pitch. It was surprisingly deep coming from such a diminutive figure. If the dandy suit he was sporting were drenched, he might top eight stone. Oh, I remember, alright, Nigel chuckled. I had to trek all the way to Ujiji, just to make sure that you didnt lead that Yank up the garden path. How may other fellows did you lead a merry chase all over Africa, looking for Livingstone? Oh, I dont know, half a dozen, maybe? Nancys smile showed absolutely no remorse. At least! You know, Brits arent use to having their heroes put in a zoo
exhibit for African bushmen. And they say Im always causing trouble. You have me beat by half! Ah, well. Thats my job, my friend. Nancys smile grew bigger, if that were possible. Everyone needs to be brought down a peg, once in a while. Even you English. Nigel laughed again. Especially us English! But who are you here to peg back today? Well get to that, soon enough. Cwms scowl finally intruded on the reunion. The match is starting. Do sit down or well miss it. Nigel glanced over his shoulder. The players were positioned around the center circle, just waiting for the ref-
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erees signal to begin. Alright then, Cwm, alright. Nigel took a seat next to Nancy, giving him a friendly elbow and a wink. What, have you got a fiver on the game? The Welsh gods puffy cheeks turned a deep red and his jowls flapped madly about as he took the bait. Gambling is an evil vice, Nigel, and you know I dont indulge. You may like your fun and games but look at all the trouble it causes. Cwm seemed about to launch into a full fledged sermon but the match started and he was instantly drawn in. From the other side of him, Hamish leaned forward and caught Nigels eye.
Why do you always have to tease him, mate? Hes a good fellow in a pinch and you know it. Hes a stick-in-the-mud, Nigel sneered in reply. OK, so he takes life too seriously,
mate, but someone has to provide a counterweight for you. Nancy chuckled at the barb and Nigel shrugged it off with a guilty grin. An Arsenal player made a run down the flank and Cwm suddenly came to his feet. The play fizzled out, however, and the Welsh god slipped back into his seat, disappointed. Nigel looked over at Hamish. One of his lads? Hamish nodded. Looks a bit of alright. Cwm turned on him with a snarl.
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Yes, he does and no thanks to you! Me? What did I do? It was one of your lads who did him in, wasnt it? Dunno, mate, was it? Cwm lunged out of his seat but then lurched right back into it, as Hamish yanked hard on his shirttail. Take it down a notch, mate. Nigel wasnt around when that happened and you know it. No sense blaming him. Besides, this isnt why we came here. Nigel peered around a seething Cwm at the Scot. And why exactly did we come here?
Hamish smiled. Well, lets go in and have a nice dinner, and Ill explain. An hour later, after some excellent roast of lamb, Nigel found himself sipping a rather excellent wine and thinking that this was exactly why he had dreamt up the Game in the first place. So, we settle our differences on the pitch, then? Aye, its already been agreed. If we win, Manco closes up shop. Theres some other side bets, as well, but everyones in on the big one. Except you, of course. Oh, no. Im in. Definitely count me in, Hamish. I want that little rat
and his nasty powder out of my patch, and I mean sharpish. Good, then. The rest will be glad to hear it. Its not going to be easy, though. Manco has some heavyweights in his corner. Pierre and Gaston? Who else? But Ottos come out on their side, as well. Otto? Wouldnt have thought it of him. Cwm finally spoke up. Well, he was going to play with us but then you showed up out of the blue, got in a tussle with him, laid a kiss on his little bird before you left and that put paid to that.
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Well, what about you, Cwm? You always seem to have a bug up your arse about me. Im surprised youre not boning up on your comment a vas, too. Cwm shot out of his chair and began jabbing a fork in Nigels face. Well, if you bloody well took a moment to think before you stuck your bloody effing nose in where it doesnt bloody effing belong! OK, OK, Cwm. Take it easy, mate. Were all on the same side and this is going to work out, yeah? Cwm glared at Hamish, then at Nigel, then at Hamish again. Finally, he relaxed, gently put his fork back on the table, turned and walked out of the suite, slamming the door be-
hind him. Hamish looked at Nigel, reassuringly. Hell be alright. No worries. Okay, I guess. Nigel nodded, and then moved on. Who else we got? Well, there is me, my friend, Nancy smiled. You play? Hamish let out a belly laugh and Nigel looked over, confused. Boyo, he can play. Oh yes, you neednt worry about that! Hell be keeping their back line busy all night. We just have to worry about keeping Manco from doing the same
at the other end. Reassured, Nigel chuckled and playfully mashed Nancys hat down on his head. Dont you ever take that ugly thing off? Nancy laughed, Only when its time to get serious, my friend. Nigels chuckle grew into a full throated roar. This is going to be right fun, it is. Nancy laughed along with him but Hamish looked like a god who has realised he might have bitten off more than he could chew.
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ON THE PLEASURE OF HATING JACK WILSHIRE
Andrew Thomas >
Hate, as everybody knows, is a negative pursuit; a destructive approach to the world that serves only to diminish the hater. Haters gonna hate, we tut, pitying those who are so misanthropic in their bearing that they cannot help but bring contempt to the party, to ruin life and, more importantly, football with their ceaseless carping, their incessant sniping, with their vicious and vituperative bent. All well and good. What the hate haters wont tell you, however, is that hating can be healthy. Hating can be good. And hating can be an enormous amount of fun.
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ON THE PLEASURE OF HATING JACK WILSHERE
ANDREW THOMAS
A couple of conditionals. First, we are not talking about hate in a stupid, hyperpartisan, conspiratorial way. It is important, when hating, not to let your loathing consume and destroy your rationality. If this happens, you are lost. At all times, be fair. It is, as we shall see, perfectly possible to hate a footballer while understanding that he is pretty darned good at the game. Second, it is best to try to hate on a basis that isnt simply tribal. Not only does this expose you to greater risk of succumbing to hyperpartisan attitudes becoming nothing more than a vector for hate but it is, to be frank, boring. Hating a Scouser because you hate Scousers is alright, but its not what were talking about. Find somebody who evokes
something personal; nd a genuine reason to hate that specic Scouser more, and better, than you hate all other Scousers. Or, as in my case, nd a young lad from Stevenage, decide that you really cant stand the sight of him, and run with it. There are rational reasons to hate Jack Wilshere, of course: hes younger than me, hes disgustingly talented, and he plays for Arsenal. But there are players both younger and more talented than him that I actively like and there are Arsenal players that Ive admired, both reluctantly and enthusiastically. I even like Arsne Wenger, despite (or perhaps because of) his intense preciousness, Cyclopean stubbornness,
and barely concealed snobbery. But there is something uniquely repellent about Wilshere; something Im not sure I quite grasp even as I think about it. Something that seems almost larger than young Jack himself. Hating, of course, is perfectly and fundamentally natural. English essayist William Hazlitt in his splenetic On the Pleasure of Hating, to which this piece owes more than a little notes that the human condition is always to have a quantity of superuous bile upon the stomach. Its what we do. Anybody who doesnt is either a hippy or high (probably both) and so not to be trusted. And, while dwelling on hate can lead to misery, indulging it from time to time say, at the weekends can be a ne vocation.
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It helps that Wilshere is eminently hateworthy, for all kinds of reasons. Theres his face, cocked in a permanent half-pout, half-sneer; an expression that encapsulates all that is bad about Wengers latter-day Arsenal, convinced of its own superiority and disdainful of the inadequate world that fails to acknowledge it. He has the features, bearing and self-righteousness of a Young Conservative, a scion of privilege who knows that he will inherit the world because, quite simply, he deserves to. Then theres his tackling. Wilshere, like plenty of other footballers who like to consider themselves hard but lack that curious blackness of the soul that footballs genuine psychopaths thrive upon, is a nasty little
swine in the challenge. Frequently bricated by ocial tolerance and tollate, usually high, generally with a erant ociating, so now Wilshere ash of stud, he perpetually presnds reds becoming yellows, and ents the vice of callousyellows becoming stern ness as the virtue of Thats not words. This is not an accommitment. He is, in Wilsheres fault, tive conspiracy, but then short, very much that it doesnt need to be. It of course, but sort of player. One red is the simple and natural card in 64 starts may not then neither is consequence of being seem to reect that, but his face who you are. Players then, of course, who acquire a reputaWilshere is not disciplined or refertion for thuggery will nd themeed like other players, as Jermaine selves carded more; players who Pennant will tell you. acquire a reputation as the Great White Hope of English Football will For Wilsheres is the latest head nd that English football itself bearound which can be found the comes more accommodating to their peccadilloes, and their elbows, golden miasma of destiny, the halo and their sharp, ashing cleats. of England. Just as John Terry and Steven Gerrard and Alan Shearer Thats not Wilsheres fault, of before them have found their cacourse, but then neither is his face reers cushioned, smoothed and lu-
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nor his character, so at least were being consistent. And theres more, a million tiny oences against the soul: his persistent, petulant whining; his weirdly nationalist Tweeting; his classlessness in defeat; his classlessness in victory. I even briey entertained the notion that I hated him because he should have taken Aaron Ramseys leg-chopping, the thought being that England churn out decent midelders all the time, whereas Ramsey is very literally a once-in-a-generation talent for Wales. I abandoned that, though, as being perhaps a touch unsustainable. All the above is, of course, colossally hypocritical. Each and every one of the malign attributes outlined above can be found in plenty of players
that I dont despise with the same enthusiasm, to say nothing of a few players that I actively adore. What this means is that the hatred doesnt emerge from these attributes as such; it is not contingent on Wilshere looking like an over-indulged Tory leg-scraper. Instead, I think its better to understand the hatred as being sparked by something minor a late tackle followed by a querulant yelp but then being sustained and enhanced by the sheer joy of it; hate piling upon hate in a kind of malicious feedback loop, forming a glorious pile of blood-boiling, teeth-gnashing rage, the result of which is I cant actually look at him without wanting to kick something small and furry and cute. Its marvellous. Hazlitt writes that
without something to hate, we should lose the very spring of thought and action. Life would turn to a stagnant pool, were it not rufed by the jarring interests, the unruly passions, of men. And this is what Jack Wilshere does for me: by being the centre of the loathed universe, he keeps the pool fresh, and thought and action springy. You are not just dened by your loves, but by your hatreds; without knowing what you stand against, as well as for, you are nothing. And the best thing about hating Wilshere like this is that it has nothing (or at least very little) to do with the football. It runs happily concurrent to any assessment of Wilsheres footballing ability very good, potentially outstanding, may nd de-
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velopment awkward with the tongues of half the Fourth Estate rammed up his back passage and so doesnt really aect the game. Instead, it seasons it; gives it spice and tang. That he seems to be a colossally boring man only makes it sweeter. (See? Even when Im trying not to insult him, I end up insulting him.) In truth, I do not come to bury Wilshere, but to praise him. To praise him for adding a whole new dimension of derision to Arsenal games; for applying a whole new layer of loathing to the England team; and for inspiring a greater love for Ramsey who may only be his rival in my head, but thats what counts than I thought possible. Hes given me a dark heart at the
centre of the universe; the purest avatar of the yin that squats in opposition to all the wondrous yang out there. But, like the yin yang, its not truly about good and evil, or about right and wrong. Its about my centre. If I am to love and, this being football, I will love, love, and love again then it stands to reason I must hate in equivalent degree, lest I lose balance and spin away, ailing and discombobulated. Im not telling you to hate Jack Wilshere. If you do, welcome; if not, thats your own lookout. But nd somebody. Find a player, or manager, or club, or mascot, or badge, or even a groundsman, that rubs you the wrong way, that gets right on your wick and your tits. Gary Neville, I suspect, was a popular
choice for many a year. Stephen Hunt has the right stu in spades. More obscurely, perhaps Cyril the Swan? The entire population of Stoke? The owl on Oldham Athletics badge? As the experience of football gets increasingly sterile, you owe it to yourself to stoke up some ery loathing. Youll enjoy yourself. And thats what this is all about: you, the audience, have found your pantomime villain. Boo. Hiss. Hes behind you! Trust me. Its a lot of fun.
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Let The Game Pour Down From Gods Above
Nigel bounced up and down in the dark, his nerves on edge. How can you get twenty-two gods together for a football match, not to mention countless others in the stands to watch, then let the stadium lights go out? Frankly, it was embarrassing. Hed grab the ball and piss off if there werent so much at stake. Eventually there was a series of loud clicks, followed by an intense hum, and the pitch was bathed in light once again. Players immediately latched onto balls and began running through drills. Nigel took a moment to soak in the surroundings. The Monumental certainly had been named well. The stands rose up steeply on all sides and the gods in paying attendance
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LET THE GAME POUR DOWN FROM GODS ABOVE
were already in full song, rooting on their chosen side. Nigel caught sight of Hamish coming back onto the field, wiping his hands with a rag and looking about sheepishly. Sorry bout that. A drunken satyr spilled some mead on the wiring. All sorted now. Nigel nodded and, noticing a spot of grease on Hamishs cheek, made a mirroring gesture on his own. Got a bit on yer face, mate. Huh? Oh, cheers! Hamish wiped at his cheek with two fingers, leaving behind a much big-
ger smudge than before. grinned. No, mate. Other cheek.
Nigel
No worries. Nancy took in the exchange, looked at Hamishs warpaint, his grin widening, and elbowed Nigel in the ribs. The Brit bit his tongue to keep a straight face. Looking at Nancy's hat, Nigel asked, "Don't you ever take that ugly thing off?" Nancy let out a guttural laugh. "Only when I get serious, my friend," he replied. "Besides, the women love it." Nigel barked at that and played at trying to snatch the headgear away. Manco strutted up, wearing the armband for his side. Gaston and Pierre,
Hamish left a matching trail on the opposite side. That got it? Nigel shook his head. Missed a bit. Another smudge appeared just as Nancy jogged up. His feathered felt hat was still atop his head Thats got it. Thanks.
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still topped with berets and dragging on cheap cigarettes, accompanied him. Even up close, it was impossible to tell them apart, but Padraig claimed he had it on good authority that they werent twins. Not even related, he said. Are we ready? Manco sneered. Hamish slipped on his armband and nodded in the affirmative. Manco looked momentarily confused by the black marks on the Scots face, but decided to ignore them. All sides ave agreed upon the stakes, non? One of either Gaston or Pierre spoke up. Trying to decide which it was could give a god a headache. Nigel de-
cided that from now on whichever one spoke, he would think of him as Gaspierre. Hamish reassured the French duo that everyone had agreed to all pertinent wagers. Nigel looked about. Where are the officials? No way are this lot going to work on the honour system. Otto materialised in full kit and boots, four startled men in tow and with Ramona, replete in armour, horned helm and her own face paint, on his arm. He glared angrily at Nigel as he answered. They are right here. The foremost man wore a whistle
around his neck. He was seventy if a day, pale-skinned, balding and potbellied. There were two others carrying flags, the first short, olive-skinned and bearded, wearing a ghutra on his head, and the second a tall black fellow, bespectacled and looking quite unhappy. The fourth man, carrying an electronic time clock, was Caucasian, with a cheerful disposition and a thick mane of wavy black hair. Gaspierre looked particularly displeased by his presence. Nigel snorted. Youve got to be joking! Except for the one carrying the clock, none of them look like they could walk around a moat, let alone keep up with us for ninety minutes. Do they
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even know the rules? Taylor spoke up from behind him. If you took a survey most people would say no. But theyre the ones who run the mortal game. The referee is the FIFA President. Anyway, for them this is merely a dream. They are each actually in bed, sound asleep. They run the Game? Nigel sized them up again. Lord and Lady! This is a bigger job than Id thought. Manco cackled and the rotund referee blew his whistle, waving everyone into position to start the match. One moment! It was Otto. We
must have the anthem. If you please, I have brought my delightful consort to do the honours. Collective groans came from all sides. Ramona pretended not to hear and cleared her throat as she waited for everyone to stand guard. When the two sides were lined up and quiet she launched into an earsplitting aria,
of which Nigel could understand nary a word. He leaned toward Hamish and whispered, Listen, mate. In all the excitement, I didnt get a wager in. I feel kind of cheated. Hamishs countenance reddened slightly as he stammered, Ah, yes... well, you see... ah, um, well actually you do have a wager in. We agreed it beforehand, in your absence. Nigels eyes narrowed, and Hamish began to look positively uncomfortable. Well? Out with it, man! What have you got me into?
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Cwm spoke up, on the far side of the Scot. If we lose, you give up any proprietary rights to the Game, any authority over it, and agree to depart from this plane for five millennia. What? Im banished, and while Im gone you lot are free to screw up my Game? Sod that! He took a step out of the line, intending to make straight for Manco. Hamish grabbed him by the arm and hissed, Its too late, mate. Oath has been given. All you can do is abide by it. If you break the pact, youll be sent packing anyway. Glaring at the two of them and furiously fighting down his own rage, Nigel finally ground his teeth and muttered, Then wed best win, had-
nt we? Ramona finished her performance on a high note that threatened to shatter the banks of lights ringing the ground. It was debatable whether the muted applause was in appreciation of her talents or the fact that the audience had survived them without any permanent damage to their eardrums. Nigel took up a position in the rear of midfield. To his right was Epsen of Hollandia. He was well named, a Dutch bear indeed, with his shock of black hair, a thick beard and a mat of curly fur covering his forearms and legs. Not only that, he was as huge as a bear, in the bargain. Nigel hoped he was as agile as his namesake.
Behind him, the line was Home Nations all the way, Cwm and Hamish in the middle, Padraig on the right and crafty little Declan on the left. Paddy was actually better in central defence, but the two Irish gods stubbornly refused to get any closer to each other on the pitch. In goal was Taylors husband, Todd. Nigel frowned. Hadnt she said he was a cheerleader? She noticed his worried look and called over to him. Todll be fine. Hes allowed to use his hands and hes very enthusiastic! Nigel took another look. Todd was smacking his hands together in their giant keepers gloves, his head bobbing and neck veins throbbing as he
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pumped himself up. Nigel began to worry about what he might be doing for the next five thousand years. He turned back towards Taylor and she gave him two thumbs up. Well, Hamish and Cwm had their work cut out. He had no reservations about the girl, though. If she could handle the ball in a match the way she did in Medellin, shed do fine, and Hamish had gushed about what Nancy could do in the box. All Taylor needed to do was get the ball to the little African. On the wings were two familiar faces, but Nigel couldnt put names to them. He gestured to Hamish. Theyre two of Emil the Turks sons. Theyll do fine.
Nigel grunted. The whistle blew and everyone began to move. The pace was quicker than he had anticipated but Nigel adjusted immediately. Manco was up front all alone but Pierre and Gaston best not to lump them together just now were slotted in behind him. There was a trio of Asians behind them in the midfield, with Otto and Ivan, the big Russian, anchoring the defence. He couldnt make out who was in goal, but the fellow had a massive moustache, a pointed beard and a huge turban. The full-backs were strange faces as well. Pierre and Gaston quickly began working the ball back and forth
across the pitch, trying to open up Hamish and Cwm and catch Nigel and Epsen out of position. Well, Nigel was having none of that. The Gallic pair recycled possession well, playing the ball back to whence it came whenever someone crowded them, but they also liked to work with each other too often. More than once, one of the Asians made a run for a through ball, but every time it ended up at the feet of a French god on the halfway line instead. About a quarter of an hour in, Nigel found what he was looking for. Gaspierre slotted a ball through Epsens legs, expecting the other Gaspierre to slip into the empty space. Nigel nipped in and got there a second sooner, tapping the ball quickly to Epsen who was now in
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acres of space. The Dutchman looked up and instantly spread it right, into Taylors path, but a shrill whistle broke up the counter attack. Nigel turned to see a grimacing French god rolling on the ground, clutching a shin. What the hell? Nigel hadnt even touched him. The fat little bald man walked up and flashed a yellow card in his face. Nigel went ballistic. Are you mad? I got the ball, not him, you moron! What the? Before he could get the rest out Hamish and Cwm had corralled him, and Taylor as well. Epsen was doing his best to calm the startled human and keep Manco, Gaston and Pierre, both on their feet now and looking
fresh as daisies, from egging the old fellow into producing a red. Calm down! Hamish urged.
Cwm stood stunned for a moment. Then he actually smiled too, and clapped Nigel on the back. Lets do it!
But Cwm cut him off this time. Getting you sent off is just what they want, you effing fool. Get your head out of your arse or were done. Nigel rounded on him but then got hold of himself. Cwm was right. Had to happen eventually. He didn't put voice to the thought but it brought a smile to his face and broke the red haze in front of his eyes. Right. Youre right. Sorry. Im fine, now. Lets go. Manco was impatiently standing over the ball, eager to take the free kick. The ref was having none of it, however, and allowed Todd to set up his wall. The Yank barked out orders as though hed been doing it all his life. Who the bloody hell was this bloke? And what had he done with Taylor's meek little hubby? Nigel took his spot in the front line. The wall leapt in unison as Manco connected with the ball. On his return to earth, Nigel twisted to see the result.
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The ball had curled above and around the wall and was bending right towards the angle of the goal. Crap. At the last instant, however, a huge gloved hand was there, and the ball caromed harmlessly outside the post. The save was followed by a triumphant roar from the stoked American keepe. Well done, Todd! Manco hurried over and lined up the corner. Nigels group was well organized, though, and Hamish got a head to the in-swinger. It ricocheted directly to Nigel, who took one touch to get it over to his fellow anchorman, Espen. The big bear could move, the Brit was glad to see. He slipped past one half of Gaspierre, took another touch and sent the ball to the centre circle.
Taylor locked onto it and moved into the attacking half, drifting slightly to the right. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shape dart behind two others, and she sent a low, perfectly weighted ball between Ivan and Otto. Nancy streaked in from the opposite side, just beat the charging keeper to the ball, flitted past his flailing lunge and toed the ball into the goal. Nigel punched his fist in the air in jubilation. One-nil! Five thousand years, his arse! The side quickly settled back, continuing to separate Gaston from Pierre. Each time they won the ball back, Manco screeched in frustration, while Epsen moved the ball
from flank to flank, picking out passes masterfully. Life was good. Just before time, however, it turned bad. Very bad. After a sustained pummeling of the opposing goal, during which they couldnt seem to find the final touch, Nigels side were caught napping. Otto latched onto a loose pass and sent the ball soaring down the pitch, more in hope than expectation. Manco was sharp, though. While his markers hesitated, he raced onto the clearance and side-footed past Todd from the edge of the area to level the score. Before Nigels troops could regroup, the ball was back down their end again. Gaston and Pierre finally
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worked some space just outside the area, combined with a neat one-two, then slipped a ball into the six yard box. It was an inch too far for Manco. Nevertheless, as the ball trundled out for a goal kick, the devious Incan cleverly tripped himself over Cwms trailing foot, collapsing in a heap and wailing like a banshee. The tubby official, twenty yards behind play, pointed to the spot. Manco dusted himself down and calmly calmly sent Todd the wrong way, placing the ball just inside the other post. Manco danced through the box, arms raised. Cackling madly, he pointed to the dejected keeper. You are too easy, Americano! In just a couple of minutes the game
had turned on its head. The halftime whistle sounded and Nigel jogged over to a despondent Todd. Slipping an arm over Todds drooping shoulders, Nigel squeezed hard and said, Shrug it off, mate. Neither was your fault. Well get it back.
But But nothing, mate. Youre doing fine. Forget whats happened and get your head back in the game. We need you! Todd looked up at Nigel. He smiled like a newborn. Right. You can count on me! Good on ya! Nigel turned to find Taylor beaming. Blushing, he headed the other way to confab with Hamish and Cwm. After mulling it over for a bit, the trio agreed that they were doing fine. Both goals could be put down to incompetent officiating, and there wasnt much they could do about that.
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Theyd carry on as they were after the restart, and if they couldnt find their way back theyd think about opening up and perhaps bringing in a fresh body. Nigel hoped it didnt come to that, though. The pine was filled with fresh-faced young godlings who looked as though theyd never even seen a battle, let alone been in the thick of one. The second half started slowly, both sides wary of conceding a goal that would drastically change the face of the game. Mancos pack were sitting back, soaking up pressure and looking to hit on the counter. Nigel and Espen were prepared though, tracking back to help cut off any service to Manco and his French allies. As the clock ticked down to the final
quarter of an hour, the scoreboard still read 2-1. A deflected long shot had resulted in a rare corner for the opposition, and Pierre and Gaston worked it short to Manco, twenty yards out. He was surprisingly strong for his size. Managing to shake both Hamish and Cwm, he burst into the area. Only Todd, knees knocking but gloves at the ready, was between Manco and the game. Nigel saw it all unfolding, but he was just out of range to handle it properly. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to take Manco down. And if he was, he might as well get his moneys worth. Racing in from behind, Nigel launched himself at the little Incan, raking his sharp studs from thigh to ankle.
Manco went to the ground, screaming. This time his pain was genuine. A shrill whistle pierced the prostate strikers groans and the crowds jeers. An incensed tub of lard came bounding over, whistle shrieking with each breath and his hand frantically waving a card as red as his cheeks. Looking down at the stillwhimpering Manco, Nigel shook his head. Take it like a god, you little shit. As he turned to head off the pitch, he glanced at Todd. The American looked pale and grim but he gave Nigel a thumbs-up. The Brit slumped against the corner of the tunnel entrance and watched Manco, recovered now, confidently step up to the ball. The drug lord made a
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herky-jerky approach, hoping to deceive Todd one more time and kill off the match not to mention Nigels career. Absolutely full of himself, Manco cheekily sent a soft shot right down the middle. Todd, tensed for another leap, showed amazing instincts and stayed rooted to the spot, simply kneeling to cradle the slowly rolling ball into his arms. A huge grin spread across his features and he pointed back at Manco. Who's easy now, Corto? Manco's visage turned a deep purple. Alone on the spot, stamping his feet and screaming at the top of his lungs, the tiny Incan looked the complete fool
Even down a god, Taylor and the lads were inspired by the save and they rallied. Pierre and Gaston were shackled by a reinvogorated midfield patrol of Espen and Taylor, and as they could get no space or time on the ball, Mancos supply dried up. When a ball did make it through, his fury had upset his timing. Still, the sands of time were running down for Nigel. Then the game turned ugly. Taylor, fed again by Epsen, turned on a sixpence and sprinted into space. From either side, Pierre and Gaston, who had dropped back into midfield to see out the game, closed on her. One gave her a hard shoulder and the other slid in, cracking into her ankle before nudging the ball
away. Taylor went down. She stayed down. She hadnt made a sound raising herself another notch or two in Nigels eyes but he knew she was finished. Half of Nigels squad rushed to the American goddess aid, waving for a physio, while the rest restrained Todd, eyes bulging and mouth frothing, from getting his gloves on Pierre and Gaston. The referee stood patiently by, cards firmly in pocket and hands on hips. Nigel realised hed better think about a sub. He didnt recognise any of the gods on the bench; mostly sons of old friends, he suspected. Their wide eyes pleaded up at him, searching for an indication of who should go on.
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As he mulled over the unenviable decision, the air beside him suddenly crackled. A pasty-faced god with raven hair and a hooked nose materialised. He was kitted up and ready to go. Meeting Nigels eyes with a twinkling set of his own, his smile exposed a row of yellow, crooked teeth. Hello, friend. Need some help? Nigel threw his head back and laughed. Sandor, you old bastard! So what was you after all, you scheming old squire. Ill be damned! Sandor nodded towards the pitch. I was hoping to prevent that, he replied.
Nigel extended an arm towards the pitch. By all means. At a nod from the fourth official, the Hungarian trotted into the fray, clapping for Taylor as the stretcher carted her off, then briskly shaking hands with Espen and Nancy. The little African turned towards Nigel, his everpresent smile replaced by a menacing glare. He lifted his hat off his head and flung it over the touch line. It was time to get serious. Pierre and Gaston were obviously less than enchanted with this Sandors admittance, and the pair loudly harangued the referee. A thundercloud crossed the elderly humans round face, and his whistle fairly roared as he shooed the two French gods away with surprising authority.
Maybe this one had something in him after all. The match started up again and it soon became evident that Epsen and Sandor had something of an understanding. They moved the ball between them with even more telepathy than Pierre and Gaston, but kept the others involved, too. Despite their godpower advantage, the two Gallic deities and their mates were now desperately on the back foot. Otto and Ivan had a firm leash on Nancy, however, and he didnt look like breaking free again. They had help, as well. The Arab linesman, in the Ghufta, had begun raising the offside flag every time the little African looked like having half a chance. Thankfully, the sour-
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faced fellow on the other side seemed completely uninterested in participating in his dream. He followed the play up and down the touchline, but his expression never changed and his arm never left his side. Knowing they couldnt catch Manco offside made Hamish and Cwms job simpler, as one man-marked him and the other swept in behind. Epsen and Sandor kept plugging away in their attempts to find Nancy, determined to fight for their redcarded mate till the last. As the stadium clock approached ninety minutes, Nancy came to the top of the box to collect an angled ball. Marked by two defenders, instead of turning back into the crowded area
he laid a return pass in front of Sandor, who stepped into it with authority. His low effort fizzed through Ottos legs and thumped into the net, just inside the far post. The bearded and turbaned keeper hadnt a prayer, and the match was all square. Nigel danced on the touchline gleefully. Incensed, Manco, Pierre and Gaston redoubled their efforts and, as the fourth official indicated seven minutes of injury time might as well put up eternity, Nigel though they descended on Todds goal. Hamish and Cwm did their honest best but the pressure was overwhelming and efforts rained in. Yet it didnt matter. Todd was a god
transformed; stinging shots were parried left, right, tipped over the bar or smothered. Crosses were punched out and he screamed encouragement at his line so loudly that even Nigel, now pacing back and forth in the six by four technical area, could hear it over the raging crowd. At last, the whistle blew and twentyone gods stood on the pitch, stunned. The match was deadlocked and noone seemed quite sure what would happen next. Pierre and Gaston were lobbying for extra time, but Hamish held firm. We agreed on ninety minutes, me froggies, and ninety minutes it is. Nigel stays and, reluctantly, so does Manco. He glared at the Incan.
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Count yourself lucky, mate. Nigel strode up with a wicked grin on his face but Manco chose discretion over valour, fading hastily out of sight. Gaston and Pierre looked at each other, then, in unison, at Nigel. Merde, two voices snarled in harmony, and then they too were gone. Otto walked up and offered his hand. Well played, he said, and he meant it. I enjoyed myself. The woman was quite good but I think Id rather deal with her than that tricky customer Sandor. See you next year? Nigel smiled grudgingly, Maybe sooner, mate. As Otto took his leave, Nigel could
have sworn that Ramona offered him a surreptitious wink. Nah. That was just too much woman for him. Turning to his teammates he put both arms around a startled Sandor, planting a kiss firmly on the Hungarians lips. Laughing merrily, he addressed the rest. Alright, who knows where theres a decent pub in this burgh? Im buying!
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ENGLISHMANS GUIDE TO THE COPA AMERICA
Emelie Okeke >
Featuring the greatest footballer in the world, the best player from the World Cup and the most exciting young prospect in the game, Copa America 2011 promises not to disappoint. He's on his way to becoming the best player in history. Given what we already know and because he surpasses himself day by day, he's already the best in the world. Sergio Batista was one of the 80,000 awestruck spectators in the Stadio Bernabeu on 29 April who witnessed Lionel Messi's mesmerising two-goal display against Real Madrid
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in the Champions League semi-nal rst leg. As manager of the Argentina national team, Batista is placed better than most to predict the dizzying heights that the Barcelona forward can reach. Noone will be hoping more than Batista that Messi can steer La Albiceleste to victory in their homeland and keep the under-re coach in his job in the process. The drama surrounding the 43rd edition of what, pound-for-pound, is the true heavyweight champion of international competitions began well before the nal twelve talentladen squads had even assembled on Argentine soil. There were managerial upheavals and administrative power-struggles in the aftermath of the World Cup a tournament that
Batista was appointed caretaker manager after the sacking of his more celebrated 1986 World CupArgentina departed South Africa on winning team-mate. A despondent 3 July, 2010, chastened by a crushing Maradona was less than complidisplay of German eciency and mentary towards his successor, counter-attacking guile more suited claiming that El Checho would not to the playing elds of Buenos Aires even be recognised in Uruguay. To than the training pitches of Berlin. his credit, the new man has reWith a major tournament mained reticent in the of their own to be hosted face of criticism from his Group A less than 12 months after esteemed peer. Batistas Argentina being given the bums rush reign formally began in Bolivia from Cape Town, the powmost encouraging fashion Colombia ers that be in the Argenin Qatar, seven months tine Football Association ago, with a 1-0 friendly Costa Rica broke free from their mavvictory over arch-rivals Brazil, featuring a 90th minute goal erick head coach and playing legend from Messi. of yesteryear, replacing the uninhibited Diego Maradona with a less Yet, the pressure has heightened on outspoken maverick head coach and the former River Plate midelder in playing legend of yesteryear.
was, on the whole, utterly underwhelming for Latin America.
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the wake of some less than enlightening displays in the close season, including defeats to Nigeria and Poland (albeit with shadow sides elded). Despite these showings, with their Champions League-winning superstar in tow, a record 15th continental title is in high demand among the notoriously fanatical Argentine faithful.
Domestic-based starlets such as Lucas (Sao Paolo) and Ganso (Santos) have already been coveted by numerous European outfits, and the pair now have the opportunity to showcase their ability in the famous golden shirt of the Selecao during a major tournament. The crown jewel of this new litter of gifted youth is undoubtedly Ganso's club-mate, Neymar. This 19-year-old forward is top quality and plays like he knows it; employing an abundance of tricks and feints to complement his powerful bursts of pace and eet-footed nishing. He has made one appearance on English soil, running the show as Brazil easily defeated Scot-
land in a friendly at the Emirates Stadium earlier this year. Seeing as Chelsea apparently lead his long list of suitors, London may soon be seeing more of the player who could challenge Messi for player of the tournament this summer. As seeded nations, Brazil and Argentina have been kept apart in the draw for the group stage and appear to emerge as prime beneciaries of favourable pairings for the preliminaries. The Selecao will begin the defence of their trophy against Venezuela, followed by dark-horses Paraguay - arent they always? - and Antonio Valencia-driven Ecuador. The curtain-raiser for hosts Argentina also kicks o the competition: a date with Bolivia. They then face Columbia and Costa Rica, the
The Brazilians also embarked on a managerial regime change in the wake of their quarternal disappointment last summer. The phlegmatic Dunga made way for Mano Menezes and, with the 2014 Brazilian World Cup in mind, Menezes is ushering in a new era of young talent.
Group B Brazil Ecuador Paraguay Venezuela
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latter having been drafted in as late replacements for earthquake and tsunami-stricken Japan. The Japanese had been invited to compete as a guest nation but were forced to pull out in the devastating wake of the natural and nuclear disaster in their homeland, which led to the subsequently delayed JLeagues understandable reluctance to release its players. In their absence, there had been speculation that the United States or possibly Spain (!) would step in. In the end, however, neither was willing to commit after their players had endured a shortened summer in 2010, through duty in South Africa. The Americans also were committed to the CONCACAF Gold Cup, which they just lost to Mexico, last week-
end, and are in the midst of the MLS club campaign. Costa Rica were involved in the God Cup, as well, but, having lost out to Uruguay for a spot in South Africa, felt fresh enough to do double duty.
landed in what will undoubtedly be dubbed the Group of Death: Group C.
There resides Atletico Madrid's striker supreme Diego Forlan, who was named the best player of the An unintended by-product of World Cup. He will again be the Japans natural disaster is a routine lynchpin for the incisive attacking passage to the knockout stages for play which made Uruguay such a joy Argentina, much to the chagrin of to watch last summer, with the obtheir rivals. Messi and co. vious exception of their were the only outfit from opener against France. Group C Group A to qualify for Forlan looks set to reprise Chile South Africa 2010, and the the playmaker role that he gap in class should be clearly relishes for the naMexico telling. tional team, behind EdinPeru son Cavani and Luis Uruguay Suarez. Mexico, who apparently cant get enough football, Looking through the provisional are the second invitee. They happily Uruguay squad, the key element avoided Brazil and Argentina but
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which emanates from their roster is stability. The majority of their squad are at the peak of their careers and have accrued a large number of caps. Unlike Brazil, Argentina and Group C rivals Chile, the Celeste retained their manager after an impressive World Cup where they outperformed all other Latin American entrants. That may be a crucial detail in this tournament. Oscar Tabarez has now been in charge for ve years, overseeing a remarkable improvement in results which resulted in an elevation to a record high of sixth in the FIFA World Rankings. They have since dropped one place, falling in behind England. It would, of course, still be a shock if Uruguay won the Copa America, or even made the nal, but
there is an abounding feeling in Montevideo that, if a tournament triumph is to befall this famous football nation during this generation, then it will happen this summer. Chile may have parted ways with their Argentine head coach, Marcelo Bielsa, but they have deservedly earned their reputation as an entertaining, refreshingly forwardminded team, buoyed by the youthful exuberance of alumni from their recently successful Under-20 and Under-17 sides. Big things were expected of La Roja at the World Cup but, despite ashes of enterprise, an unkind draw contributed to early meetings with Spain and Brazil, leading to a second round exit. Another Argentine from the class of
86 now manages the team; Claudio Borghi took the reins in February. He is being paid a salary of $1.5million and will be expected to at least lead his adopted nation to knockout football in his motherland. Fans of the richer European clubs will be especially interested in the displays of winger-cum-striker Alexis Sanchez. The Udinese player has been linked predominantly with Barcelona and Manchester City, with the Friuli side reportedly holding out for a 50 million windfall. Peru are the side most likely to miss out on the knockout stages from Group C, yet any team led by the seasoned striking talent of Claudio Pizzaro and backed up by the pace of Jeerson Farfan cannot be dis-
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counted. Farfan bullied Inter Milan in the Champions League this season and Brazilian defender Maicon will not have fond memories. The Schalke forward is most denitely on the 'Bale List'. Finally, we return to Mexico. El Tri will be backed to religious extremes by their ever-fervent support, but theyve suered momentous setbacks in their preparation. Five members of their Gold Cup squad were suspended indenitely after testing positive for a banned substance in a routine doping test during this summer's CONCACAF. This will not directly aect the composition of their Copa America squad though, as they are sending a shadow roster to Argentina, comprised entirely of home-based play-
ers with the exceptions of Spurs worth noting that some of the nest forward Giovani Dos Santos and his clubs in Europe will be losing the younger brother, cream of their Latin PLAYERS TO WATCH Jonathan, who plies American talent durBravo GK Chile his trade for ing what is a key peZapata DEF Colombia riod of pre-season Barcelona B. Still, Da Silva DEF Paraguay morale among opreparation, the maCacares DEF Uruguay cials and supporters jority of July. The Zanetti DEF Argentina Madrid clubs, as well is at a low ebb and if Vargas MID Peru the uncertainty as Udinese and AC Ganso MID Brazil trickles down to the Milan, will have noBanega MID Argentina table absentees, but largely inexperiFalcao FOR Colombia it appears that enced group of Suazo FOR Chile players performMilan's neighbours Barrios FOR Paraguay ances will suer. Internazionale will Realistically theyll suer the most, with be hoping to scrape through as one Javier Zanetti, Diego Milito, Lucio, Maicon and Julio Cesar having all reof the two best third-placed teams. ported to their respective nations. So, those are the twelve particiAs well as these Nerazzuri players efpants. Before I do a Lawro and unfectively missing pre-season trainveil my expert predictions, it is
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ing, factor in a recent World Cup and a long season of Champions League glory just before that, and its fair to say they will be returning to Inter for the start of the new campaign o the back of two years of non-stop competitive football. With a new manager in Gianpero Gasperini at the helm, it will be no surprise if the start of the Serie A season throws up a few surprise results. For Bara fans, prayers will be directed towards Messis unscathed return to his club come August. For Argentina's faithful, prayers will be directed towards the world's number one footballer returning the Copa America trophy to Buenos Aires for the rst time in almost two decades.
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CONTRIBUTORS
Jude Ellery FOOTBALLFARRAGO > @JudeEllery > Founder and editor of Man and Ball. After being inspired by the brilliant Blizzard I decided to produce something along the same lines, but with a fantasy twist. My blog includes work from guest writers, many of whom can be found below.
Martin Palazzotto WORLD FOOTBALL COLUMNS > @Martin_Whitehat > Runs World Football Columns, a collaborative site than comprises a weekly pick of fixtures as well as provocative thoughts on major stories from around the globe. Makes virtual peanuts, serving as Nigel's chief biographer.
David Hartrick IN BED WITH MARADONA > @Hartch > Co-edits the best football blog around dont just take my word for it though, ask some of the 10,000 readers IBWM attracts every day. Luckily for us, hes agreed to serialise his Chairman Diaries story in Man and Ball, and it turns out hes as good a writer as he is editor.
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Jonathan Lines PRETTY, PRETTY GOOD BLOG > @JonathanLines1 > Owes knowledge of German football to having lived in Weimar for a year, watching a lot of games and learning general stuff out of university procrastination. Supports West Ham, for whom goalkeeper Bert Trautmann performed heroics in the 1956 FA Cup final, despite suffering a broken neck. Knew there was a flimsy link somewhere.
Tomasz Mortimer HUNGARIAN FOOTBALL > @HungariaFootbal > Currently on a one-man mission to educate the masses on Hungarian football, past and present. Also knowledgeable on Eastern European football in general. Looking for new blood to contribute writings, art, photos or videos as long as its related to Magyar Foci, Toms interested.
Mohamed Moallim LA CROQUETA > @jouracule > A love affair with lOranje; can usually be found absorbed in DVDs of The Netherlands and Ajax circa 1970. Expect articles on Dutch legends of yesteryear, but also musings on other topics. One of Martin Palazzottos disciples from WFC.
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Stefan Bienkowski THE OVAL LOG > @gtefan_gla > Once upon a time Stefan was a regular contributor to FootballFarrago, but now focuses his energies on his similarly pretentious, anti-mainstream blog now a world football site that currently includes a brilliant team-by-team preview of the Copa America.
Samuel Garuda @SamuelGaruda > Elusive and creative in equal measure. His sharp writing deals with major and minor issues alike, and happily some more of his work can be found at FootballFarrago. Captain Capellos Mandolin was a real gem, and definitely should be the name of a band.
Gary Al-Smith @garyalsmith > A nomad of the blogosphere, Gary has written for ESPN, ITV and Kicker. Hes your go-to guy for African football knowlegde if he doesnt know about it, its not worth knowing.
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Andrew Thomas TWISTED BLOOD > @Twisted_Blood > Acerbic, intelligent, inquisitive, unforgiving. And a decent writer, too. Look up the brilliant Through Gritted Teeth series and Gardening Leave.
Emelie Okeke RAMBLING WITH GAMBLING > @Emelie_Okeke > Writes readable football essays, which is a commendable feat in itself. Again, discovered via a gumtree advert for FootballFarrago, hell surely go on to grace better blogs and maybe even a real life newspaper one day.
Christopher Lee CHRISTOPHER LEE > A modern artist (is it possible to be anything else?), who branched out into illustration as a favour at first, and has now become our resident Nigel portraitist. Also supplied this issues front cover.
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Gant Powell GANTPANTS > @gantpants > They said it couldnt be done, but weve manged to produce this with two Americans on the team and not one mention of soccer. Illustrations flooded with emotion, as you can see by his pictures that accompany our articles. Has worked for all sorts of publications in the States; a real coup.
The following have helped with this issue of Man and Ball: Promotion: ManUtd24 > Football Stryder > James Lee > Technical help: The Blizzard >
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COPYRIGHT
Man and Ball Issue One: Let Sleeping Gods Lie. Written by Martin Palazzotto and Jude Ellery. Contributions from David Hartrick, Jonathan Lines, Tomasz Mortimer, Mohamed Moallim, Stefan Bienkowski, Samuel Garuda, Gary AlSmith, Andrew Thomas, Emelie Okeke, Christopher Lee and Gant Powell. This Issue published 28.06.2011 Copyright manandball.com and individual authors/illustrators. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. This issue is free, so please email it to a friend. Careful though Nigel doesnt take kindly to plagiarism. Contact Man and Ball: manandball@mail.com Website > Facebook > Twitter >
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ISSUE ONE - JULY 2011

MAN AND BALL

Let Sleeping Gods Lie

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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES

David Hartrick >

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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES

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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES

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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES

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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES

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And Down Will Come Tower, Wire And Wall

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AND DOWN WILL COME TOWER, WIRE AND WALL

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NO CLUB LEFT BEHIND

Jonathan Lines >

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