Chris Waddle has angered people with his opinions again. The recently retired David Beckham, England’s Rose, has been the subject of a savage broadside from this former yeoman of the mullet, who has declared that the former Preston North End winger wouldn’t make his list of the top 1,000 Premiership players of all time.
Waddle has form for this, having once angered Arsenal fans for suggesting that Theo Walcott has no footballing brain. He will only continue to dispense such savage barbs as he persistently throws himself elbow-first into the most fragile of footballing discourse, in the vain hope that it will divert attention from an underwhelming media career. His greatest contribution to the world of football analysis thus far has been his consistent mispronunciation of the word penalty as ‘pelanty’. Does he do this because he’s melanty ill? No. Like everything provocative he ever says, he does it for a good reason, and I must confess – I suspect I am that reason. You see, on some cosmic level, though he may not realise it, Waddle has a point to prove to me.
As a child discovering football, the first thing I ever learnt about him was that he once missed a penalty (perhaps this was the psychological trigger for his tragic speech impediment?) in pretty much the worst way possible. The second thing I learnt about him was that he had an amusing name, thanks to The Fast Show reducing it to a comic staple. The third thing was that he had an electrifying screen presence in that Pizza Hut advert he did with Stuart Pearce and Gareth Southgate. In my mind, these factors had rendered him a laughing stock, and anything he had ever done would forever be viewed through the prism of my relative youth and my perception of his flaws. For me, he was never a good player and never could be considered as such. This was before I’d even heard of Diamond Lights. It’s a harsh system, but that’s just the way it works.
So it’s no wonder that Waddle continues to court controversy. He’s a former lothario frustrated by his own impotence, a man whose former relevance is brought into sharper relief with the passing of time, no longer capable of captivating interest as he once did. He knows he’s a joke to people like me, people too young to truly acknowledge his former glories. According to the man himself in this interview, he may have been one game away from winning the 1991 Ballon D’Or. Now he is a joke, a relic of the past, a dull fart squeaking through the slack buttocks of a slumbering geriatric. The anti-Beckham invective is his way of reminding the world of football that he once used to be one if it’s leading dramatis personae. He is the embodiment of every 40-something Sunday league footballer who boasts of his former relevance, deluding himself by boring those around him with sad tales of what should’ve been, if only the world had taken greater notice of their majesty.
Everyone has a player like this, a player for whom it’s inconceivable that he ever once possessed divine talent. There are some children who are yet to be born who will one day see a washed-up, clapped-out Lionel Messi sluggishly going through the motions for Atletico Madrid and laugh at the fact that if this clown can win a Ballon D’or, then even QPR’s Brooklyn Beckham must surely have a shot of winning it eventually.
Every football fan has a Chris Waddle. We all identify a former great by the schadenfreude-tinged footnotes that have appended themselves to an erstwhile glittering career. Waddle may have been idolised at Tottenham, and excelled abroad in a way that so few Englishmen have before or since, and been a match away from being the world’s best in his heyday. To me, he will always be some unfortunate, Frank Spencerish footballing harlequin, stumbling and bumbling from missed penalty to comedy sketch to Pizza Hut advert, always and forever, irrevocably trapped in the role my adolescent brain prescribed him. Nothing he can ever do or say will ever change that. Ulmitately he has paid the pelanty. Chris Waddle will always be my ‘Chris Waddle’. Who is yours?
For all of the florid tributes that have been paid to Sir Alex Ferguson since his abrupt retirement, there is one poetic symbol that has stood above all others, dominating the reams of column inches and internet discussion since the subsequent appointment of David Moyes. The looming inevitability of Ferguson’s Shadow is expected to stalk the corridors of power at Old Trafford long after the man himself has cleared his desk, and is expected to smother the new man in charge. Moyes will have much to adjust to in his new role, but common opinion has it that the most daunting task for him will be trying to find fresh life within the dark confines of that shadow. The true test for Moyes will be in seeing whether he can make the shadow work for him, and use it to his advantage.
It seems that Moyes has been given the job as much for his character as for his professional credentials, as being “cut from the same cloth” as his predecessors is not something you can necessarily quantify on a CV. He will be expected to ‘get’ Manchester United, and use that understanding accordingly, as Ferguson has done so frequently throughout the years. Summoning the almighty power of the Manchester United name would be difficult for anyone replacing a man of 26 years’ stewardship at the club, let alone Moyes, a man unfamiliar with being a heavyweight.
The malingering presence of Ferguson will sustain that mythic quality, the irresistible accumulation of forged history. How better for Moyes to immerse himself in the legacy of the club than by engaging with a man who has built as much of it as anyone? In one of many eulogies given by those that knew him best, David Beckham was asked by Sky Sports News for his thoughts on Ferguson, only to tell a story instead of walking through the Old Trafford corridors for the first time and smelling the distinct odour of Sir Matt Busby’s pipe. If anybody knows how to thrive in another man’s shadow, it’s Alex Ferguson, and, well, it didn’t do him all that badly did it?
Ferguson has spoken in the past of his morning routine: the 6am start, the slice of toast and the mountain of paperwork to see to before he can get to work with his players. Perhaps this routine, the perfunctory admin and necessary mundanities will be as hard for Ferguson to extricate himself from as it will be for Moyes to adopt as his own. If one of the key reservations about Moyes – the relative lack of big player experience – holds any weight, then he will need to fix it and quickly. He will need to spend time with his players, maybe more even than Ferguson himself may have been used to on a daily basis, if his new charges are to readjust to a different regime.
While it is one problem entirely to replace the monolithic presence of Ferguson, there are two other issues that will trouble Moyes. Manchester City’s disastrous attempts at retaining the Premier League title all but guarantee some major tooling up in the transfer market this summer. Elsewhere, Chelsea look certain to re-hire Jose Mourinho, a man for whom the phrase ‘guaranteed trophies’ may as well be printed on his business cards. We can be sure that the title race will be fought much more closely next season (that is to say, it will be fought over at all), which will only increase the pressure on United’s new manager. This is where the dubious distinction of living in the Ferguson Shadow can be deployed to good effect; if United fail to retain the trophy, there’s a ready-made excuse to hand, and one which you imagine Ferguson himself would have no problem invoking in order to buy the new man more time.
There will be some United fans who will be too used to success, and too aware of the capriciousness of the modern chairman’s wrath, to grant Moyes much time to adjust. Much has been made of the infamous banner calling for Ferguson’s head in 1989, deploring “3 years of excuses and it’s still crap”. The most startling thing about that banner isn’t the retrospective irony, but that it took three years for such a banner to be displayed at all. That’s a startling amount of time for a new manager to be given that simply doesn’t happen at big clubs these days. Ferguson has seen for himself the virtues of patience, and the six-year contract that Moyes has signed suggests that the previous incumbent will do what he can to make sure that the new guy will be afforded a similar privilege.
Some United fans may even be relishing the prospect of a younger manager coming in, having acknowledged Ferguson’s flaws in recent years. His recent reluctance to sign a central midfielder has added fresh momentum to rumours of Marouane Fellaini joining his former manager at Old Trafford. His recent track record in the transfer market has prompted further updates (Bebe, Gabriel Obertan) to the semi-legendary list of failed buys (Massimo Taibi, Kleberson, you know the rest). Some have also identified a worrying trend for alienating promising youngsters that have gone on to thrive elsewhere in Europe, such as Gerard Pique, Guiseppe Rossi and Paul Pogba. These flaws certainly won’t form his legacy – the 49 trophies will probably just about see to that – but they will, at the very least, afford Moyes some room for manoeuvre. If he were to bring Fellaini with him, for example, or give more playing time to someone such as Nick Powell, then he might go some way to impressing some of the more sceptical supporters early in his tenure.
After Ferguson’s final home game, we heard him rally the troops one final time, exhorting the club’s fans to show the new manager the same support they showed him at the start of his reign. He was met with a rapturous response, as they chanted just one word: not Ferguson, not Moyes, but United. With that one simple command to the supporters to ease the transition from old to new, he summoned a little brightness on his own shadow to alleviate the gathering gloom. And with that, the weight of expectation may prove to be less of a shadow, and more of a light to illuminate the way.
Celebrating the game’s minutiae, one tiny fragment at a time
As Cardiff City recently celebrated winning the Championship, I was reminded of last season’s Carling Cup Final. At that time the Welsh side were fighting on two fronts, contesting their first League Cup final while also hoping to achieve the promotion that had been elusive for four frustrating years.
Liverpool would eventually beat Cardiff on penalties, but not before the Welsh side put up a fight. They took a first-half lead through Joe Mason, before goals from Martin Skrtel and Dirk Kuyt restored the natural shape of the giants/minnows axis. With players tiring deep into extra time, Cardiff’s players were still gamely battling away, trying to find a way back in.
Somewhere around the 115th minute, the ball went out for a throw-in. Cardiff’s Aron Gunnarsson approached the touchline to retrieve the ball from his manager, Malky Mackay. Rather than hurriedly flinging the ball back to his player, impatient in the desperate search for an equaliser, his manager simply waited for his player to trot over on dead legs, before slowly and calmly handing it back to him, and telling him to take his time. Two minutes later, Cardiff defied the odds once more to equalise.
In that second, a mere atom of the final, Mackay demonstrated a faith in his players to get the goal they needed. There was no panic, no anxiety, nothing to fluster his team. In such situations we are used to seeing frantic managers gesticulating wildly, often while jabbering inanely. Gunnarsson himself would play a part in the goal, knocking on a corner towards Ben Turner, who gratefully slammed home a goal that warranted the Gold VIP shirt-off celebration, reserved only for the most dramatic of strikes.
There can be no telling precisely how influential Mackay’s subtle intervention was. Such a minuscule incident will have been forgotten, not least because Cardiff would go on to lose the subsequent penalty shoot-out as Liverpool went on to lift the cup instead. But this moment of sangfroid from Cardiff’s manager was emblematic of the approach that would eventually serve the club well. After years of collectively ruffling overpriced footballer haircuts against the glass ceiling, Cardiff have finally joined the elite. They will attempt to establish themselves with a squad largely made up of players who will seek to prove themselves in the Premiership for the first time. The likes of David Marshall, Kim Bo-Kyung and Peter Whittingham have excelled in the Championship, but will now be given the chance to mix it in England’s top tier.
If they are to succeed, they will require more of the belief and composure that Mackay demonstrated last season at Wembley. Such leadership has steered them through the haze of previous disappointments, as well as the turbulent change of colour decreed by the club chairman, Vincent Tan. It will take Cardiff some investment, greater application and diligent preparation, but if Cardiff are to thrive next season, don’t be too surprised if they grab some points by fighting until the very last minute, taking their time once more.
It will come as no surprise to the loyal followers of Ruud Gullit Sitting On A Shed that I have a mind so restlessly creative, so incredibly fertile, that I ask not ‘how now brown cow?’, but ‘what now brown cow? And why?’. I am very much the sort of person that would jump into a cab and shout ‘to the library, and step on it!’, such is my frenzied pursuit of fresh wonder. I am a force that cannot be stopped unless asked very nicely indeed, and even then I’d be all like ‘Hmmm, I dunno’.
That being said, I have been busy contributing some things for other places lately, because I love to collaboratise like that Kanye West feller. Find me over at Fisted Away, official fisting partner of RGSOAS, where you can read an exclusive interview I conducted with legendary Brian Clough anecdotalist and bon viveur Barry Plapp. What exactly is a posthumous reputational mythologiser anyway? And was that really the plot to Weekend At Bernie’s? Find out here, now, FOREVER.
Also – check out the ‘Elsewhere’ page where you can find other places that have been dazzled by the radiant glow of my brilliance, and support some of the things that I think are cool.
Ruud Gullit Sitting On A Shed is proud to unveil a scintillating range of eye-catching tat which is now available to buy. Why not stun a friend or loved one with a magnificent gift that they can own forever? Just look at some of the marvellous things you can improve your life with!
I wore this to my own mother’s wake. Everyone was so moved by the quality of this fabulous garment that they were moved to tears.
This is what I wore to the funeral itself, being that it’s custom to wear black. I also wore it on a skiing holiday where, after a brief but unforgettable romance, I met my new mother.
Out-of-date, but in-of-great. Let everybody know what you think. Ideal for job interviews, parole hearings or appearances on television dating shows.
At last! Finally learn about England’s reclusive World Cup hero whilst also giving your forearms valuable room to manoeuvre.
Official merchandise for Xavi: Possession Cop, football’s foremost tiki-taka noir detective. An ideal icebreaker at parties, or high-powered political summit meetings.
USA ’94 was my first World Cup, and as for most football fans that means it probably remains my favourite. Though I’m English, I was young enough to look past England’s absence from the tournament as one might divorced parents or having a speech impediment; being young I simply didn’t know any better, so it all seemed normal enough. The flimsy merit of my pre-pubescent support went instead to the Republic of Ireland, due to my having an Irish grandfather. I had no idea at the time that this made me more eligible for Jack Charlton’s squad than many of the players he’d picked. That’s neither here nor there.
Ireland’s first game in the tournament was against Italy. We all know what happened next: the Irish celebrated a famous shock victory, Italy became the first country to ever lose a World Cup final on penalties, and I would eventually pass my Eleven Plus the following summer. Such dedication to my education came at a cost, as I was sent to bed before the game had even finished. I watched the first half with tiny, disbelieving eyes, as my nascent interest in the sport had not prevented me from learning that Italy were a force. I knew that the best players were in Italy, and that the best pubs were in Ireland (thanks, Grandad!). I knew enough to realise that Ireland surely couldn’t win. So it was that I shuffled off to bed reluctantly, hoping that the following day’s breaktime would involve joyous playground recreations of Ray Houghton’s winning goal with a sponge ball, as proper balls weren’t allowed at our school as a safety precaution (TRAUMATIC SIDENOTE – At school I once split my head open playing football by scuffing an attempted goal-line clearance, skidding on the soft ball which caught under my foot. I fell noggin-first on a concrete fence post, in the most ironic injury ever sustained by an eleven-year-old).
To this day I still haven’t seen the full game, although received wisdom and YouTube highlights have informed me that the game is remembered for two things: Houghton’s goal, and Paul McGrath. If, for some reason, you’re not aware of the magnitude of McGrath’s performance that day, the fact that an item of clothing has been designed in tribute will tell you all you need to know. I’d always wanted to see the game in its entirety to fully appreciate McGrath’s efforts that day, but there are other reasons too.
You remember your first World Cup the same way you might recall your first car, or your first trip to the bone zone; it may not have been very good, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the best. That first time always retains a certain magic. I wanted to wallow in the warmth of nostalgia, and feel the magic of my first World Cup once more, redolent in its exotic NTSC footage. I wanted to see what else there was to this legendary game. But most of all I wanted to vanquish one of my life’s great lost second halves. So join me as I apply Tiger Balm to my knee in respectful homage to McGrath, and enjoy this famous game at last…
Roberto Baggio was the first man to introduce me to the idea that there was such a thing as The Best Player In The World. By the time USA ’94 rolled round, I had taken in roughly a season of English domestic football, largely through terrestrial television offerings and magazines paid for with my pocket money. Baggio was new to me, and with his ponytail he looked different to what I’d seen so far: physically a class apart, a being from another footballing planet. His name still retains a mythical lustre just as it did in the preamble to the World Cup, where it felt as if this whole, exciting event was arranged merely to provide a showcase for his talents.
Good at football.
The footage I’m watching features the original ITV commentary from Brian Moore, with analysis from Ron Atkinson, one of the game’s great forgotten racists. There is some remarkably prescient discussion about Houghton before kick-off, when Moore reveals how Charlton had publicly suggested that the Aston Villa man’s best days were behind him. Moore hails it as a “fantastic piece of man-management” in inspiring him to pull his socks up. He has no idea how right he’ll prove to be.
Atkinson talks of Franco Baresi as having “lost that zip”, in reference to the pre-tournament knee surgery that threatened his participation altogether. It’s a melancholy portent given how fantastic he was throughout the tournament, only to eventually miss a crucial penalty in the final. It’s just as sad to note that this is a young Roy Keane’s first and only World Cup, and that he wouldn’t return while at the peak of his powers (there was an incident).
Ireland immediately begin the match by refusing to let Italy have any time on the ball, doubling up on any movement in the attacking half. It is as if Ireland are protecting a lead from the very start.
Italian full-back Mauro Tassotti is wearing number nine, pre-dating the irritating vogue for self-consciously zany shirt numbers by at least a decade. The 25-year-old Paolo Maldini is a man you imagine smells nice all the time – you can practically see the fragrance emanating from him. Meanwhile, Roberto Donadoni plays for Italy, aged 30, at the peak of his physical resemblance to television gardener Monty Don.
Roberto Donadoni
Monty Donadoni
After 10 minutes, Roberto Baggio flicks the ball over Ireland’s high-defensive line for Beppe Signori to chase. Only McGrath stands between him and the goal, and the two men sprint 30 yards to make the inevitable outcome, as the ball is sent safely back to Bonner. The Paul McGrath Block/Tackle/Interception tally (or, the BTI Index) currently stands at three. Atkinson sounds an ominous warning of what’s to come for Italy, when he suggests that the time to catch McGrath out is early on, when his knees are not yet fully warmed up. He will only become more obdurate as his tattered cartilage adjusts to the New York heat.
“I just hit it and it’s went in!”
The game is twelve minutes old when Ray Houghton wallops in the ol’ career-definer: his OK Computer, his Colonel Kurtz, his first WWF Championship. A long-ball from the back, defensive header, another header, Houghton pounces. The most memorable thing in the immediate aftermath of the goal is his slightly fey roly-poly. He is a man whose modest agility fails to match the adrenaline rush that demands something more acrobatic for the occasion. The most compelling part of the celebration was the subdued reaction of Terry Phelan. He is the first to embrace Houghton as jubilant team-mates pile in to a celebratory huddle, but Phelan’s anxious face says everything you need to know – the game’s not won yet lads. In that brief moment where he’s caught by the camera’s gaze, you can see him inwardly wince at the titanic defensive effort Houghton’s goal has just demanded they all make for the next 80-odd minutes. Phelan is the gangster turning up late to the mugging, realising that the bodies need to be cleared before they can make off with the spoils.
Phelan – ants at a picnic. Houghton – gay as a window.
Italy don’t have their first attempt on goal until the 18th minute, when Signori shanks a long-range shot well wide. After 20 minutes the Italians trouble the Irish area for the first time, and in the space of ten seconds McGrath connects with two headers, then blocks a shot by throwing himself in harm’s way. In a trice McGrath’s BTI Index has now doubled to six. They know what needs to be done, and McGrath leads the way by settling into the bunker, ready to repel wave after wave of enemy fire.
A few minutes later, Phil Babb nervously shepherds the ball away from an onrushing Signori after Bonner shows reluctance in coming out for the ball. After some frosty words with Babb, he responds to a similar line of discussion with Phelan by telling him to “FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF”, with a face like a volcano full of bubbling shit.
Gary Newbon reports from the touchline that Charlton, in a sign of technical area outbursts to come, is going “absolutely potty” at his inability to get water to his overheated players, raising the hackles of FIFA officials who demand that he remain seated in the dugout. Charlton and substitute Tony Cascarino battle the heat by wearing plain white baseball caps and staunchly refusing to curve the peaks, as per the fashion of the time. They both look utterly ridiculous of course, although Cascarino wears his at a slightly unconventional angle, retrieving the situation somewhat. GANGSTARINO!
“Yeah! Hats!”
Roberto Baggio is clattered in a tackle from not-quite-behind by Andy Townsend. It’s the sort of challenge that was perfectly acceptable at the time, but would probably be penalised today. As it was, the whole incident was so degrading for the Divine Ponytail that his then-wife cited it in divorce proceedings, which she began in earnest immediately after her husband had been dispossessed by the trundling journeyman.
Ireland are so wasteful with the ball, trying to rush things when all they need to do is hold on to it. They frequently overhit dead-balls straight off the pitch, rather than floating them in to the box where they could try and unsettle the AC Milan back four, unsettled by Baresi’s ring-rust. Ireland’s profligacy only escapes unpunished due to Italy’s inertia, as Arrigo Sacchi’s men stumble out of the blocks like some sort of Olympic drunkard.
We are only 35 minutes in to the game when Denis Irwin knocks the ball back fully 40 yards to Bonner. This display of long-ball catenaccio is roundly booed by the Italians, as the Irish ‘keeper has already received more balls than a particularly busy prostitute. Ireland are frustrating Italy, but it is a disciplined defensive performance, rather than just a matter of getting bodies behind the ball and flying into tackles. Atkinson points out that they haven’t given away many free-kicks around the box, as the Irish are simply working hard at keeping their shape, and refusing to allow Italy’s attack to make space. Signori’s face is as ruddy as a Cornish butcher when the half-time whistle blows.
A ruddy Signori blows it out of his arse.
The second half begins with some extraordinary insight from Atkinson, who says, upon seeing Daniele Massaro on the pitch: “It looks very much like Daniele Massaro has come on”. At least with the racism he was trying to make a point. He redeems himself by pointing out that Italy have switched Signori to the left-hand side, “which he occupies a lot for his club side”. A co-commentator showing some research and insight, while Moore does exactly what should be done, and allows him the space to speak; if only they could’ve passed this lesson on to Townsend, so that his future self might learn the lesson for his own benefit, and pass it on to Clive Tyldesley too.
It’s a pleasure to listen to Moore’s commentary, and yet a galling reminder of the dearth of quality commentators these days. One skill synonymous with the man is that wonderful change in vocal gear when something exciting might happen, something which so few commentators seem to get right. When either team attacks on the break, he’ll change the tone of his voice to suit, as if breathless from running to join the attack himself.
“Yeah bwoi. Well better than dat clown Tyldesley, I can smoke him in the commentary box like BOOM TING, feel me blud?”
Immediately from the kick-off, Ireland are camped in their own half. An Irwin clearance is launched upfield, where Tommy Coyne ploughs a lone, futile furrow, like Boxer in Animal Farm. There are further boos for another 40-yard pass back to Bonner, this time from Keane.
Massaro is caught offside, and does the most Italian thing in the world: pinching his thumb to his fore and index fingers, turns his hand upside down and bounces it rhythmically, for the universally recognised gesture for Italian dissatisfaction.
Newbon brings us lots of information from Charlton’s team-talk: complaints about players not being able to get enough water, warning players to be careful around the edge of the penalty area, cut out the ball being laid back by Italian strikers in and around the box. When the ball is played up front for Coyne, Ireland players are to run at Italian defenders to distract them. Newbon has long since disappeared from ITV programming after Gabriel Clarke killed him and ate him so he could steal his job. The level of Newbon’s input is genuinely surprising, as we don’t get that much information from team-talks anymore. These days, such details are leaked via a phalanx of well-placed journalists on Twitter. Clarke’s bloody act of cannibalism was all in vain. He doesn’t even have a Twitter account.
In the space of five minutes, Babb cuts out two separate through-balls to Dino Baggio with immaculate last-ditch slide tackles in the box. While McGrath’s contribution has since been mythologised, Babb was immense too, doing the leg work so McGrath didn’t have to, freeing him up to use his uncanny perception of the game to cut out danger where possible. After an hour, another firm-but-fair Babb tackle prompts Roberto Baggio to lash out angrily, and you can see Italian composure beginning to crumble. The incident is barely acknowledged by anyone watching the game, but four years later a similar tangle between David Beckham and Diego Simeone will offer a very different outcome.
Moore: “This could be real edge of the seat stuff for the next 20 minutes or so”. He’s not wrong. A dangerous cross comes into Ireland’s box – “Massaro is in the middle…and thank goodness, so too is Roy Keane”. A subtle way of implying home nations bias, without beating the drum of jingoism too hard – another quality lacking from many of his present day counterparts.
Ireland make a substitution after 67 minutes – Houghton off, Jason McAteer on. Just as McAteer is ready, Houghton goes close with a great volley from a Coyne knockdown. Ireland’s second-best chance after the goal itself. A fine day’s work. Newbon informs us that it’s McAteer’s 23rd birthday, and he celebrates by running himself into the ground for the cause. At one point the Bolton Wanderers winger takes on four tiring Italians one after the other, in a bold cavalry charge. Moore implores him to “Go on, run at them“, said with such relish and enthusiasm, as an old man might say to a youngster during a park game.
With 20 minutes left the Irish nearly seal it after some great play on the left wing from Keane, who cuts it back to John Sheridan, who hits the crossbar. Even though he misses, it still comes at a valuable time, momentarily alleviating the mounting Italian pressure. Ireland are reminded that, tired though they are, their destiny is still in their hands. As if to prove the point, McAteer pressures Maldini off the ball after a mix-up with Gianluca Pagliuca. Italy have been staggered by Sheridan’s shot, allowing Ireland time to regain their composure. They then proceed to take more time on the ball, defying the tension by calmly passing it rather than hopefully knocking it long down the channels. This only seems to last for a few minutes though. Perhaps with this in mind, Moore and Atkinson offer praise for Coyne, who has worked tirelessly, and yet has only had about six touches of the ball.
With just eight minutes to go, Ireland’s fatigue stymies any effort to relieve the relentless pressure. Phelan cuts out a pass on the edge of the box before sprinting forward, covering sixty yards in around three seconds, taking the fight to Italy on his own to allow his team-mates the time to catch their breath. Townsend refuses to succumb to this moment of derring-do by refusing to pass to him. Phelan sprints back, shamefaced. At this point I only notice for the first time that there are corner flags placed at either end of the half-way line. Those crazy Americans!
As the clock finally reaches 90 minutes, Ireland fans rise to their feet in anticipation of the final whistle. Coyne is substituted for John Aldridge to eat up some precious seconds. Aldridge will not touch the ball once. Ireland keep soaking up pressure, until Townsend seizes on a loose ball and runs frantically into space. It’s cheered like a penalty has just been given. He runs the ball into the corner. A few green streamers are thrown onto the pitch.
There is still time for McGrath to cut out a final, hopeful ball into the box, and the BTI Index finishes on 21. He didn’t have very many touches beyond these blocks, tackles and interceptions, but when you think that he prevented 21 possible goalscoring opportunities, you see exactly how vital he was that day. His true influence can be measured in the authority of his composure. There was a crucial moment in the second half when McGrath, under pressure from both Roberto Baggio and Signori in his own box, takes a breath before calmly turning and passing the ball away from danger. It was the most remarkable example of the sangfroid that permeated throughout the team, settling Irish nerves while those of the Italians frayed.
And then the whistle blows, causing untold damage to millions of Irish livers. Nearly two decades later, and a lost second half has finally been found. If you wish to relive the match yourself, check out the WWF-tastic ESPN footage of the full match below:
Marvel at the thrilling adventures of classic noir detective Xavi: Possession Cop
I was playing with my blinds when I got the call. I liked the way the shadows played on my face as I fingered their folds, adding dark and slanty intrigue to my curious mush. I was curious as to why I had yet to attach the blinds to my wall, as it would be easier to play with them that way. I was also curious as to why my chief was calling me so late.
“We need our best man on the case, Xavi. The mayor has been running deep with the mob, gotten his fingers in one too many calzones, kapeesh? His wife’s been kidnapped, and you’re the man to find her.”
Italians. You always gotta peek under the sauce to check that it’s pasta, that’s what I always say. I told my chief that, but he said a calzone is really more of a folded pizza. I got dressed and turned up at the station so we could shoot the breeze. The chief was chewing down paper cups of coffee, which was absolutely the wrong way of drinking coffee. I didn’t correct him on his error, and asked him for more details.
“All we know is that she’s somewhere downtown, between 42nd and 3rd. Or 3rd and 42nd, we can’t be sure. We haven’t got an exact location, but we suspect she’s in one of these buildings.”
He showed me a map with four buildings circled. Together they formed a crudely misshapen defence that would be easy for a man like me to break through with some solid, patient passing. A younger man than me, anyway. Like me, for instance, when I was younger. I didn’t know if I had such a big case left in me anymore. I no longer had that burning ambition that drove a wedge between me and my wife. When she left me she asked me where I wanted to be. I said I’d always been aiming for top spot, that one perfect through-ball.
“I remember the first time you told me that. You were just one pass away from top spot when you met me. Don’t you see, Xav? You’ll always be just one pass away.”
That was the last time I saw her. She always used to say there was a third person in our marriage. A guy called Jack Daniel. After she left me, that left just the two of us, and neither of us were planning any trips to IKEA anytime soon.
“Hey, you gonna quit reminiscing or what?”
My chief was angry. I’d been writing my memoirs at the most awkward times, but I didn’t want to forget any of my hard-boiled, heart-broken prose as it occurred to me. I returned my notebook to my pocket.
“Where’s your gun?”, asked the chief, chiefishly.
“A friend’s looking after it for me.”
“A friend?”
“A cop.”
“A cop?”
“A cop.”
“A cop? A friend? Dammit, Xavi, cops don’t have friends, they only have other cops. So you definitely can’t have a friendcop. Here, take mine.”
He handed me a gun. The cold, smoothness of the barrel reminded me of the tensile surface of a football inflated to regulation size. That would be my weapon of choice. It always had been. The chief’s attitude was always ‘shoot first, ask questions later, maybe shoot again later than that if the questions didn’t go so well’. Me? I pass first, ask questions during. I find it confuses people.
“And Xavi? I need you to go long-ball on this one – no short passes. You gotta follow the book on this one! It’s my ass on the line here!”
I didn’t care. Sure, my methods were unorthodox, but they got results, as virtually all unorthodox policing methods tend to do, for some peculiar reason.
Later that night, as I found myself kicking footballs at buildings in search of the mayor’s wife, I realised that I was getting too old for this shit. I knew that my game had never been based on pace and the first yard had always been in my head, which meant I could expect to retire later than most of my peers might. Basically I was just tired. Eventually, some broad sees me, asks me what I’m doing.
“I’m here to chew bubblegum and pass a football around. Actually I’m just here to pass a football around.”
I turned to the broad, and I placed a face to the voice, which came from the head of my ex-wife, Jan. Not the wife that had just left me, another one. I don’t know why I kept getting new wives, I clearly didn’t enjoy them very much. But we spoke about old times, caught up on the new. She’d holed herself up with a guy from the wrong side of the tracks, had some beef with some notable Italians. I probed a little, playing neat one-twos with her, until she gave me the information I needed. She pointed out a building hidden in darkness, two blocks down. Big Petey ‘Little Petey’ Bareso had been seen coming and going. Up to no good I shouldn’t wonder. I thanked Sheila, which angered Jan, because her name was Jan and not Sheila. I told her to shut up. I had a mayor’s wife to find.
I jogged two blocks, and found the door open. I climbed the stairs quietly, following female cries for help. There she was, the mayor’s wife, tied to a bed, trussed up like a Christmas turkey. I musta had a thing for kidnapped women, because she was one hot hostage. I told her this and she liked it.
“I knew you’d find me. You’re the best cop in the city.”
“Eeeh, I used to be, kid. Not anymore. It’s all about the Wilsheres of the world now. I’m a spent match. A busted flush. Old news.”
She seemed to enjoy the way I pronounced ‘old nooz’ in a kinda Noo Yoik accent, because before I knew it she was bouncing down on top of me like a toilet plunger in a bowl, trying to push out all the shit within me. The failed marriage. The job. The mob. Everything. It was a sad orgasm, but not without its charm. I thanked her sweetly, but needed to get her out of there. She just wanted to talk. Typical broad.
“Xavi, do you fall in love with all of your clients?”
“Only the ones that look like footballs, toots.”
“What about me, do I look like a football?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Your ex-wife did.”
“Don’t bring her into this!”
“Don’t let Adidas Tango change you. She just wasn’t right for you. Can’t you ever see yourself marrying again?”
“No dice, babe. I’m married to the game. The game of treating the crime game like another game. The game of football.”
Before I could light up a smoke in cool celebration of my hip rejoinder, a mob stoolie burst into the room holding a gun. I quickly counted his fingers. He had all of his fingers, so I knew it was likely he would shoot. As the mayor’s wife screamed in post-coital mortal terror, I did what I had to do. I’d do it again if I had to. I passed the ball, with perfect weight and precision into the feet of this guy, this hired gun. It seemed like everything had been leading up to this moment. Everything I’d ever done wrong in my dirty, stinkin’ life could all be undone with one pass of the football, and it was perfect. It was the perfect through-ball that I always knew I was capable of.
The guy looked at the football, confused. It didn’t seem to work.
He then shot three times. Three bullets – one for the ball, one for the mayor’s wife, one for me. As the lights dimmed, I could only see the carnage left before me, and could feel the salty warmth of grief rolling down my cheek. The last thing I was to ever see on this earth, and it was a travesty. Shot to ribbons in her prime. Once so beautiful, so graceful, and now motionless. That football had one day left to retirement. Blackness enveloped me, like a really big black envelope, and I slept a sleepy sleep…
~
The first face I saw when I woke in hospital was the chief. He had something for me, but it sure as hell weren’t no bag of grapes.
“The mayor’s wife is dead! You couldn’t resist playing one more pass, couldja? What do I always tell ya? Don’t get emotionally involved, Xavi. That ball doesn’t love you, it’ll just get you killed!”
His face softened, like a moist cake left on a warm windowsill.
“Dammit, Xavi. You’re the best damn possession cop I ever had. But she’s dead. You hear me? Dead! She’s not living anymore! Whenever the quacks let you outta here, the first thing you do is you see me. You hand in your gun, your badge, and your sense of tactical sophistication. My department has no room for mavericks.”
And just like that, he walked out on me. Just like everybody else does. Seems there just aint no room for a washed-up maverick no more.
