The Ferguson Shadow

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.

RGSOAS Advent Calendar #16: David Beckham’s Next Move

It’s a column on what David Beckham should do next!

David Beckham has left us all on a cliffhanger. Still the planet’s most famous footballer, he is currently without a club, as a string of suitors straighten their ties and smooth down cowlicks in nervous dalliance with the man with the star power they so crave.

Bookmakers have been busy offering odds on his next destination, with Queen’s Park Rangers, Monaco and Paris St Germain the affluent favourites. China’s Shanghai Shenhua and Australia’s Melbourne Heart represent two burgeoning outposts eager for the intangible sweetness of global brand recognition. Two of the more curious names cropping up are teams from the USA: New York Red Bulls and New York Cosmos. Surely only making up the numbers, nobody seems to believe the latter two to be plausible options, since Becks has said goodbye to the States after all. Right?

The David Beckham American boxset has already encompassed such dramatic story arcs as the hyped arrival, the Milan sojourns, the fans revolt, the injury, the MLS Cup wins, and the emotional farewell. But perhaps there is still time for one more sweeping narrative? Before the Hollywood ending, a Hollywood plot twist befitting football’s leading dramatis persona.

If he were to stay in the States and join another team – more to the point, another franchise – it could give Major League Soccer a further fillip. It seems obvious to say that the league would be keen to keep him at a time when global financial forces line up to entice him, but he could yet offer something different at the very denouement of his celebrated career. Why? Because of the lure of the storyline. The man from Hollywood knows a thing or two about drama by now, so he might consider doing something new by bringing something British to the party – some beef.

The back story is there: the frenzied delight of Beckham’s transfer to LA Galaxy quickly crumbling into injury-stilted frustration, before loan moves and England friendlies drew a very public castigation from team-mate Landon Donovan. An increasingly fractious relationship with the club’s supporters culminated in some embarrassing encounters with fans, until he set about regaining their faith when he snapped his Achilles, broke down in tears as he cursed his broken dream of a final World Cup, and convalesced with their sympathy. With nowhere else to go, he would make the Galaxy his sole focus, and eventually delivered two MLS Cup triumphs. But some fans still would not accept him, not truly, and see the two closing MLS Cup wins as proof of what could’ve been achieved sooner had Beckham not pursued his Italian career breaks.

So what if, taking into account this story of hollow promises and grudging redemption, Beckham decided to join a rival team?

Shortly after starting life in LA, I recall his embarrassment in a Sky Sports interview when he admitted that one of the Galaxy’s sponsors would lavish the fans with free chicken to celebrate home victories. Since then, his attempts at bowdlerising North America’s brand of soccer have been far-reaching. Seven new teams have joined an increasingly competitive league since his arrival, and the man himself has the option to own one in future. The expansion fee for joining the league has risen by 300%. Television revenue and attendances have also risen exponentially, as has the average player salary. The salary cap-circumventing Designated Player stipulation is more commonly known as ‘The Beckham Rule’. He even changed the colour of the Galaxy’s home kit.

Such alterations have made the game more recognisable to the game’s Euro-centric, and the MLS has become a more attractive proposition for the likes of Thierry Henry, Robbie Keane and Tim Cahill. Beckham may yet feel that one thing the game is still missing Stateside is the sort of tribalism and sporting animosity that he has witnessed in close quarters. A country so vast in size may never be able to recreate quite the same intensity of such relatively parochial feuds as Manchester United versus Manchester City, Real Madrid versus Barcelona, or AC Milan versus Inter. But if anyone or anything can manufacture such money-spinning conflict, it would be David Beckham, backed by the USA’s very own hype machine. The LA Riot Squad might well react to their boy joining a rival team with the sort of lucrative ire that, as per the diktat of Brand Beckham, would only be good for business.

If he were to go to Australia or China to see how the Beckham Effect can catalyse interest in another of the world’s more obscure leagues, it may well taint the legacy of his efforts in the States. If his agenda is purely to see how he can make money out of previously uncharted markets, then he may be remembered as little more than a footballing tribute to the Harlem Globetrotters, peddling his wares in exhibition matches motivated by commercial enterprise rather than sporting contest. If Beckham really wants to cement his American legacy, he could do worse than by really demonstrating commitment – not to LA Galaxy, but to Major League Soccer.

By reminding everyone that he did indeed go to the States to change the landscape of the game, he can furnish American soccer with the veneer of legitimacy it desired when he arrived. To enter LA a hero and leave as a villain – what could be more Hollywood than that?

The Impregnable Zen of Roberto Martinez

On Match of the Day last week Roberto Martinez did something that I’ve seen him do before, and will surely see him do again. In an interview after the match, which his Wigan side had just lost, 2-1 to Swansea, he was smiling and laughing at some joke or other. It doesn’t matter what the joke was – he just looked composed, refusing to be mournful in defeat. And that’s the point.

He isn’t the only manager to ever joke during an otherwise tedious post-match interview, but I’m sure he’s one of a minority of men to do so after their team has just lost, certainly by such a narrow margin, in a match they will look back on as one they probably needed to have won. Martinez offers something lacking in many of his counterparts though. His laidback, likeable attitude demonstrates a sense of impregnable zen, of a man who is entirely in control of his own destiny.

He possesses the air of calculated, unflustered precision you might expect from a man with a qualification in business management. But Wigan’s status as the Premier League’s black sheep stymies his own reputation, with the Spaniard conveniently dismissed by neutrals as someone merely doing a mucky, unpopular job so no-one else has to do it. Many neutral fans regard him with the same sense of casual ‘oh yeah, him’ disinterest that they might otherwise reserve for binmen, or the cashier at Tesco.

These same fans have reluctantly accepted that Wigan will successfully struggle for survival each season, until a brighter future dawns and they are no longer polluting the 20-team elite with their scarcely-full rugby town stadium. They’ve done so without affording them anything similar to the brotherly warmth of relegation rascals of yore, such as the Coventry City of Dion Dublin or the Southampton of Matt Le Tissier. This is largely due to the aforementioned apathy of the club’s local area, outwardly from which spreads a national pandemic of anti-Wigan sentiment. It’s not even so much ‘anti’ Wigan, so much as a pervading sense of persistent nuisance that can be best surmised by a Larry David-style ‘eeeeh’ shrug.

Despite this, the fact is that Wigan have maintained a stable, steady existence in the nourishing environs of the Premier League for a greater span of time than other clubs including Queens Park Rangers, Stoke and West Brom. Much of it might well be to do with that smiling acceptance of their manager, which exudes an authoritative calmness that says “It’s cool man, I got this.” Greater managers can only dream of coping with defeat better than Martinez can (Sir Alex Ferguson and Arsene Wenger spring to mind), but then the Spaniard, and moreover Wigan, have had so much practice after all. Their perpetually renewed stay of execution precludes them from the opportunity of a confidence-boosting sabbatical in the Championship. Some modern yo-yo clubs such as Wolves and West Ham go down only to return with renewed vigour after a season spent racking up more ‘W’s’ in the form column than usual. By contrast, Wigan have been steadily applying themselves to the self-flagellating business of losing for the past seven years, with impressive-yet-miserable results. In those seven seasons they have lost 46% of their league games, winning just 29%. And yet that’s not been enough to banish them from English football’s top table since they first took residence there.

Given the rumours of impending managerial casualty that have so far circled Mark Hughes, Paul Lambert and Nigel Adkins, it’s refreshing to know that there is still a manager slipping under that particular radar who can get away with losing games on a constant basis and yet still revel in some semblance of job security. This could be the secret behind that Martinez smile. He is imbued with a sense of security like no-one else in the Premier League; even the possible outcome of relegation might be accepted as a heroic failure. This summer he was heavily linked with the vacant Liverpool post, the summer prior it was Aston Villa, and these rumours must surely have boosted his self-esteem further.

This is not to suggest that Martinez is too laid-back, nor that he’s content merely to put the hours in until a ‘proper’ job comes along. He spent six years playing for the club, and is now in his fourth as manager. He knows the team and enjoys a close relationship with the chairman, Dave Whelan. He also knows better than most what relegation would ultimately mean to Wigan. Unlike some of the aforementioned yo-yo clubs who maintain a dizzyingly bipolar existence, plotting the glory of promotion or a futile fight against relegation, with middle ground offering rare retreat, Martinez must suspect that Wigan would struggle to bounce straight back up if they were indeed to go down. The Premier League calendar will eventually find itself of a time when commentators and pundits alike talk of clubs ‘fighting for their lives’ at the foot of the table, but there is a perversely stabilising sense of literalism in Wigan’s case.

It is hard to imagine the chain of minimal achievement ever being broken, but there are two likely outcomes – either the club’s scarcely beating pulse will one day stabilise as the club surges further up the table into ruder health, or it will eventually flatline and finally succumb to the ever-present threat of relegation. To ponder on Wigan’s future in such a way is to miss the point. The fact that they are an established Premier League club – no matter how lowly – is a triumph in itself. This is their victory, and as such they are experiencing success of a kind, albeit in the least glamourous, least obviously rewarding way. Everyone wants to win in football, but there are only so many trophies to go round. On any given week, of all the matches taking place globally, no more than 50% of those teams will ever win. So when a team can find a way of succeeding on their own terms, of somehow stretching the fabric of the elite to create more space at the table, this should only be applauded.

In the wider context of the club’s history, you would expect that there is an appreciation among Whelan and Martinez that these are the best days of the club’s life, which are to be enjoyed, rather than to be spent living in fear. It is the equivalent of someone with a terminal illness, constantly staring mortality in the face, but stoically refusing to welcome the fear in favour of enjoying life will it still runs through them. Other stricken patients in the same ward will panic this year, just as they did last year (see Wolves and the firing of Mick McCarthy, or Blackburn Rovers and the non-firing of Steve Kean).

Meanwhile Wigan, led by Martinez and that inscrutable smile of his, will continue as always – untouched by mania, making the best of it all, and knowing when things are good.

Adrian Chiles: Improv Workshop Gobshite

Ignore, if you can, everything to do with the actual event of the England/Poland football match, and what remains is hours of washed out ITV coverage. It seems that nothing good came from watching Adrian Chiles fill Tuesday night’s suddenly evacuated broadcast. The much-maligned anchorman is now unmoveable in his prescribed role of overpaid totem standing in stout monument to the lowest common denominator.

Memorably described by the comedian Stewart Lee as “a speaking toby jug filled to the brim with hot piss”, the truth is any given Twitter search for his name will throw up barbs of similar derision. Last night offered some explanation as to why – his floundering when removed from his comfort zone, his desperately avuncular reliance on comical prompts, his easily cracked veneer of professionalism when presented with a challenge.

Intermittent complaints about how the rain delay was affecting even those in the studio (Lee Dixon had only bought one suit! Had anyone thought to book hotel rooms for an extra night?!) were bought to a merciful end when the game was finally postponed. Chiles closed by paying tribute to his pundits for guiding him safely through the plane crash, thanking the tri-headed Wilson to his Chuck Noland – Dixon, Gareth Southgate and Roy Keane.

The lads

Dixon has perhaps been unfairly tainted with the smear of the same brush that coats Alan Shearer with a kind of manky vanilla. The former Arsenal full-back (famous, of course, for once letting Gaby Roslin cut his hair live on The Big Breakfast) defected from the BBC, one suspects, after the emergence of this footage, in which Dixon seemed to deplore either the interruption of Shearer, or the questioning of Gary Lineker.

Meanwhile, Southgate’s presence is a stabilising one, with a style loosely based on the notion of basic admin. He’s the man that pulls together the strands of debate in a manner suited to his intelligent and assured oratory abilities. He’s capable of looking at the broader picture too, showing a certain awareness as when he lamented the dearth of information relayed to the increasingly bored spectators stranded in the stadium.

But Roy Keane was the star of this non-show, bringing his inimitable brand of scabrous perception and scarcely concealed self-loathing. Though Ronan Keating once sang of his wife and/or dead mother that ‘you say it best when you say nothing at all’, he could just as well direct the same lachrymose balladeering to Keane. It makes for truly compelling television as he inwardly wrestles with his wavering self-respect, pretending to tolerate the frantic joking spread like caulk into last night’s ever-widening gaps.

This orangey paint effect diminishes not the incandescence of the fury in mine eyes.

He doesn’t want to be there, not really, and it’s written all over his face, clogged as it is already with the twin implications of rage and impatience. At one point everyone laughed at the Irishman’s joke about Gary Neville’s proclivity for whingeing. Keane, naturally, afforded himself no such privilege, burying the momentarily lapse in gravitas beneath further condemnation of the Polish FA’s slack roof-opening policy. He is not there for fun but to take things very seriously indeed, which is obviously what makes him so much fun.

Keane has admitted that he sees no future in television work, and views it as a stop-gap while he awaits the next opportunity in a curiously stalled management career. Perhaps this sense of transience is what makes him comfortable in doling out criticism, as with last night’s comments on Joe Hart. Rather than toeing the party line and following the VT-led pre-match narrative of ‘Hart – England’s new Shilton’, Keane raised the point that the young ‘keeper’s sense of bravado could perhaps border on arrogance, which in turn could be the reason behind recent mistakes. He likened him to Peter Schmeichel, who Keane admitted was “not very good technically”, and accused the Dane of similar spells of complacency throughout his career because he “thought he was the bees knees”.

He would qualify his comments on Hart by insisting that he didn’t “want to be seen as being too harsh on the boy”, stating that he was clearly a great player who simply needed to react positively to negative spells. But by offering such contrary opinion, and by freely mentioning specific details of his former team-mates, he was doing something just a little bit different. In punditry terms, perhaps this is a case of Keane also being “not very good technically”, by offering something a little more corrosive than the usual brand of bland antiseptic propagated by someone such as Shearer.

Keane could do worse than consider where he offers greater merit now – as a manager or as a television personality. As much as such introspection might gall a man of such fierce pride, Keane is a formidable and compelling presence on television, just as he was as a player, and that is a rare gift. Something that his befuddled anchorman sadly lacks.

Ji-Sung Park: Asian Provocateur

Park Ji-Sung is not a controversial figure. However, last week he may have done something very interesting with potentially far-reaching consequences. And barely anyone noticed.

There was an understandable if disproportionate furore surrounding Anton Ferdinand’s refusal to shake the hands of John Terry and Ashley Cole. But there was also the relative non-event of QPR captain Park also snubbing Terry, during the pre-match ritual and when carrying out the similarly mundane coin toss. It is perhaps in keeping with Park’s valued-if-workmanlike style of play and low-profile (in England at least) that such a thing might slip under the radar, but this is what makes it such an intriguing gesture.

Park’s decision could have been triggered by three things:

· An attempt to curry favour with his new team-mates – Park perhaps sought a way of establishing an immediate sense of loyalty and kinship amongst those in the dressing room.

· The club captaincy – Park has been tasked with leading a cobbled-together band of misfits, and such provocative grandstanding may have been his way of legitimising his credentials, particularly amongst Rangers fans.

· Friendship with Rio Ferdinand – Perhaps he felt he owed it to Rio, older brother of Anton, and a former Manchester United team-mate of seven years.

All three of these factors would’ve given Park something to think about, but they were ultimately united by one over-riding notion – a lack of respect for John Terry. The idea of someone disliking the Chelsea captain is hardly mind-blowing, but footballers are given the requisite media training needed in order to publicly mind their P’s and Q’s. This has the unfortunate consequence of diluting personalities until they run clear, much like chronic dysentery, to the point where we are left with Michael Owen tweeting that he “had a belting haircut earlier!”. Someone as inoffensive as Park breaking rank in such a manner would’ve raised more eyebrows, had they not all been pointed the way of Anton’s anti-racism shake-snub.

Gary Neville spoke of the over-reaction to the latest handshaking drama, and said that there have only been a few instances where the gesture has not been fulfilled as intended. These previous incidents share a theme: Wayne Bridge refused to shake John Terry’s hand after the Chelsea defender slept with his wife; Luis Suarez refused to shake Patrice Evra’s hand after he felt he had been falsely accused of racism; Anton Ferdinand refused to shake Terry’s hand after the latter’s acquittal for the racial abuse of the former. Three separate incidents, but they all have one thing in common – direct provocation. Wherever you stand on the ethics of those rebuffs, the lack of a handshake was prompted in each case by one man feeling he had been wronged by another.

This is why Park’s disregard of Terry is so fascinating, as he wasn’t provoked at all. He simply didn’t respect Terry enough to want to engage him in a gesture of goodwill. With it, he crossed a boundary from which we may not be able to return. You only have to look at the current rash of side-shaved haircuts to see that football players are inherently Pavlovian and lack imagination. What’s more, they’re aggressive and hyper-aware of their own image.

Where does this now stop? What if Gareth Barry beats Peter Crouch the night before a game in a particularly heated game on X-Box Live? What if Wayne Rooney tweets an unsavoury hashtag to Vincent Kompany? What if Emmanuel Frimpong should accidentally spill Danny Guthrie’s tea on the set of Soccer AM?

What if players did resort to not shaking hands based on lesser disputes? Would it really be a black eye to sportsmanship, or would it be a moral victory of sorts? It could be good to see some semblance of personality restored to the modern footballer. People can’t all get along, so why do we expect footballers to always be friends? Perhaps it would be refreshing for footballers to offer a more accurate representation of real life, something that they’ve become ever more detached from in the pursuit of gilded careers.

Even before the latest, dullest twist in The Anton and Terry Show, Premier League managers across the board backed the suggestion that pre-match handshakes should be scrapped altogether. While Neville feels that such a decision shouldn’t be dictated by the few unpleasant incidents that have occurred over the course of four years, perhaps greater consideration should be paid to the potential repercussions of Park’s decision to vote with his hand – by withdrawing it altogether.

The Necessary Failure of David Bentley

Former footballer David Bentley has moved to Russian club FC Rostov on loan. He was 28.

Some have mourned a wasted talent, others have been splashing each other playfully in the fountain of schadenfreude, where football fans congregate to mock the unfortunate. Bentley’s career has finally derailed completely, having teetered on the brink throughout his disastrous spell with Tottenham. This is not to suggest that the Russian Premier League is merely some decrepit backwater. Zenit’s £64m joint purchase of Hulk and Alex Witsel speak of a league that is plainly upwardly mobile, even if it is thanks to petro-chemical lucre. But is this really where anyone had expected Bentley to be when Spurs signed him for £15m in 2008?

There was a time when it was simply assumed that David Bentley would be destined for great things. When Steve McLaren bought his workshopped teeth and publicity-friendly dossier to the vacant England post, he vowed to usher in a new era of youth, the type of thrusting manifesto so often suggested but seldom implemented. As such, David Beckham was jettisoned to make space for fresh talent. A nervous tabloid press wrung its hands nervously as it looked for an alternative superstar entity, and one man looked sure to be the natural heir.

Bentley had been busy winning rave reviews for Blackburn Rovers, and had much in common with Beckham, even down to the matching initials, which ‘Bents’ would unwisely have stitched into his boots in a fate-tempting effort to ape his idol. The similarities didn’t stop there: the cheekbones, the hipster haircuts, the Cockney heritage, the lack of pace, the right hand-side of midfield. McLaren would add further weight to these claims when he gave Bentley his full England debut. Perhaps seeking vindication of his scrapping of Beckham he would say: “I can see that [comparison]. His right foot is pretty similar to David’s. He’s got a great touch, great feel on the ball, and he can deliver that pass.”  He would go on to win seven caps for his country.

The TV channel ESPN Classic shows repeats of ‘classic’ England games, which are preceded by a brief video montage of England stars knocking the ball around in their England kit, being all English for the England team. Amongst shots of the likes of mainstays such as John Terry, Ashley Cole and Frank Lampard was our man Bentley, no doubt selected as the stand-out young prospect that would surely go on to greater things. Today, his presence in this clip is a mere curio, a stark reminder of a time when people operating video cameras genuinely had cause to believe that footage of Bentley in an England kit wouldn’t prove to be a colossal waste of time and resources.

His ascension to superstardom was made official when he was anointed as a columnist for The Sun, which usually reserves its pages for such renowned men of letters as Terry Venables and Ian Wright. That Bentley was proffered such a mouthpiece seemed like a contrived effort to raise his profile to anywhere as close to Beckham’s as possible, the better to augment his celebrity. It’s perfectly feasible that the gilded profiteers riding the Beckham gravy train were actively seeking to fill the void that his imminent demise looked set to create, and so set about fast-tracking Bentley’s way to fame.  Bentley, it seemed, had made it.

Of course now, he is largely remembered for two things. There was the stupendous lob for Spurs against Arsenal, a goal of the season contender, which spoke of his promise and confidence. There was also the moment when a jubilant Spurs dressing room celebrated Champions League qualification, reaching its zenith when Bentley’s cup – full to the brim with both banter and energy drink – runneth over, and was duly dumped over Harry Redknapp’s head. These two contrasting moments sum up perhaps not just Bentley’s time at White Hart Lane, but indeed his whole career: moments of genuine promise interspersed with the bone-headed boorishness of the LAD. It now seems reasonable to suggest that he was no more than a prettier Jimmy Bullard, and perhaps nothing more.

Why has his career ended up this way? The general consensus seems to be that it’s down to a lack of focus and effort, but Bentley has other theories: “He never said anything to my face about it – he didn’t really ever say much to me at all – but I knew I was always up against it after that.” It’s interesting to note his Wikipedia page too, which is most likely edited by someone close to him, and mentions how he “is often talked about as a should-be midfielder, but [he] he is often used out of position as a winger despite lacking the pace of some of his Premier League counter-parts.” The problem with pace is clearly an issue for him, as he alluded to shortly after joining Birmingham on loan in 2011: “They don’t deserve me to come here and think I’m this creative player who doesn’t have to run much. I’m going to have to graft.”

Regardless of these issues, Redknapp would deliver the most telling career appraisal (as well as an embarassing indictment of Bentley’s star worship) after the player had been arrested for drink-driving in August 2009: “He needs to lose that tag of ‘he’s another David Beckham.’ I’ll be honest, the lads call him Becks and I don’t think that helps him.”  Bentley would downplay these suggestions while at Birmingham: “There’s probably a misconception of me. People sometimes get this perception that I’m a big-time Charlie. But that is not the case.” This stab at humility would fall short when revealing his hopes for the transfer: “If I do the groundwork, do the running, I know my quality will come through.” His time at Birmingham, much like last season’s loan to West Ham, would both yield little in the way of quality – 20 games, 1 goal, 1 assist.

This is borne out by the fact that he now finds himself at FC Rostov, when some lower-scale Premiership clubs could surely benefit from his presence. It is plausible to read something into the fact that Mark Hughes wasn’t tempted to give him a chance at QPR, given that Bentley fulfils many of the criteria adopted by the club for several of their summer signings: discarded by his club, past his best, a former charge of Hughes. It’s possible that Bentley is happy to be free of the stigma which he feels he has unfairly accrued. Perhaps he should be applauded for trying to advance his footballing education as part of a different culture when so few English players do. But this transfer has far more in common with the paucity of options reflected by Joe Cole’s move to Lille, or Joey Barton’s to Marseille, than, say, David Beckham (that man again!) joining Real Madrid.

Bentley’s greatest contribution to the game could well be in his ultimate failure, a very modern, paradoxical triumph. In this lamentable age of the cosseted, self-absorbed tosser-footballer, it should be celebrated when someone who appeared to twin arrogance and laziness fails to make it to the top. There is no shortage of wasted talents in the game, and fans of every club in the world can add to the litany of crudely extinguished flames: Sonny Pike, Nii Lamptey, Paul Lake, Sebastien Deisler, Freddy Adu.

There are always reasons why players fail to live up to their potential. When those reasons are clear to see, as they were in Bentley’s case, we should be thankful that this sort of malaise only struck someone such as him, rather than a Leo Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo or Andres Iniesta, as their failure would’ve been a genuine loss, rather than a justified squandering. New players will always remind us of old players. If Bentley had successfully carved a niche for himself as a preening footballing tribute act, that could have set a precedent nobody would wish to see repeated.

This article was originally published on Soccerlens.

Paul Scholes 3:16 – or – How I Learned To Stop Worrying About Football and Love Adam Bomb

“Can football still be considered a sport? Or is it something else? It possesses characters, narrative, plot. It attracts more attention for what happens on the field rather than on. The game still continues, of course, but the edifice around it suggests that sport is just an aspect of what football has become. Is it, in fact, sports entertainment?”

Recently I wrote a flippant piece imagining a pop culture mash-up of sorts between football and professional wrestling. Since then, two things have happened that have compelled me to stretch this comparison further, like some poor sap trapped in a Crippler Crossface.

Firstly, I read an article by Rory Smith in The Blizzard, quoted above, which posits the theory that contemporary media coverage of football has unwittingly thrust the game into the realm of sports entertainment, the term with which pro wrestling is synonymous.

Secondly, Paul Scholes emerged from retirement to dust off his boots, to stage an unlikely comeback for Manchester United…

I used to watch wrestling. Like squabbling brothers we no longer get along, despite their playing a vital role in my formative years. As a naive child I cheered for the likes of Hulk Hogan and the Ultimate Warrior. As a teenager I matured during the ‘Attitude’ years of Stone Cold Steve Austin and D-Generation X. As a young adult I marvelled at the curious hinterland where scripted drama and legitimate conflict overlapped. As such, I have often viewed different forms of entertainment through the prism of this bizarre, often misunderstood world, where scripted beefs and simulated sport combine.

The return of Paul Scholes made so much sense and yet so little sense at the same time. Viewed through ginger-tinted spectacles, it was a romantic, heroic return of a legend, and a sensible addition to a depleted midfield. In purely football terms, it seemed perfectly logical. But something about it roused the slumbering wrestling fan within me. The style of the last-minute announcement, with United’s players not finding out until hours before the game, smacked of the sort of stunt booking one would see in wrestling, where eleventh hour interference from an outsider is a staple trope. When Scholes leapt from the Etihad substitutes bench to pad back on to a competitive football pitch, it may have lacked the dynamism of, say, The Undertaker announcing his return from a lengthy hiatus by riding in on a motorcycle. But in terms of its shock value, the way it changed the game, and it’s drama as a spectacle, the two events made for convincing, if unconventional, bedfellows.

A more pragmatic view would have it that it undermined the confidence of the rest of United’s midfielders. Darron Gibson saw the writing on the wall that he frequently missed during shooting practise, and left the club to join Everton. Ravel Morrison has decamped to West Ham, where his prodigious talent will war with his self-destructive streak in a battle for his footballing soul. United may well prove better off without them both, but if Scholes was what finally ushered them to the exit, it was akin to dumping a girl by kissing someone else in front of her – thrilling yet tactless, and lacking a certain class.
Another surprise was that it begged the question – why do so few footballers turn their back on retirement? Wrestlers are notorious for finding it hard to walk away, unable to leave behind an all-consuming lifestyle that sustains them. Mick Foley famously retired from wrestling in 2000, only to return weeks later for a lucrative WrestleMania pay day, where he retired again for real. In January 2012, he was confirmed as one of the 30 participants in the Royal Rumble event. Ric Flair continues to wrestle to this day despite numerous abortive attempts to retire, having first laced up boots in 1972. Occasionally footballers change their mind when it comes to international retirement, with the results ranging from the sublime (Zidane in 2006) to the sub-par (Carragher in 2012). In time we may look back on the comeback of Scholes and see it as a groundbreaking event, the moment a door was opened to shed light on retired players, who may wonder what their bodies and minds may be capable of after a similar break.

In the case of both Foley and Flair, as with so many others, their inability to step away from the limelight succumbs to the rule of diminishing returns. Earlier triumphs are tainted by shambling, inept attempts at reliving long-distant glories. The early signs for Scholes (and passing completion statistics) indicate that the comeback could prove a masterstoke. If his level of performance should wane, it would betray the send-off he was given last May. Scholes’s final game was the Champions League final against Barcelona, and despite a comprehensive 3-1 defeat, there was a scrum amongst Barca players to swap shirts with a player identified as one of their spiritual kin. Andres Iniesta won, and it seemed like a symbolic, if somewhat belated, passing of a torch, with Scholes ceding the limelight as Iniesta enjoys his peak years.

It is rare for a wrestler to return from retirement with renewed vigour, but one example springs to mind. Shawn Michaels was forced to retire in 1998 due to a debilitating back injury. After five years of convalescence he returned, and stunned the industry by being as good as he ever was in his prime, winning the World Heavyweight Championship. Scholes may yet prove to be like Michaels, and leave people ruing his absence rather than malign an ill-judged return. If anything, Michaels bears comparison to Scholes’s team-mate, Ryan Giggs. Both men were considered too old, and yet still too good. Both men (Michaels’ five-year hiatus notwithstanding) experienced similar career trajectories. They both emerged as flying, precocious pin-ups, with talent to burn. Growing older, they became mainstays through consistent performances, particularly in the big matches. As they aged they continued to raise the bar by modifying their game, whilst showing their employers up for failing to promote new talent to replace them. (One exception is in their proclivity for scandal; Giggs maintained a monastic lifestyle throughout his career, until his much-publicised affair and subsequent waving of a futile, skyward fist at Twitter for besmirching his name. Michaels’ career was the exact inverse, with a tendency for controversy eventually eroded by the spiritual lure of born-again Christianity.)

If Giggs is football’s answer to The Heartbreak Kid, then it’s because they share common ground in a founding principle in wrestling – the gimmick. A wrestler’s gimmick is their personality, the manifestation of character, the thing that makes them stand out from the rest. The ‘Million Dollar Man’ Ted DiBiase arrogantly flaunted his wealth on the way to the ring. Jake ‘The Snake’ Roberts would terrorise opponents and fans alike with a live snake. The Gobbedly Gooker was a man dressed as a giant turkey, who would go on to embody the phenomenon of ‘wrestlecrap‘ by hatching from a giant egg.

Just as the most interesting wrestlers have the best gimmicks, so do the most interesting footballers. Increasingly, the media pigeonhole football personalities of interest according to their own, easily identifiable USP’s. In this era of homogenised, media-trained bores, anybody that bucks the trend by demonstrating personality are exalted out of proportion, and are considered oddities, rather than just the lone, sane voices in a world awash with tedious, rent-a-quote post-match interviews. Mario Balotelli is an enigmatic, child-like buffoon. Joey Barton is a Nietszche-quoting reformed thug. Harry Redknapp, to his evident consternation, is seen as a cock-er-knee spiv. Craig Bellamy blends genres by casting himself as a sort of philanthropist tosspot.

Scholes’s gimmick was almost subversive in it’s anti-gimmickness. His on-field persona eschewed the passion of the box-to-box midfield general, or the bombast of the tricksy winger. Scholes was a no-frills performer that found the spectacular in the mundane. Keeping the ball, savouring possession and carving a few feet of space from mere inches became his art. He was the footballing equivalent of a solid mat technician, such as Bret Hart or Chris Benoit. Both, like Scholes, were utterly bereft of charisma, but more than made up for it with peerless technical acumen. Scholes was technically magnificent, the footballer’s footballer, just as Benoit was the wrestler’s wrestler. Both men were throwbacks, publicity shy, rarely giving interviews. They were devoted to their vocations in the purest way possible, in wanting to excel without wishing to discuss it, in seeking the kudos of approval without courting it. (Here the comparison ends, as Benoit’s career and life came to a tragic end.)

His bad tackling has become a lazy comic trope used to deride him, whilst simultaneously managing to overlook the fact that he got away with an awful lot, despite the occasional red card. In this regard, you can also see a likeness to the late Eddie Guerrero circa 2003. His gimmick at the time was captured by his catchphrase, ‘Lie, cheat, steal’, and would see him living up to that mantra by doing whatever it took to win, without compromising his ‘good guy’ status. Similarly, Scholes’s tackling, which veered wildly from the clumsy to the barbaric, was dismissed with an almost-universal chuckle because – bless ‘im! – he was rubbish at tackling, wasn’t he?

In short, Scholes spurned the very notion of showmanship. While we all know that wrestling’s not sport, just as in the field of acting, the best in the business are the ones that can convince you that it’s real. The best ones are good talkers, and can hold court on a microphone, trying to convince you that they really do intend to pulverise their enemies. The best promos are the ones that ‘talk them into the building’, (see CM Punk, Paul Heyman and Jake Roberts) drawing in rapt audiences desperate to see the denouement of a bitter feud. 

After Scholes’s return, a disappointed Roberto Mancini spoke to ITV’s Gabriel Clarke, who pressed him for a response regarding Vincent Kompany’s contentious red card. Undeterred by Mancini’s reticence, Clarke pushed and pushed, rephrasing the question, desperate for the Italian to get himself into trouble. This is what the media has made of pre- and post- match interviews, turning them into antagonistic, inflammatory wrestling-style promos. They are no longer solely intended to extricate news on whether a left-back’s groin strain has cleared up, but to extract exclamations of war, digestible, ready-for-air soundbites that stoke the fires. Journalists and broadcasters poke, probe and agitate, mining spite.

Nowadays, interviews tell the stories which feed the narrative of the match. Rafa Benitez pulling out a slip of paper to angrily recite his infamous list of “facts” regarding Sir Alex Ferguson was the equivalent of Benitez telling Fergie that he was gonna lay the smack down on his candy ass. Kevin Keegan’s “I’d love it if we beat them” address is remembered now, in the light of his ultimate defeat, as the sign of a man descending inexorably into madness. At the time, he was telling Ferguson (That man again! The cerebral assassin! The dirtiest player in the game!) that he was gonna take that championship belt from around his waist, and watcha gonna do, brotha, watcha gonna do, when the Toon Army runs wild on you!!! (History also forgets how Sky Sports cameras cut away just as Keegan ripped off his t-shirt and flexed his muscles inanely, like a ‘roided-up chimp).

"Well, y'know something, Mean Gene.."

In football, just as in wrestling, the storylines are just as important as the matches themselves. The preamble to ITV’s coverage of Manchester United’s visit to Liverpool in the FA Cup dwelt on the thorny backdrop of Luis Suarez vs. Patrice Evra. When Wayne Bridge faced erstwhile love rival John Terry on a football pitch for the first time after their very public personal feud, the image of Bridge refusing to accept Terry’s handshake took on the gravitas of, say, Hulk Hogan and Andre The Giant sizing each other up before battle. In both cases, this was wrestling-style promotion for the purposes of football. Smith gave the example of how, the morning after Barcelona eviscerated Arsenal 3-1 in the Champions League last season, the papers focussed on Arsene Wenger’s accusation that the referee killed the game: “The beauty of Barcelona was relegated to second billing behind the whisper of illusory controversy.”

"How do you expect me to play for England again when you've boffed my missus?"

It is this notion of illusory controversy that made the return of Scholes so bizarre. That a player so averse to publicity would court the idea of doing something so outlandish in the face of such anathema was entirely at odds with the man that everyone thought they knew. Perhaps this is the most encouraging thing about his return. By allowing his sheer enthusiasm for the game he loves to overcome such an instinct for shyness struck something of a blow to the edifice surrounding football, as cited by Smith at the top of this article.

To quote Smith once more: “Everything, in football, is heightened. Reality is not enough, so it is expanded, meaning is extrapolated, significance is assumed.”

This is as true of Paul Scholes as it was for Adam Bomb…

"My favourite player is Frankie Bunn."

The Ascent of Michael Owen

Michael Owen’s career trajectory has seen him fulfil a number of defined roles that read like a skewed footballing equivalent of the ascent of man: prodigal teen, international mainstay, Galactico, injury-prone milquetoast, mercenary, washed-up substitute.

These days he occupies the role of abused, benevolent veteran, trying in vain to steer a course through the twilight of his playing career in peace. He seems absolutely happy with life, despite not playing much. He tweets a lot, espousing the virtues of domestic life, asking for opinions on his coaching badge coursework, and generally comes across as an affable man. Yet this apparent inertia is frequently met with ire, which Owen occasionally reacts to. To wit:

The first tweet, met with sarcasm and scorn, comes from a man who is clearly perfectly happy with his lot. Of course, you would imagine that comes easy for a millionaire footballer, but his lot right now is rather modest in comparison with his more vaunted and youthful colleagues, who can expect to play more football. He is an example of a man growing old gracefully, in a profession where that isn’t always to be taken for granted. They become poor/lazy/misogynistic pundits. They ghost write vapid, boilerplate columns for The Sun. They have affairs and tear families apart.

There should be more Michael Owen’s, happy to cede the limelight once they’ve taken their own share, thankful for what they’ve had without greedily expecting more. David Beckham still clings to desperate delusions of international relevance. Frank Lampard complains about his role at Chelsea which diminishes in direct proportion to his obviously waning powers. Ryan Giggs is forced to continue in workmanlike concession to the paucity of options available to his employer, like Boxer in Orwell’s Animal Farm. Others seek cynical, dollar-chasing moves to the MLS (that retirement home of such washed-up Premiership has-beens and never-weres like Robbie Keane, Thierry Henry and Landon Donovan).

"I will work harder. Sir Alex is always right."

Perhaps it is an inherently English problem. His career, perhaps more than most others, is summarised by one iconic moment, and it weighs upon him like a millstone. That goal against Argentina, that symbiotic burst of pace and promise, represented a prelude to a brighter tomorrow, a warning shot to the rest of the world that Owen (and England) would achieve wonderful things together.

He went on to win trophies as part of the most successful Liverpool side of the Premier League era (the small matter of a Champions League win notwithstanding). He won a Ballon D’or in 2001, becoming the first Englishman to do so for 22 years. He acquired an international goalscoring record which has few peers. In short, his career was no failure, and yet still there persists this feeling that he didn’t do enough, his achievements harshly tainted by the misfortune of his late-20′s and early-30′s.

Injuries haven’t helped him, the same way they haven’t helped countless others before and since. The opprobrium targeted at Owen for such bad luck is misplaced: yes, the later years of his career were ravaged by injury, but what of the likes of Owen Hargreaves? Jamie Redknapp? Kieron Dyer? Are they all to be subject to the same venom aimed at Owen for the betrayal of their bodies?

His career is petering out, just like those of so many before him. The state of semi-retirement we find him in now may not befit the teenage sensation, or the Ballon D’or winner, or the Galactico incarnation of Michael Owen. But he’s in a different stage of his career and life now. There is no public raging at the dying of the light. But when that light flickers out, you sense that he will accept it with more grace than most.

Wayne Rooney – well done!

Lovers of irony, sarcasm or cynicism, let this headline not fool you. For all the brickbats hurled at the newly hirsute Mr. Rooney since his petulant red card against Montenegro, RGSOAS arrives in time to hurl itself bravely before the salvo of abuse, and selflessly take said brickbats in the balls on Wayne’s behalf. But why?

Yes, it was a deserved red card. Yes, it now creates problems that extend to the rest of the England team as a whole. Yes, it was another episode of dark shame for the bootiful game, which England is the best at.

But. The response immediately after the foul was committed should rightly impress us, if only a little. He didn’t contest the red card, he didn’t malign Montenegrin play-acting, he didn’t swear at the referee.

Well, of course, you might say. It’s the least he can do in the wake of such an undignified act. We shouldn’t be thanking him for not digging the hole any deeper. As one of England’s more experienced players, he shouldn’t be acting like this in the first place, much less inciting further trouble.

The stock defence for Rooney’s hot head has always been that, if you remove that fiery temperament, you neuter the essence of the man, the player that can win games single-handedly. If the price to pay for such a talent is the odd misdemeanour, then so be it. It’s the way of the single-minded maverick, and separates the Maradona’s, the Zidane’s and the Cantona’s from the rest.

There are those that will look at the red card as a portentous lapse back into old habits, but there was a refreshing nature to this misdeed. He knew the jig was up, and instantly got on with the business of accepting responsibility. This time, you feel that there might not necessarily be a next time.

And anyway, the biggest scandal of the game was this fucking monstrosity….

Theo Walcott and the issue of blame

It seems that, in English football, the greatest crime is unfulfilled potential, something that this nation has rich history in.

Two of the greatest midfielders of their respective generations, the Pauls Gascoigne and Scholes, ultimately failed to deliver what was expected due to the respective perils of personal demons and disenchantment through mismanagement. English football’s modern history is littered with talents blighted by a litany of ‘if only’s: if only he’d stayed focussed, if only he’d joined a bigger club, if only he’d worked harder.

England supporters, starved as they are of success, refuse to see it happen again.

Enter Theo Walcott. His current prescribed role seems to be that of perennial under-achiever, a forever disengaged black sheep who continues to fail to deliver on his vast promise. It is bizarre that someone such as ‘lil T’eo, nothing if not a milquetoast, is such a polarising figure, with pundits such as Alan Hansen and Chris Waddle condemning him for his lack of intelligence. Such suggestions, which he struggles manfully to mask with his pace and derring-do, stymie his progress, as well as the notion that he is an elite player, a game-changer.

In the pursuit of this open criticism by fans and pundits alike, it seems bizarre that no-one has been looking to blame anyone, especially when you consider that it can be excellent fun. It would be churlish, perhaps unpleasant to simply hold one person responsible for such a crime against football (the worst crime there is!), but it seems that one man has a lot to answer for, but continues to evade reprimand, like a fleet-footed cat-burglar. That man is one Sven-Goran Eriksson.

How odd that a man responsible for thrusting Walcott upon a ridiculously oversized pedestal would somehow escape censure, given that he has been treated with such ignominy by English football fans himself (Eriksson, of course, was once chided for his failure to take England beyond the quarter-finals of a major tournament, a level they have yet to reach since the Swede’s departure five years ago). English fans have perhaps wilted in their hostility against the man who failed to get the most out of England’s cloyingly-named golden generation, in the light of Steve McClaren and Fabio Capello failing harder and faster than Eriksson ever really did. Perhaps it is this forced reassessment that has allowed him to escape scot-free for Crimes Against Walcott.

Picking Walcott was the last desperate throw of the dice for a condemned man. His left-field inclusion represented a courage and audacity that had been conspicuous by its absence throughout the rest of Eriksson’s tenure as England manager, a courage that was lacking when it was most required (such as in his compromising accommodation of both Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard, and in failing to make Paul Scholes the creative fulcrum, as opposed to David Beckham). Eriksson put all of his chips on Walcott’s head – itself only just old enough to legally gamble – and unwittingly broadened the parameters of his career expectations forevermore.

“To hell with the consequences!”, Eriksson almost certainly would’ve said to himself, alone, into his bathroom mirror, before sheepishly questioning his sanity whilst flossing. He wouldn’t need to answer to the repercussions. He wouldn’t be expected to worry for Walcott’s future development. As it would transpire, an English public clamouring for the fresh impetus that Walcott’s inclusion promised, would remain wondering, as an out-of-his-depth Walcott didn’t play a minute of football in Germany.

If he hadn’t been picked, his career trajectory may well have followed a similar path to that of Gareth Bale. He, too, was signed by a top London club from Southampton as a seventeen-year-old, based on similar qualities, most notably skill, pace, but above all potential. Bale did not suffer from the same burden of expectation (which would have just as much to do with Bale being Welsh and not English, of course), and was allowed to develop whilst maintaining a safe distance from the unforgiving glare of the spotlight. When Bale endured a run of 24 Premier League games without winning for Tottenham, it was treated as a joke, an amusing curio and nothing more. By this time Bale was aged 20, and was struggling to displace Benoit Assou-Ekotto as left-back. We all know what happened next.

For Walcott, his fast-track to the full England side saddled him with the millstone of being the next Wayne Rooney or Michael Owen, the precocious youth capable of sparking fresh life into the fading golden generation. Since then, he hasn’t been afforded the same patience that Bale was. I was recently reminded of Walcott’s first Arsenal goal, which came in the 2007 Carling Cup final against Chelsea. Watching the highlights of the game, in the aftermath of that opening goal, the commentary damned him with faint praise, speaking of how he was “turning things around at last” and “finally delivering on his potential”. Then aged 18, it was only his 28th game in Arsenal colours. When did this become an age to prove one’s calibre?

Perhaps it’s the fault of his prodigial predecessors for raising the bar too high – Rooney, Owen, Scholes, Gascoigne. The expectations were too high because, when fans want success and get none, they try and manufacture their own trophies. They wanted a player to frighten the world. Walcott is still only running around with a bedsheet over his head, flailing wildly to remove it to show the bared teeth beneath.

It seems that Walcott has been around forever, but he is still only 22. His career thus far has hardly been a failure, and yet it seems as though it is, as if we’re nearing the point where backs are turned on him and we look to the next great white hope, which was Walcott’s first prescribed role when Eriksson gambled on his future in 2006.

Maybe Walcott’s greatest contribution to England’s cause will be to deflect attention from the next crop of youngsters, so that they can prosper in relative peace. In the meantime, he will continue to shout boo, hoping that one day it will be enough to make people flinch.