Another England match approaches and already the usual rubbish about the quality of the England team has started in earnest. It appears that a large number of England fans think their team is one of the top football nations in the world, a team that deserves to win at least one more World Cup. They even use words like “great”.
Great? According to what criteria?
This is a word which has been used with increasing ease in recent years when we are talking about the Spanish team, the English team, or even the Dutch team. Spain has just won a major tournament after forty-odd years of mediocrity, so let’s start with them.
In the 2006 World Cup they dominated a risibly weak group before bottling, as usual, against France. In the 2004 European Championship they went home after the first round.
In the 2002 World Cup they went out against lowly South Korea. According to the Spanish press, it was the referee’s fault, but then according to the Spanish press it always is. They should have scored four before the referee disallowed the goal; if he was so bad, how many goals did he take away from Spain? How many penalties did fail to award them from their many balls into the box?
In the 2000 European Championship they caved under the pressure and couldn’t score a penalty. And in the 1998 World Cup they lost to ... Nigeria. In 1996 they snuck through in the 84th minute only to be perhaps the only nation ever to lose to England on penalties. In 1994 they did reach the quarter-finals, but they had had time to practise because in 1992 they didn’t even go to the tournament.
Until very recently, Spain had one dodgy European Championship (watch the referee and the Russian goalkeeper) from over forty years ago and nothing else to show for their “greatness”. In the last six major tournaments they have gone home at the first time of asking twice. However, at least they have finally found their rhythm and beat all-comers to take the 2008 European Championship.
Their demolition of England recently underlined the gulf in class and suggested that if they can keep their heads the Spanish players really are on the way to greatness.
What have England done with their “greatness”? Ironically, it could be argued that they have a better record over the same time period than Spain, having reached three quarter-finals and one semi-final, losing three of those matches only on penalties and the other to Brazil. However, they also failed to qualify in 1994 and 2008, needed a play-off to go in 2000 and went out in the first round in 1992 and 2000. All England have to show for their prowess is just one dodgy World Cup from over forty years ago and nothing else to show for its supposed world dominance.
The same as yet another “great”, Holland, which has one European Championship from over twenty years ago, and nothing else. Even Greece has one of those. Since they won their only trophy, they have actually appeared in four semi-finals and three quarter-finals, losing four times on penalties, but they didn’t even qualify for the 2002 World Cup and did hardly any better in the last one. And if Cruyff’s team were so good, who won the World Cups of 1974 and 1978?
The ones who won were the ones who always win, the teams that really are great, the teams that have the best players, the ones who have the necessary quality and grit to do what’s needed on the day. Brazil, Argentina, Germany and possibly Italy are the great teams – add together what the other mentioned teams have won and they still cannot match what any of those four teams have won.
Am I being unfair? In the same period of time Brazil have won two World Cups and four Copa América and played two other finals (although the CA is played more frequently than the Euros), Italy has won one World Cup with a bunch of old men and played two other finals, Germany has won one European Championship and played three other finals and Argentina has won one Copa and played two other finals. Even France has won a World Cup and a European Championship and played one other final.
In total Brazil have five World Cups, Italy four, Germany three and Argentina two; between them they also managed to lose ten other finals. Even Uruguay has two World Cups.
In order to be great you have to win at least a couple of World Cups and dominate for a respectable length of time. For England to be great they need to win the next World Cup, the European Championship after that and then some. Then we can talk about greatness.
(I imagine they must mean “great” in comparison with “small” teams such as Northern Ireland, Nigeria or Croatia.)
Monday, March 16, 2009
So who do you support, then?
The other day my girlfriend asked me how fans decide which teams to support, and why a person supports certain teams over others. What a (double) question! But worse was to come. Can a fan support more than one team?
I used to travel between the north-west and my native north-east quite a lot, and I remember that my favourite part of the whole journey, apart from the approach to Durham, was the view from the station at Stalybridge. The train would sit in the station for a couple of minutes and for that time you could see right across the valley. It was a fabulous view on a fantastic cross-Pennine journey, and ever since then my fondness for that view has manifested itself in the only way a football fan can express himself – I have followed (from a distance) the local team. Obviously.
I was born in Sunderland and I have always fervently supported the team, through thin and thin. Not having been around at the end of the nineteenth century, I have never really seen a successful side, but that makes no difference to the true fan. However, like most fans there are other teams whose results I follow, and the reasons why I follow certain teams –again, like most fans – range from the obvious to the downright obscure.
The obvious, for example, includes the fact that I always have a look at the teams from my native north-east, like Darlington, Hartlepool, Blyth Spartans and Durham City. I watch Southport’s results because I lived there for years when I was a child and I often went to see them at Haig Avenue when I was a teenager. Slightly less obvious is the fact that I check up on Macclesfield because I once went to see them mid-week with Southport. I have a look at Accrington Stanley because thirty years ago one of my neighbours, Frank Whittaker, was a massive fan and had been since his childhood.
Garforth Town appeared in a football magazine, and articles about Truro and Team Bath prompted me to watch their rise, although I can’t really remember when or where those articles were published. I do remember that I was given a football encyclopaedia one Christmas when I was a kid (foolish Father Christmas – my parents couldn’t get any sense out of me for weeks afterwards) and was attracted to the early success and hooped jerseys of Queen’s Park. I also now have a look at Annan Athletic every week simply because they’re the new boys. A friend of mine at university was from Doncaster (and they have a “nice kit”), so that’s Donny Rovers explained.
Then there’s the clubs that have suffered woeful decisions from the FA or the Football League or criminally bad management at board level, so that’s Scarborough, Luton, Bournemouth, Rotherham and Lancaster City explained. I must admit though, you have to be careful with this argument. It had me following Leeds’ results all last season.
A small comment here – I reckon most neutral fans will have been knocked sideways by the unfairness of the treatment of Luton, Bournemouth and Rotherham, and will have been delighted when they reached positive points. Good luck to Luton in the run-in.
I have been following Burnley’s fortunes recently, not just because they have been having a good season but also because I came across some fans who were pretty sound people. And I have to include a special mention for Portsmouth. I was taken to see them beat Spurs on Boxing Day a couple of years ago, and I have great memories of a fantastic atmosphere and top-class fans. Respect.
Even foreign teams have a look-in. I remember when I was a kid my mother used to allow me to take the radio to bed if there were random European matches which would finish past my bedtime, and I remember listening to exotic names like Besiktas and Real Madrid and imagining what those far-off, flood-lit places were like. I remember watching highlights programmes from half-empty grounds where you could see their frozen breath and all the fans looked like heavy metal Viking guitarists, and I still attribute my wanderlust partly to these images.
Not much else to say, really. Perhaps I should write an article about which teams I can’t stand and why!
I used to travel between the north-west and my native north-east quite a lot, and I remember that my favourite part of the whole journey, apart from the approach to Durham, was the view from the station at Stalybridge. The train would sit in the station for a couple of minutes and for that time you could see right across the valley. It was a fabulous view on a fantastic cross-Pennine journey, and ever since then my fondness for that view has manifested itself in the only way a football fan can express himself – I have followed (from a distance) the local team. Obviously.
I was born in Sunderland and I have always fervently supported the team, through thin and thin. Not having been around at the end of the nineteenth century, I have never really seen a successful side, but that makes no difference to the true fan. However, like most fans there are other teams whose results I follow, and the reasons why I follow certain teams –again, like most fans – range from the obvious to the downright obscure.
The obvious, for example, includes the fact that I always have a look at the teams from my native north-east, like Darlington, Hartlepool, Blyth Spartans and Durham City. I watch Southport’s results because I lived there for years when I was a child and I often went to see them at Haig Avenue when I was a teenager. Slightly less obvious is the fact that I check up on Macclesfield because I once went to see them mid-week with Southport. I have a look at Accrington Stanley because thirty years ago one of my neighbours, Frank Whittaker, was a massive fan and had been since his childhood.
Garforth Town appeared in a football magazine, and articles about Truro and Team Bath prompted me to watch their rise, although I can’t really remember when or where those articles were published. I do remember that I was given a football encyclopaedia one Christmas when I was a kid (foolish Father Christmas – my parents couldn’t get any sense out of me for weeks afterwards) and was attracted to the early success and hooped jerseys of Queen’s Park. I also now have a look at Annan Athletic every week simply because they’re the new boys. A friend of mine at university was from Doncaster (and they have a “nice kit”), so that’s Donny Rovers explained.
Then there’s the clubs that have suffered woeful decisions from the FA or the Football League or criminally bad management at board level, so that’s Scarborough, Luton, Bournemouth, Rotherham and Lancaster City explained. I must admit though, you have to be careful with this argument. It had me following Leeds’ results all last season.
A small comment here – I reckon most neutral fans will have been knocked sideways by the unfairness of the treatment of Luton, Bournemouth and Rotherham, and will have been delighted when they reached positive points. Good luck to Luton in the run-in.
I have been following Burnley’s fortunes recently, not just because they have been having a good season but also because I came across some fans who were pretty sound people. And I have to include a special mention for Portsmouth. I was taken to see them beat Spurs on Boxing Day a couple of years ago, and I have great memories of a fantastic atmosphere and top-class fans. Respect.
Even foreign teams have a look-in. I remember when I was a kid my mother used to allow me to take the radio to bed if there were random European matches which would finish past my bedtime, and I remember listening to exotic names like Besiktas and Real Madrid and imagining what those far-off, flood-lit places were like. I remember watching highlights programmes from half-empty grounds where you could see their frozen breath and all the fans looked like heavy metal Viking guitarists, and I still attribute my wanderlust partly to these images.
Not much else to say, really. Perhaps I should write an article about which teams I can’t stand and why!
Passion
I’d spent the entire night out on the batter in the centre of Madrid, drinking a week’s worth of alcohol, smoking a lung’s worth of fags and consuming plenty more besides. Now it was nine o’clock in the morning and I was stood between the goalposts and balanced delicately between drunkenness and a hangover. As the two teams stretched and spat and hoofed the composite ball to each other, the smell of beery sweat spread across the dirt pitch. It was already 25 degrees in the slim shade of the crossbar and was going to get worse. But I didn’t care. It was my debut in Sunday League.
No big deal. I was just another lad who couldn’t play football in another random pub team. I was talentless, and the sheer excitement rendered me more useless still. It wasn’t the perfect pass, it was any pass. I was an amateur player, but not only would I be prepared to do this for free, I had actually paid 5,000 pesetas in subs for the season to throw myself around on broken glass and syringes. Yet I was like a kid with new shoes, because there is nothing like playing football.
When I was a kid, football was an obsession. It was a privilege to be picked for a side, even in the playground. The best Christmases or birthdays were the ones when I got a new ball. The best days at school were the ones where we went down to Carr Lane Rec and clattered down the narrow passageway of the changing rooms in our tiny boots and out onto the muddy pitches. In my head I was Ian Porterfield.
Two jerseys dropped on the floor was a challenge not to be ignored. Two trees a certain distance apart could only be goalposts. A white chalk line was the gateway into paradise. And as I got older I stood by those chalk lines come rain or shine and watched anybody and everybody. Local teams, pub teams, I didn’t care.
But I was never really interested in first division football, despite the fact that my own team (Sunderlandnil) occasionally played in the top flight. I’ve always preferred the lower leagues or non-league football. While exiled in the north-west I went to see Southport at Haig Avenue on a regular basis rather than travel to Liverpool or Manchester.
The problem I have even with lower league football and especially amateur football in the post-TV revolution version of the sport is the fact that whereas before the players copied the feints and dummies and tilting runs of their heroes – and even Lineker’s plaster cast – now they copy the falling over and the twisted, indignant face of the diva.
What next? Will Sunday League players start shoplifting and drink-driving and punching people like they do in the Premier League?
Football is not about cars and WAGS and yachts, it’s jerseys for posts and even beery sweat and the dressing-room banter. Cliché? No more than the antics of modern footballers. And certainly no more than going down like a sack of spuds in the box because some over-paid ponce does it every Saturday.
No big deal. I was just another lad who couldn’t play football in another random pub team. I was talentless, and the sheer excitement rendered me more useless still. It wasn’t the perfect pass, it was any pass. I was an amateur player, but not only would I be prepared to do this for free, I had actually paid 5,000 pesetas in subs for the season to throw myself around on broken glass and syringes. Yet I was like a kid with new shoes, because there is nothing like playing football.
When I was a kid, football was an obsession. It was a privilege to be picked for a side, even in the playground. The best Christmases or birthdays were the ones when I got a new ball. The best days at school were the ones where we went down to Carr Lane Rec and clattered down the narrow passageway of the changing rooms in our tiny boots and out onto the muddy pitches. In my head I was Ian Porterfield.
Two jerseys dropped on the floor was a challenge not to be ignored. Two trees a certain distance apart could only be goalposts. A white chalk line was the gateway into paradise. And as I got older I stood by those chalk lines come rain or shine and watched anybody and everybody. Local teams, pub teams, I didn’t care.
But I was never really interested in first division football, despite the fact that my own team (Sunderlandnil) occasionally played in the top flight. I’ve always preferred the lower leagues or non-league football. While exiled in the north-west I went to see Southport at Haig Avenue on a regular basis rather than travel to Liverpool or Manchester.
The problem I have even with lower league football and especially amateur football in the post-TV revolution version of the sport is the fact that whereas before the players copied the feints and dummies and tilting runs of their heroes – and even Lineker’s plaster cast – now they copy the falling over and the twisted, indignant face of the diva.
What next? Will Sunday League players start shoplifting and drink-driving and punching people like they do in the Premier League?
Football is not about cars and WAGS and yachts, it’s jerseys for posts and even beery sweat and the dressing-room banter. Cliché? No more than the antics of modern footballers. And certainly no more than going down like a sack of spuds in the box because some over-paid ponce does it every Saturday.
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