Roberto Martinez leaves Wigan
Roberto's Martinez's decision to leave Wigan this week will come as a huge blow to the Latic fans as they come to terms with what has been an up and down few weeks when it comes to tugging the football heartstrings. In all honesty it has been a few years of emotions being pushed to the limit, never mind these last few weeks. As neutrals we have looked on as March turns on the calendar and Wigan have plotted their great escape, often up until the last game of the season. As a club they have entertained us since that first game against Chelsea at home, when Hernan Crespo grabbed a heart breaking last minute winner to welcome then manager Paul Jewell and his new premier league recruits to the league.
Since then it's been an incredible journey, so wonderfully capped off with a Ben Watson 90th minute header at Wembley in front of the dedicated support Wigan have held on to all these years. All fairy tales come to an end though, and it was to be a few days after that dream win over Man City, in a sodden Emirates Stadium, that their Premier League story came to an end.
With or without Martinez, owner Dave Whelan will still be the voice that bellows from that small town in the North West and I think most fans would love to see them come straight back up into the big time, albeit with a few less episodes of 'March Madness' which has often graced our televisions.
David Moyes right to appoint new staff
David Moyes is set to take the reigns as Manchester United manager in the next few weeks, and already there has been scrutiny over who the former Everton man is bringing in as his backroom staff. In a clear message to the potential critics, an admirable message in fact, he has brought in his own trusty sidekicks to begin the new regime in the Manchester hot seat . Steve Round, Chris Woods, Phil Neville and Chief Scout at Goodison, Robbie Cooke, all are expected to be drafted in as replacements for the men Sir Alex Ferguson worked so closely with during United's years of dominance.
Steve Round, who will become David Moyes' number two, just like he was at Everton, is widely regarded as one of the finest young British coaches in today's game. Since his career was cut short at 25 he has worked his way up the coaching ladder and has been Moyes' assistant since Alan Irvine's departure in 2008. Along with Moyes and the other Goodison backroom staff, Round will be hoping for a successful time at the hub of the most coveted jobs in the world.
Luis Suarez transfer talk
As a huge fan of one of the most gifted footballers in the world right now, it came as a shock to me that Luis Suarez made the comments he did on a Uruguayan radio show recently. Whether or not there has been a mix up in translation from the press, I can't be certain, but if what he said is true then as Liverpool fans we have the right to feel let down and aggrieved by these comments.
When Suarez had everyone, and I mean everyone, on his back during the the racism controversy and most recently the biting incident, the only people that stuck by him were the fans that pay good money to watch his talents. To go on a radio show back home and say what he did shows, in my opinion, an incredible lack of respect towards the very people who have supported him through the thick and thin.
Fans like to see players stick around, to build towards something, to work as a unit to win competitions, to share special moments with fans and teammates. I believe he owes the fans at least another year of playing in red, and not sell out to the Madrid club who have always got the player they wanted, just because they can.
If he isn't 'prepared to continue suffering at the hands of English journalists' then that is the easy way out. And may I remind him that 'suffering' in football terms is driving to Stoke on a freezing December night , and watching your team get hammered 3-1 after paying an extortionate £42 for a ticket, and then realising you have to fork out another £30 to fill up your car with petrol (after paying £10 to park on a piece of tarmac). You get my drift.
So my message for Suarez is to stay and fight. To take the cowards route towards southern Europe shows weak character in my opinion. We have put up with a lot of your shenanigans these last few months, yet if you stay the Kop will still continue to shout your name from the first whistle of the first game. Money and sponsorship may come your way at the Bernabeu, but loyalty and a sense of belonging as we work towards trophies will always be around at Anfield.
Thursday 30 May 2013
Saturday 25 May 2013
Borussia Dortmund vs Bayern Munich- Fussball is coming home.
The biggest stage in the world is set to host the biggest game of the football calendar this today when the German North takes on the German South in a mouth watering tie which has finally got it’s chance at the top of the European pedestal for the first time in history.
On paper we are set for a monumental battle between the two best teams in Germany for the past few years. Borussia Dortmund have lit up this year’s competition and their yellow tide of dedicated fans will have the majority of the footballing world on their side as the London sunset creeps away on Saturday night.
Their opponents and arch rivals Bayern Munich have once again efficiently graced their way through a competition which has saw them fall so often at the last few attempts. They now have the chance to rid the demons of that Chelsea loss last year at their home ground, The Allianz Arena and to send out a message to the rest of the world that they aren’t the ‘almost’ team many often label them as.
Dortmund come into this game shaking off their disappointment as a mediocre domestic season comes to a close. The 2012/13 season has saw them surrender their Bundesliga title to their very opponents this Saturday, and after seeing their star player Mario Gotze recently decide to jump ship and venture toward Munich as of next season, a sense of double injustice will surely add fire to the belly’s of this ever so talented Dortmund side that has the ears of Europe perked up and watching.
We all know Bayern Munich to be the super power of the game since the mid 70’s but their recent inconsistencies has given them nothing but fresh air to lift in this last decade or so. Twice since 1999 have they lost the European Cup to utter heartbreak, both at the hands of English sides, and both at the hands of teams that at the time were seen as the weaker squad going into the game.
Jupp Heyneckes, Bayern’s 68 year old coach, carries all the experience in the footballing world though, and with his last game being concluded by the referee’s last game at the famous new Wembley, the players will surely want to play and win for him as much they want to rid the ghost of their own European past.
A tantalising final is most definitely on the cards and I’m sure every football fan will want to mourn the end of the football season with an end of season Champions League classic. It certainly has the alarm bells of one and let’s hope the Wembley of new can create some memories to match the glorious past of the old twin towers.
Joining the German party
A personal fixation with Borussia Dortmund has led to booking a train down to London for the weekend to go and join in with the football celebrations going on in the city. You would think I have a front and centre Willy Wonka golden ticket to the final itself with a ‘meet the players’ party afterwards I’m that excited.
In fact I don’t even have entrance to the fan parks that will surround the stadium with its UEFA sponsored advertising hoardings and expensive merchandise. I do hope, however, that when taking a lap around this architecturally beautiful stadium, a ticket just floats from the air and into my ever so grateful hands, like an auburn leaf descending from its branch in deep autumn.
Tickets are hard to come by nowadays in many of the popular sports. The days of turning up to the turnstiles and paying for your ticket are over. Memberships, fan cards, season tickets, and waiting lists are the norm, more so than ever in football. The difficulty at acquiring match tickets today is equalled by the steepness in the prices. Things are being done to counteract such an increase in prices though, and this is something I will look at as the new season approaches. But for now I’d like to make comparisons. Comparisons from the early days of paying tupence for a ticket or just jumping over the wall thanks to a knee up, to today’s football marketing profit machine.
As I consider ways in which to get into Wembley tomorrow to watch my beloved second team Borussia Dortmund, I consider the consequences to attempting such an act, when 30 years ago you were most likely given a clout round the ear by the superintendent and told to pay next time round, and that would be the end of it. Whether you see me on the news or not, here’s my small take on what 30 years in football does to society:
..............................................................................................................
I read a book once by a Liverpool fan who told his tales of trips and games all across Britain and Europe in the 70’s and 80’s, known to most as the era of British club dominance on the continent. He would write how during the run up to the game against Roma in 1984, Liverpool’s first embrace with the Trevi Fountain and Italy’s capital city, there was a sea of red in the streets, bars and squares that shaped this beautiful city.
As he and his mates hopped of their bus they saw a ticket tout with a number of tickets, a poisonous leech looking to make a quick buck or two by ripping off the loyal fans who’d ventured across the lands of Western Europe to watch their team conquer all football had to offer.
As he approached the man, he asked how much, and before the man could say ‘250 Lira’ he swiped them from his sweaty grasp and ran off as fast as you could say ‘der’s ya change lad’. And with that he’d handed them out to the other grief stricken Scousers who were yet to acquire a ticket after making the arduous journey south.
Another tale told of a game at Wolves and the travelling Anfield faithful had once again showed up in their thousands towards Birmingham. As they arrived they were hastily told that without a ticket they weren’t getting in (having no ticket in those days was a common occurrence).
So a quick Scouse brainwave followed by a sledgehammer suddenly popping into the equation, the story ended in the Wolves ground having seven shades of Liverpool kicked out of it and a free invitation to the biggest party in Birmingham that weekend. By the time the stewards had realised, they had joined the masses and became a needle in a haystack thanks to the sold of crowd in the Midlands.
A strange couple of stories if we compare the impact to what would happen should anyone even try such a feat. I imagine a personal vindication by the Daily Mail would take place, as I’m stereotyped as a ‘yob’ or ‘hooligan’.
This is closely followed by an ASBO, for carrying a sledgehammer around as well as being offered counselling for scaring the general public like some sort of psychopath in the making. Add this to a trial for ‘trespassing’ the stadium as well as a potential assault charge because the guy I’ve violently stolen the ticket off is recovering in the hospital with a bout of ‘paper cut’. Injury Lawyers For You would be on the phone and I’d be bankrupt in no time as he struggles to recover from his horrific injuries.....on holiday in Marbella.
I digress.
You see my brief, albeit exaggerated version of what isn’t really that far from the truth. So tomorrow when you’re tucked up in the pub or at home, consider me in two potential scenarios. One of utter devastation at missing out on even watching the game thanks to being locked in a London cell, or the other of me, slap bang in the middle of the Dortmund army as Marco Reus scores an absolute screamer in the last minute.
I can dream.
On paper we are set for a monumental battle between the two best teams in Germany for the past few years. Borussia Dortmund have lit up this year’s competition and their yellow tide of dedicated fans will have the majority of the footballing world on their side as the London sunset creeps away on Saturday night.
Their opponents and arch rivals Bayern Munich have once again efficiently graced their way through a competition which has saw them fall so often at the last few attempts. They now have the chance to rid the demons of that Chelsea loss last year at their home ground, The Allianz Arena and to send out a message to the rest of the world that they aren’t the ‘almost’ team many often label them as.
Dortmund come into this game shaking off their disappointment as a mediocre domestic season comes to a close. The 2012/13 season has saw them surrender their Bundesliga title to their very opponents this Saturday, and after seeing their star player Mario Gotze recently decide to jump ship and venture toward Munich as of next season, a sense of double injustice will surely add fire to the belly’s of this ever so talented Dortmund side that has the ears of Europe perked up and watching.
We all know Bayern Munich to be the super power of the game since the mid 70’s but their recent inconsistencies has given them nothing but fresh air to lift in this last decade or so. Twice since 1999 have they lost the European Cup to utter heartbreak, both at the hands of English sides, and both at the hands of teams that at the time were seen as the weaker squad going into the game.
Jupp Heyneckes, Bayern’s 68 year old coach, carries all the experience in the footballing world though, and with his last game being concluded by the referee’s last game at the famous new Wembley, the players will surely want to play and win for him as much they want to rid the ghost of their own European past.
A tantalising final is most definitely on the cards and I’m sure every football fan will want to mourn the end of the football season with an end of season Champions League classic. It certainly has the alarm bells of one and let’s hope the Wembley of new can create some memories to match the glorious past of the old twin towers.
Joining the German party
A personal fixation with Borussia Dortmund has led to booking a train down to London for the weekend to go and join in with the football celebrations going on in the city. You would think I have a front and centre Willy Wonka golden ticket to the final itself with a ‘meet the players’ party afterwards I’m that excited.
In fact I don’t even have entrance to the fan parks that will surround the stadium with its UEFA sponsored advertising hoardings and expensive merchandise. I do hope, however, that when taking a lap around this architecturally beautiful stadium, a ticket just floats from the air and into my ever so grateful hands, like an auburn leaf descending from its branch in deep autumn.
Tickets are hard to come by nowadays in many of the popular sports. The days of turning up to the turnstiles and paying for your ticket are over. Memberships, fan cards, season tickets, and waiting lists are the norm, more so than ever in football. The difficulty at acquiring match tickets today is equalled by the steepness in the prices. Things are being done to counteract such an increase in prices though, and this is something I will look at as the new season approaches. But for now I’d like to make comparisons. Comparisons from the early days of paying tupence for a ticket or just jumping over the wall thanks to a knee up, to today’s football marketing profit machine.
As I consider ways in which to get into Wembley tomorrow to watch my beloved second team Borussia Dortmund, I consider the consequences to attempting such an act, when 30 years ago you were most likely given a clout round the ear by the superintendent and told to pay next time round, and that would be the end of it. Whether you see me on the news or not, here’s my small take on what 30 years in football does to society:
..............................................................................................................
I read a book once by a Liverpool fan who told his tales of trips and games all across Britain and Europe in the 70’s and 80’s, known to most as the era of British club dominance on the continent. He would write how during the run up to the game against Roma in 1984, Liverpool’s first embrace with the Trevi Fountain and Italy’s capital city, there was a sea of red in the streets, bars and squares that shaped this beautiful city.
As he and his mates hopped of their bus they saw a ticket tout with a number of tickets, a poisonous leech looking to make a quick buck or two by ripping off the loyal fans who’d ventured across the lands of Western Europe to watch their team conquer all football had to offer.
As he approached the man, he asked how much, and before the man could say ‘250 Lira’ he swiped them from his sweaty grasp and ran off as fast as you could say ‘der’s ya change lad’. And with that he’d handed them out to the other grief stricken Scousers who were yet to acquire a ticket after making the arduous journey south.
Another tale told of a game at Wolves and the travelling Anfield faithful had once again showed up in their thousands towards Birmingham. As they arrived they were hastily told that without a ticket they weren’t getting in (having no ticket in those days was a common occurrence).
So a quick Scouse brainwave followed by a sledgehammer suddenly popping into the equation, the story ended in the Wolves ground having seven shades of Liverpool kicked out of it and a free invitation to the biggest party in Birmingham that weekend. By the time the stewards had realised, they had joined the masses and became a needle in a haystack thanks to the sold of crowd in the Midlands.
A strange couple of stories if we compare the impact to what would happen should anyone even try such a feat. I imagine a personal vindication by the Daily Mail would take place, as I’m stereotyped as a ‘yob’ or ‘hooligan’.
This is closely followed by an ASBO, for carrying a sledgehammer around as well as being offered counselling for scaring the general public like some sort of psychopath in the making. Add this to a trial for ‘trespassing’ the stadium as well as a potential assault charge because the guy I’ve violently stolen the ticket off is recovering in the hospital with a bout of ‘paper cut’. Injury Lawyers For You would be on the phone and I’d be bankrupt in no time as he struggles to recover from his horrific injuries.....on holiday in Marbella.
I digress.
You see my brief, albeit exaggerated version of what isn’t really that far from the truth. So tomorrow when you’re tucked up in the pub or at home, consider me in two potential scenarios. One of utter devastation at missing out on even watching the game thanks to being locked in a London cell, or the other of me, slap bang in the middle of the Dortmund army as Marco Reus scores an absolute screamer in the last minute.
I can dream.
Wednesday 22 May 2013
Jamie Carragher- The last of the bellowing voice from a genuine football legend.
Often we see days of celebration at Anfield. Players and their families walk around holding the trophies and medals of games and competitions they have won that season. A lap of honour to show the people what the support has given them. Liverpool’s last home game of the 2012/13 season wasn’t a day of celebration so much. It was a day of appreciation. An appreciation for a player that has optimised his position, a dying breed of a defender that the next generation may only see on ‘Premier League Years’ in the future, Jamie Carragher.
Tika Taka Football is revered around the world as THE best way to play the game as we know it today. Beautiful Barcelona are a team to admire, so stunning in their conviction with which they grace the game of football. The channels of play with which the Catalans create a moment, a movement and deft touch of brilliance is a special happening.
Modern day football determines that teams and players like the ones Barcelona churn through their unrelenting academy system, La Masia, like a large scale factory production line is the future. These are the new breed of footballer, slick, lean, quick footed and a master of ball control. We’ve embraced these times, these glorious days of exquisite football, of 21st century heroes whose exploits on the pitch are unfortunately followed as much off the pitch.
I deliberately digress.
What we often don’t appreciate anymore is the player I like to define as the ‘just clear the ball, and we’ll discuss the rest later’ type of professional, and the type of player the boy turned legend from Bootle was. Bob Paisley once famously said, "If you're in the penalty area and don't know what to do with the ball, put it in the net and we'll discuss the options later” whilst at Liverpool. These words seem to have rang true for Carragher since he set off on his Liverpool journey on the 8th January 1997 as a substitute in the League Cup at Middlesbrough.
What has gone before Carragher and what will come after is an astronomical gap in terms of style of play, mind set and arguably, passion. In all that’s changed in football, Carragher has kept his head throughout. He has stayed true to himself, and stuck to his guns. A one man army of red faced defence. He has told the people who needed to be told what they needed to hear and instilled passion and belief into the many that played beside him. His character has oozed grit, determination and fight for a real cause, even at times when it felt lost, even at times when change was too much.
Many players only serve an ounce of a fans expected efforts when on a football field. Most pass us by in only a brief conversation in the local pub, down the park having a kick-a-round. In today’s world of playing contracts, agent so say, flash cars and model girlfriends. Carragher’s presence seemed to always to be one of working class, a grafter who wouldn’t have looked out of place sitting in a plasterers van at lunchtime.
His devotion and tactical know-how for the game were second to none, characteristics which may not have catapulted him to the pinnacle of Europe had he not possessed them. He’d be the first to tell you his talents on the ball weren’t as good as other top defenders in Europe. But his awareness of his surroundings and traits as a leader stood him out from the rest.
His voice could be heard from the farthest echelons of the Spion Kop, a foghorn to warn ships of an incoming mist, a bellow to his comrades that the opposition were on the attack, a scream to organise the teams shape, like a roman shield formation in battle.
The words ‘transition’ and ‘progress’ have hung over the steel beams of Anfield since Brendan Rodgers made the offices of Melwood his own last summer. Liverpool are re-growing, rebranding, trying to click through the gears to steady a ship and move it onwards. Carragher has been through many a transition as well as a glorious period of unbelievable European domination, when he arguably stood among the best in the world. It’s just a shame 737 games couldn’t have ended with a shining, Barclays sponsored, gold tinted Premier League Medal. Still, the other haul of medals weigh enough to see him with a satisfactory memory of it all.
So thank you, Carra. Thank you for believing when all seemed lost, thank you for clattering into players we all dreamed of taking a whack at over the years, thank you for guarding the famous red line at the back, thanks for Istanbul, for Cardiff, for all the other cups you so brilliantly won. Thank you for showing others players the right direction, thank you for clapping the fans every single game, thank you for THAT clearance in extra time on a steaming hot night in Turkey, thank you for defining passion, thank you for defining a generation, for defining a city and making the people happy. Thank you for everything.
Happy retirement.
Friday 26 April 2013
Borussia Dortmund vs Real Madrid
As if the romanticism and simmering brightness of an evening sunset couldn’t delight and inspire you more, the 65000 strong Dortmund faithful continued to light up the night long after the sun had gone down over the Signal Iduna stadium. It was a sweet embrace in a corner of Northern Germany, a wave of emotion from each stand, a night to behold, a statement to the rest of Europe.
The flags waved, the deep German voices bellowed out their heroes and one perplexed Portuguese manager looked on at Robert Lewandoski as if he’d just taken his homework and tore it up like rampaging pitbull. This was a night when the classical number 9 striker came out to play, when the definition of ‘that boy can turn on a 5 pence piece’ was epitomised in one....two....goal.
Whatever it is that might happen to this incredible Dortmund side in the near future was left somewhere far from the archaic stadium that was beamed around the world last night. They ripped into this Real Madrid team full of world class talent and individual brilliance right from the off, controlling the tempo, pushing high up the pitch and finding channels which at times sent the Madrid defence into a blubbering mess.
Dortmund’s first chance, a mazy run through the middle by the outstanding Marco Reus after the first few minutes, should have sounded the alarm bells for Mourinho’s men. Instead it set the tone for the night and a couple of minutes later Dortmund’s early pressure paid dividend. Lewandoski lost Pepe in the box as the departing Mario Gotze whipped in a delightful ball from the left and all the Polish international had left to do was poke it home with his outstretched right boot.
Madrid’s only real attack of the night came from a Mats Hummel’s mistake. He was too casual in attempting to knock the ball back to Dortmund keeper, Roman Weidenfeller. This came at a critical time in the game as half time approached. After they missed out on a penalty claim a few moments before Gonzalo Higuain squared to Ronaldo to slot home, they could have gone into the changing room at half time with heads bowed and a negative attitude for the remaining 45 minutes. In fact they did the opposite, with Hummel’s in particular looking fired up for the second half as they entered the field of play.
Dortmund seemed to use their setback as a mere stepping stone to greater things. And my did they create great things in what turned into a rout by the time the referee blew the final whistle. Ilkay Gundogan will no doubt be missing from all the big headlines but he churned out an incredibly patient and powerful midfield performance, setting off Dortmund’s forward play as well as cutting off the balls up to Mesut Ozil and Ronaldo, and along with the returning Sven Bender, stopped any of the attacks Madrid attempted.
The German side had the lead back 5 minutes after the restart with Sami Khedira lazily keeping Lewandoski on side, for the striker to turn and finish in one slick movement. If you thought that was slick then his third was perfection. An immaculate combination of touch, turn and close control gave Pepe a dizzy spell, matched by a clinical finish into the roof of the net to send the famous Subtribune behind Madrid keeper Diego Lopez’s goal into utter pandemonium.
Madrid looked stunned, and even more mystified when the magnificent Gundogan ran through 4 or 5 Madrid players only for his shot to be expertly save by Lopez. They need not have worried as to whether Dortmund would score a fourth, when in the 66th minute Xabi Alonso bundled into the back Reus. Alonso had been poor all night and was rarely given a chance to pass the ball the way he has done so efficiently for both Liverpool and Madrid. A clumsy takedown of an opposition player gave evidence to Alonso’s frustration and Lewandowski happily made the Spaniard rue his mistake with a thunderous strike into the roof of a net now worn down thanks to the 24 year olds right foot. In all honesty he could have tapped that ball at snail’s pace for it only to go the same speed as a rocket thanks to the yellow sea of fans pulling it towards their goal. 4-1 and Dortmund were in dreamland.
They saw out the game professionally and Weidenfeller was briefly reminded of what he faces next week at the Bernabeu when scrambling to block Ronaldo’s shot two minutes before time. Madrid are certainly capable of scoring three but the question is can they shut out this incredible attacking line Dortmund possess. A small miracle requires both Madrid and Barcelona to progress to Wembley on May 25th as the F.A celebrate their 150th Anniversary. Football (or should I say Fussball) is most certainly coming home in celebration of this, and it’s more than likely Borussia Dortmund and Bayern Munich will be at centre stage for it.
The flags waved, the deep German voices bellowed out their heroes and one perplexed Portuguese manager looked on at Robert Lewandoski as if he’d just taken his homework and tore it up like rampaging pitbull. This was a night when the classical number 9 striker came out to play, when the definition of ‘that boy can turn on a 5 pence piece’ was epitomised in one....two....goal.
Whatever it is that might happen to this incredible Dortmund side in the near future was left somewhere far from the archaic stadium that was beamed around the world last night. They ripped into this Real Madrid team full of world class talent and individual brilliance right from the off, controlling the tempo, pushing high up the pitch and finding channels which at times sent the Madrid defence into a blubbering mess.
Dortmund’s first chance, a mazy run through the middle by the outstanding Marco Reus after the first few minutes, should have sounded the alarm bells for Mourinho’s men. Instead it set the tone for the night and a couple of minutes later Dortmund’s early pressure paid dividend. Lewandoski lost Pepe in the box as the departing Mario Gotze whipped in a delightful ball from the left and all the Polish international had left to do was poke it home with his outstretched right boot.
Madrid’s only real attack of the night came from a Mats Hummel’s mistake. He was too casual in attempting to knock the ball back to Dortmund keeper, Roman Weidenfeller. This came at a critical time in the game as half time approached. After they missed out on a penalty claim a few moments before Gonzalo Higuain squared to Ronaldo to slot home, they could have gone into the changing room at half time with heads bowed and a negative attitude for the remaining 45 minutes. In fact they did the opposite, with Hummel’s in particular looking fired up for the second half as they entered the field of play.
Dortmund seemed to use their setback as a mere stepping stone to greater things. And my did they create great things in what turned into a rout by the time the referee blew the final whistle. Ilkay Gundogan will no doubt be missing from all the big headlines but he churned out an incredibly patient and powerful midfield performance, setting off Dortmund’s forward play as well as cutting off the balls up to Mesut Ozil and Ronaldo, and along with the returning Sven Bender, stopped any of the attacks Madrid attempted.
The German side had the lead back 5 minutes after the restart with Sami Khedira lazily keeping Lewandoski on side, for the striker to turn and finish in one slick movement. If you thought that was slick then his third was perfection. An immaculate combination of touch, turn and close control gave Pepe a dizzy spell, matched by a clinical finish into the roof of the net to send the famous Subtribune behind Madrid keeper Diego Lopez’s goal into utter pandemonium.
Madrid looked stunned, and even more mystified when the magnificent Gundogan ran through 4 or 5 Madrid players only for his shot to be expertly save by Lopez. They need not have worried as to whether Dortmund would score a fourth, when in the 66th minute Xabi Alonso bundled into the back Reus. Alonso had been poor all night and was rarely given a chance to pass the ball the way he has done so efficiently for both Liverpool and Madrid. A clumsy takedown of an opposition player gave evidence to Alonso’s frustration and Lewandowski happily made the Spaniard rue his mistake with a thunderous strike into the roof of a net now worn down thanks to the 24 year olds right foot. In all honesty he could have tapped that ball at snail’s pace for it only to go the same speed as a rocket thanks to the yellow sea of fans pulling it towards their goal. 4-1 and Dortmund were in dreamland.
They saw out the game professionally and Weidenfeller was briefly reminded of what he faces next week at the Bernabeu when scrambling to block Ronaldo’s shot two minutes before time. Madrid are certainly capable of scoring three but the question is can they shut out this incredible attacking line Dortmund possess. A small miracle requires both Madrid and Barcelona to progress to Wembley on May 25th as the F.A celebrate their 150th Anniversary. Football (or should I say Fussball) is most certainly coming home in celebration of this, and it’s more than likely Borussia Dortmund and Bayern Munich will be at centre stage for it.
The Vampire Witchunt
“He did not murder anyone. He did not conduct an armed robbery, or rob a car before driving 120mph down a motorway. The wrong way. Suarez did not beat up an old lady, fiddle his tax returns or misread the signs of economic recovery costing investors in a worldwide conglomerate hundreds of millions of pounds. Suarez did not do any of these things.
In fact, the more time we spend together compiling this list, the closer we might be to confirming that Suarez is, in fact, a thoroughly wholesome, law abiding individual who just happened to make another one of those daft mistakes he is prone to in a football stadium from time to time.”
I must have scoped through endless articles of the last few days before finding the quote above, many times close to opening my back door and launching the laptop at my little white West Highland Terrier who was minding his own business in the late April sunshine barking at the pigeons harassing him in his territory (don’t worry I didn’t).
What you should take literally from the above is my anger. And where is that anger coming from you ask? Well if you have seen any (and I mean ANY) news channel, twitter feed, Facebook video, new game alert pop up or a man at the bottom of your road screaming bloody murder then you’ll be aware that we on Merseyside are in the middle of a ‘lock your doors, there’s a cannibal on the loose’ phase in our lives.
There have been various sightings of this mad man as we peer around each corner to check if his blood dripping nashers are targeting us next, not knowing whether we will make it to the end of each day.
It’s all been too easy these past few days for the media as well as the wet lettuces at the F.A. It was a strange incident, one many will say ‘And just when you thought you’d seen it all, he bites someone’. It’s true that it was strange and it’s true I am not condoning what Luis Suarez did to Branislav Ivanovic. What he did was immature, selfish and all round stupid and its part of his persona that he must work on.
From what I do know, he is a family man, with a young daughter and a childhood sweetheart of a wife who keeps himself to himself off the pitch. His passion is unrelenting so much so that Jamie Carragher puts him almost alongside himself in that category. Something within Suarez ticks when he steps out over the white line, in front of the camera’s and the thousands of fans. In the heat of the moment his decision to react to whatever emotions he has felt in that instant was a bite. We are used to seeing a horror tackle, or an elbow, even a punch when a player reacts in their heat of the moment. A bite is strange behaviour, and it’s right that he should speak to Liverpool’s top psychologist, Steve Rodgers. And as Carragher said ‘we should help him, not hound him’.
To criticise Liverpool is unfair. My Evertonian friends may tell me I’m speaking through rose tinted glasses but they will also agree with me that the furore around this is quite ridiculous. Add this to the fact that it became all very easy for that fantastic institution of ours, the F.A to ban Suarez and you are in for a period in which the whole club is ridiculed.
And for those who say that two footed tackles, elbows and other such aggressive acts are ‘part of the game’, them I’m afraid you need to check your glasses........rose and tinted. These are acts added to an already aggressive game and acts that are fowl and in my opinion disgusting. I’d much rather be nibbled on the arm than on the receiving of a malicious high tackle. Football is a contact sport and I’m sure many who have the joys of playing football at any level love nothing more than a mud filled all out tackle that’s fair and ‘game-worthy’. And an elbow, well that’s just GBH.
For those who also say our children will be affected by this biting incident is completely ridiculous. When David Beckham kicked Diego Simeone in the 1998 World Cup and was sent off I was 8 years old. The week following that incident I’m relatively certain my friends and I did not produce savage ‘kicking attacks’ on other kids our age. Ironically what I remember the most is the effigy of Beckham hanging outside of a pub, printed by the media and for the people like some heroic act of righteousness. Funny how it all works isn’t it. What I would put it down to, the fact that some kids can be affected by such a baron attack on another human being, is poor parenting. The brutal truth I know but I’m not the only one thinking it.
The likelihood is that come September he will be tearing up defences in towns and cities near you, hated by the home support like a pantomime villain in his golden years, a caricature created by the media and F.A, heralded by the Liverpool fans like a returning hero, whose act of treachery is now a thing of the distant past.
And maybe that’s what it’s supposed to be; maybe this is the character Luis Suarez was destined to play since his days as a street baller on the streets of Montevideo. He’s made a mistake, and attempts to rectify it as well as making sure it won’t happen again are in place. Whether it works I’m not sure, but his footballing abilities are why I paid my ticket to watch Liverpool and Chelsea on Sunday. And that will never change.
In fact, the more time we spend together compiling this list, the closer we might be to confirming that Suarez is, in fact, a thoroughly wholesome, law abiding individual who just happened to make another one of those daft mistakes he is prone to in a football stadium from time to time.”
I must have scoped through endless articles of the last few days before finding the quote above, many times close to opening my back door and launching the laptop at my little white West Highland Terrier who was minding his own business in the late April sunshine barking at the pigeons harassing him in his territory (don’t worry I didn’t).
What you should take literally from the above is my anger. And where is that anger coming from you ask? Well if you have seen any (and I mean ANY) news channel, twitter feed, Facebook video, new game alert pop up or a man at the bottom of your road screaming bloody murder then you’ll be aware that we on Merseyside are in the middle of a ‘lock your doors, there’s a cannibal on the loose’ phase in our lives.
There have been various sightings of this mad man as we peer around each corner to check if his blood dripping nashers are targeting us next, not knowing whether we will make it to the end of each day.
It’s all been too easy these past few days for the media as well as the wet lettuces at the F.A. It was a strange incident, one many will say ‘And just when you thought you’d seen it all, he bites someone’. It’s true that it was strange and it’s true I am not condoning what Luis Suarez did to Branislav Ivanovic. What he did was immature, selfish and all round stupid and its part of his persona that he must work on.
From what I do know, he is a family man, with a young daughter and a childhood sweetheart of a wife who keeps himself to himself off the pitch. His passion is unrelenting so much so that Jamie Carragher puts him almost alongside himself in that category. Something within Suarez ticks when he steps out over the white line, in front of the camera’s and the thousands of fans. In the heat of the moment his decision to react to whatever emotions he has felt in that instant was a bite. We are used to seeing a horror tackle, or an elbow, even a punch when a player reacts in their heat of the moment. A bite is strange behaviour, and it’s right that he should speak to Liverpool’s top psychologist, Steve Rodgers. And as Carragher said ‘we should help him, not hound him’.
To criticise Liverpool is unfair. My Evertonian friends may tell me I’m speaking through rose tinted glasses but they will also agree with me that the furore around this is quite ridiculous. Add this to the fact that it became all very easy for that fantastic institution of ours, the F.A to ban Suarez and you are in for a period in which the whole club is ridiculed.
And for those who say that two footed tackles, elbows and other such aggressive acts are ‘part of the game’, them I’m afraid you need to check your glasses........rose and tinted. These are acts added to an already aggressive game and acts that are fowl and in my opinion disgusting. I’d much rather be nibbled on the arm than on the receiving of a malicious high tackle. Football is a contact sport and I’m sure many who have the joys of playing football at any level love nothing more than a mud filled all out tackle that’s fair and ‘game-worthy’. And an elbow, well that’s just GBH.
For those who also say our children will be affected by this biting incident is completely ridiculous. When David Beckham kicked Diego Simeone in the 1998 World Cup and was sent off I was 8 years old. The week following that incident I’m relatively certain my friends and I did not produce savage ‘kicking attacks’ on other kids our age. Ironically what I remember the most is the effigy of Beckham hanging outside of a pub, printed by the media and for the people like some heroic act of righteousness. Funny how it all works isn’t it. What I would put it down to, the fact that some kids can be affected by such a baron attack on another human being, is poor parenting. The brutal truth I know but I’m not the only one thinking it.
The likelihood is that come September he will be tearing up defences in towns and cities near you, hated by the home support like a pantomime villain in his golden years, a caricature created by the media and F.A, heralded by the Liverpool fans like a returning hero, whose act of treachery is now a thing of the distant past.
And maybe that’s what it’s supposed to be; maybe this is the character Luis Suarez was destined to play since his days as a street baller on the streets of Montevideo. He’s made a mistake, and attempts to rectify it as well as making sure it won’t happen again are in place. Whether it works I’m not sure, but his footballing abilities are why I paid my ticket to watch Liverpool and Chelsea on Sunday. And that will never change.
Monday 15 April 2013
A pocket of reflection......Justice for the 96.
Hillsborough- 15th April 1989
I slowly walked across the gravel car park outside Hillsborough Stadium, a bunch a red flowers in hand that offered the most inferior of sympathies. It was my third and final year at Sheffield Hallam University but the first time I had been in Sheffield for the anniversary.
I walked through on the right hand side of Leppings Lane end, a lone steward pointing the direction towards which I was to lay the flowers. As I turned the corner and walked a few more yards I saw two men in their late forties sitting 5 or 6 rows up, eyes as red as the Kop on a European night at Anfield.
The stadium lay silent, the brisk spring breeze of South Yorkshire swirled around the stadium. These two men sat close together, they looked tired, crestfallen at the events that had unfolded here all those years ago.
I didn’t say a word to them but I knew they were Liverpudlians, I knew they were there that horrendous day and I knew they had lost and suffered. I didn’t know them personally, I’d never spoken to them before that day and I’ll most likely never see them again. But I felt a connection to their misery, to whatever heartache that besieged them over two decades ago.
As I lay the flowers behind the goal, I took a minute to pay my respects, to remember the names of those who’d lost their lives. The last image I have is of those two men, still in the same frozen position as when I arrived and that is something that will stay with me forever.
As a Liverpool fan you feel part of something more than a football club, it’s an archaic institution that represents the lives of so many. Stories are passed down of games, players and journey’s gone by. There’s a part of you that feels like you were there. The story of Hillsborough however is the one story that I’ll remember the most.
I wasn’t even around in April 1989, I was 11 months away from coming into this world. It would be 5 or 6 years before I’d begin to think of Liverpool as my team. It would be a few more years later when, on a school trip down to London I accidently and shamefully bought the Sun newspaper without realising the extent to which it had enraged a city.
Since then I’ve grown up, become part of the clubs tradition and paid my ticket money. But most importantly I’ve listened. I have listened to those who were alive that day, who had witnessed it in person or watched as it unfolded on television. I even met a Yorkshire woman who, after the bodies of the dead had been removed from the temporary morgue in the stadium, had the horrifying task of cleaning the room where hundreds had lay injured and others had taken their last breath.
Learning the history of something, not just a football club, acts as a model for you as a person to develop your own life, to follow the ways with which you deem to be the correct ones. Sometimes those stories are good, sometimes, like Hillsborough, they are utterly gut-wrenching in every sense of the word. Sometimes they make you stop and appreciate what you have and who you have, and it makes life all that more special.
For anyone reading this who doesn’t know what Hillsborough is, consider this; this tragedy happened before my birth, but it has given me more lessons in life than most things ever will. It has given me an added determination to succeed in my chosen career field. Through watching the relentless search for justice these families have undertaken for the past 24 years puts everything into perspective. There is something deeply ingrained in humans beings to search for justice, to search for the truth and these people have gone past epitomising that. It has given me admiration for them beyond any stretch of recognition.
Let’s for a second forget the politics of this, I don’t need to remind you of the controversies in the aftermath of Hillsborough. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, look it up. Look it up and prepare to be astounded, ashamed, disappointed in our system. Astounded that a story like this is true. Ashamed that our countries institutions acted like this when human life was involved. Disappointed that 96 were not given a chance to live and to breathe, to love and to feel again. The words and phrases we associate with this disaster; ‘Justice for the 96’, ‘Don’t buy the Sun’, ‘24000 fans travelled that day, 96 never came home’, will never get old, will never cease to offer as powerful a message now than it did 24 years go.
This was nothing more than a monumental cover up. If you think moral, think the opposite. If you think truth, think the opposite. If you think clarity, think the opposite. If you think life......think death, and your heart will break. This is a relentless heartache that has spanned the course of my whole life. An agonising campaign for justice that should have been answered long, long ago. But for a reason unbeknown to me, these families, these tired people who wake up every morning and fight for a cause that would bring most to their knees, when they shouldn’t have too. They should NOT have too. Not anymore.
They are the inspiration. They are the beaming light coming of a city knocked down on countless occasions. They are the reason we remember this injustice, this tragedy, and I’m selfishly appreciative of the perspective they have given me on life as they continue to keep alive the memories of their loved ones who have moved on. Remember them, and remember what they have done and continue to do in their fight for the truth.
Justice for the 96.
I slowly walked across the gravel car park outside Hillsborough Stadium, a bunch a red flowers in hand that offered the most inferior of sympathies. It was my third and final year at Sheffield Hallam University but the first time I had been in Sheffield for the anniversary.
I walked through on the right hand side of Leppings Lane end, a lone steward pointing the direction towards which I was to lay the flowers. As I turned the corner and walked a few more yards I saw two men in their late forties sitting 5 or 6 rows up, eyes as red as the Kop on a European night at Anfield.
The stadium lay silent, the brisk spring breeze of South Yorkshire swirled around the stadium. These two men sat close together, they looked tired, crestfallen at the events that had unfolded here all those years ago.
I didn’t say a word to them but I knew they were Liverpudlians, I knew they were there that horrendous day and I knew they had lost and suffered. I didn’t know them personally, I’d never spoken to them before that day and I’ll most likely never see them again. But I felt a connection to their misery, to whatever heartache that besieged them over two decades ago.
As I lay the flowers behind the goal, I took a minute to pay my respects, to remember the names of those who’d lost their lives. The last image I have is of those two men, still in the same frozen position as when I arrived and that is something that will stay with me forever.
As a Liverpool fan you feel part of something more than a football club, it’s an archaic institution that represents the lives of so many. Stories are passed down of games, players and journey’s gone by. There’s a part of you that feels like you were there. The story of Hillsborough however is the one story that I’ll remember the most.
I wasn’t even around in April 1989, I was 11 months away from coming into this world. It would be 5 or 6 years before I’d begin to think of Liverpool as my team. It would be a few more years later when, on a school trip down to London I accidently and shamefully bought the Sun newspaper without realising the extent to which it had enraged a city.
Since then I’ve grown up, become part of the clubs tradition and paid my ticket money. But most importantly I’ve listened. I have listened to those who were alive that day, who had witnessed it in person or watched as it unfolded on television. I even met a Yorkshire woman who, after the bodies of the dead had been removed from the temporary morgue in the stadium, had the horrifying task of cleaning the room where hundreds had lay injured and others had taken their last breath.
Learning the history of something, not just a football club, acts as a model for you as a person to develop your own life, to follow the ways with which you deem to be the correct ones. Sometimes those stories are good, sometimes, like Hillsborough, they are utterly gut-wrenching in every sense of the word. Sometimes they make you stop and appreciate what you have and who you have, and it makes life all that more special.
For anyone reading this who doesn’t know what Hillsborough is, consider this; this tragedy happened before my birth, but it has given me more lessons in life than most things ever will. It has given me an added determination to succeed in my chosen career field. Through watching the relentless search for justice these families have undertaken for the past 24 years puts everything into perspective. There is something deeply ingrained in humans beings to search for justice, to search for the truth and these people have gone past epitomising that. It has given me admiration for them beyond any stretch of recognition.
Let’s for a second forget the politics of this, I don’t need to remind you of the controversies in the aftermath of Hillsborough. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, look it up. Look it up and prepare to be astounded, ashamed, disappointed in our system. Astounded that a story like this is true. Ashamed that our countries institutions acted like this when human life was involved. Disappointed that 96 were not given a chance to live and to breathe, to love and to feel again. The words and phrases we associate with this disaster; ‘Justice for the 96’, ‘Don’t buy the Sun’, ‘24000 fans travelled that day, 96 never came home’, will never get old, will never cease to offer as powerful a message now than it did 24 years go.
This was nothing more than a monumental cover up. If you think moral, think the opposite. If you think truth, think the opposite. If you think clarity, think the opposite. If you think life......think death, and your heart will break. This is a relentless heartache that has spanned the course of my whole life. An agonising campaign for justice that should have been answered long, long ago. But for a reason unbeknown to me, these families, these tired people who wake up every morning and fight for a cause that would bring most to their knees, when they shouldn’t have too. They should NOT have too. Not anymore.
They are the inspiration. They are the beaming light coming of a city knocked down on countless occasions. They are the reason we remember this injustice, this tragedy, and I’m selfishly appreciative of the perspective they have given me on life as they continue to keep alive the memories of their loved ones who have moved on. Remember them, and remember what they have done and continue to do in their fight for the truth.
Justice for the 96.
Thursday 11 April 2013
'Venturing over to the dark side'
'If Everton were playing at the bottom of the garden, I'd pull the curtains.'
The 8:40 Virgin train careered towards London Euston through the greenery and ice-ridden flatlands of England. The journey from my home on the Wirral, just outside Liverpool, to the heart of England’s capital city had taken a mere couple of hours. My thoughts often sidetracked to the quote above and others like it, as my friend and I made our way to North London and the home of Tottenham Hotspurs, White Hart Lane.
We were due to sit in the 27th row of the away end section for Tottenham’s home game against Everton. My friend, Sharpy had asked me a few weeks back if I wanted to go down with him and watch this important tie which could have had significant impact on who plays in Europe next season.
For those who are unlucky enough to know me, their knowledge tells them I’m a Liverpool fan and have been since I received both Liverpool and Everton shirts during the Christmas of 1995 and deemed the Crown Paint sponsored red shirt as my lifelong colour.
The way football works, particularly nowadays were it all seems to matter that little more, is that your club are your sole focus and that every other team doesn’t matter. Everything about them is alien to what you, your fellow fans and your club are about. So for me to travel so far from home for an Everton game is an eyebrow raiser in itself to say the least. My personal feeling though......Well, I’m just off to watch some Sunday football with one of my best mates.
As we rolled into Euston, you’re immediately hit with a sense of the multi cultural Britain that isn’t so obvious back home. Before I’d even walked out of the main doors to the station I’d heard 2 or 3 different languages, all stood looking at the departures board, confused at our running of public transport and unaware of the experiences they were about to have on board one of our ‘fantastic’ national trains.
After a brief shake of the head and a huge puff of despondent breath towards the 30p charge for being allowed to go the toilet, and with Euston stations very own ‘toilet monitor’ guarding the entrance to the cubicles like the Orcs of Mordor in Lord of the Rings which meant I couldn’t jump over the barrier, we went underground to the London tubes.
We were due to meet an old friend in Finsbury Park so our detour meant a couple of different lines before our final stop at White Hart Lane. Making our way down the 25 escalators before getting to what felt like the core of the Earth in the heat of the underground, we spotted Everton’s very own legendary striker Graeme Sharp. My friend, the Evertonian and season ticket holder at Goodison Park almost dropped the can of Kronenbourg he was carrying about the place as he meandered his way through the disgruntled Londoners awaiting their train. It’s safe to say the Cheshire Cat would have been proud of his smile, and after a brief conversation with his hero and 5 more minutes on the tube with his mouth gawping as wide as the Mersey Tunnel entrance staring at him, we arrived at Finsbury Park tube station.
My friend Karl, who we had just met, informed us that no pubs were open till 12pm, so being the excited away day travellers we were, stood outside the pub down the road from the station 10 minutes before opening time, eager to get our lips on the first proper pint of the day. We were greeted by a barmaid who seemed disgruntled to the fact we were keen to drink so early, but our awkwardness towards that particular situation was shared by the 7 or 8 others also waiting to enter the alehouse, so it wasn’t so bad. It seems our capital is a city of alcoholics and we were happy enough to get on board with that for the day.
Some pints later and a couple of expensive shots of Jager, we said goodbye to the creepy barmaid who was definitely high on something (and it wasn’t life) as well as arranging to meet Karl for a couple more drinks after the game. We merrily made our way down towards our tube station with Sharpy belting out a couple of Everton songs as I laughed and apologised to every passer by who’s eardrum had suffered thanks to his version of ‘Jela-Jelavic’. On the train we leapt and White Hart Lane was a few brief stops away.
Mini match report
The game itself was an enthralling one, with both teams having dominant spells throughout which created some fascinating counter attacking football. Both sides had players missing after injury or suspension sidelined them for the afternoon’s activities. Both though played like they deserved those coveted European spots and both had fantastic support from their respective fans on a fresh mid afternoon in North London.
Kevin Mirallas was the pick of the players for Everton as he created and scored the Toffee’s second with a couple of twists and turns to send Stephen Caulkner into a defenders nightmare. Victor Anichebe worked tirelessly but to no avail as he squandered a one on one with Hugo Lloris right at the death. Nikica Jelavic needed to find form in this one but found himself on the bench at the start of the game. He got his chance in the 52nd but didn’t do enough to convince the Everton faithful his form was returning. The Croatian’s 8 goals in 36 games this season is a poor return in comparison to the 11 he bagged in the 16 played after his January signing in 2012.
Tottenham at times looked tired, and with their Europa League fixtures continuing to pile up it almost felt like the late Gylfi Sigurdsson tap in was something of a surprise. 1 point in the last two home games has given the Spurs fans a minor cause for concern and this was pretty evident as we chatted to a couple of them on the walk back to the tube station.
They lacked pace, particularly on the wings with Aaron Lennon and Gareth Bale both out. Scott Parker isn’t the fastest and as much as Dembele has controlled games on many occasions this season, he didn’t have his usual impact and was replaced by Tom Huddlestone in the second half. Tottenham though have a certain resilience about them that hasn’t been around in years before, and watching up close I got the feeling Andre Villas Boas has really moulded his team into what he’d tried but failed to do at Chelsea. Next season I have no doubt they will be one of the favourites for the Champions League places, and with added signings to go along with prospects like Lewis Holtby as well as Sunday’s goal scorer Sigurdsson, they look a potential force to be reckoned with.
With the game finished, we met Karl for a couple more drinks near Euston before getting on the wrong train back to our connecting station Crewe, and found ourselves on a four and half hour local stopping station train instead. This didn’t scupper my satisfaction at a great day of football and ‘away day’ travel. I’d ventured out of many people’s comfort zones and gone almost against the grain of what most believe shouldn’t be done in football. On the other hand, as an aspiring Sports Journalist, I’d gotten everything I’d wanted and when on that sloth like train crawling back to the North I couldn’t wait to get back and write this on my site.
Part of what football and sport is about is that of competitiveness, of people coming together and celebrating it, of cheering on the teams and the competitors we are lucky enough to be able to watch, to form a rivalry that’s respectful and not resentful of others. More often than not we see the negative side to what football has created, the vile chants, the abuse of players from fans, the abuse of fans to other fans. It’s a side I’ve never liked and will never have time for. One of the reasons I travelled down to London to watch Everton was to gain a simple understanding of fan culture. Many see going to watch another football team at another ground other than theirs as an act not even the devil can conjure up.
I can tell you right now that these 3500 Everton fans I stood in the middle of don’t have 3 heads, purple slobber and webbed hands or feet. They, like everybody else, spend incredible amounts to cover all corners of the country, of the world sometimes, to watch their team. They drink the same beer, sit on the same train, debate the same debates, read the same articles, sing the same songs (albeit with a couple of different words) and most importantly, they go to watch the same sport.
This article won’t change the minds of every rival hating supporter; this isn’t the angle I am trying to take here. I’m not a pushover fan either, I have one team and that will never change. I will happily go for a pint with a level headed Manchester United fan before they play against Liverpool. The debates can ravage on for hours, with healthy talk about best teams and great managers, and no bitterness towards past incidents of chants about Hillsborough or Munich. But once they enter their away section the rivalry (albeit respectful) begins. Unfortunately that isn’t the case for everyone, and that’s the unfortunate part of our sport. Maybe people should disagree with Bill Shankly, and open their curtains to any game, and enjoy it for what it is. I certainly did, and feel all the better for it.
The 8:40 Virgin train careered towards London Euston through the greenery and ice-ridden flatlands of England. The journey from my home on the Wirral, just outside Liverpool, to the heart of England’s capital city had taken a mere couple of hours. My thoughts often sidetracked to the quote above and others like it, as my friend and I made our way to North London and the home of Tottenham Hotspurs, White Hart Lane.
We were due to sit in the 27th row of the away end section for Tottenham’s home game against Everton. My friend, Sharpy had asked me a few weeks back if I wanted to go down with him and watch this important tie which could have had significant impact on who plays in Europe next season.
For those who are unlucky enough to know me, their knowledge tells them I’m a Liverpool fan and have been since I received both Liverpool and Everton shirts during the Christmas of 1995 and deemed the Crown Paint sponsored red shirt as my lifelong colour.
The way football works, particularly nowadays were it all seems to matter that little more, is that your club are your sole focus and that every other team doesn’t matter. Everything about them is alien to what you, your fellow fans and your club are about. So for me to travel so far from home for an Everton game is an eyebrow raiser in itself to say the least. My personal feeling though......Well, I’m just off to watch some Sunday football with one of my best mates.
As we rolled into Euston, you’re immediately hit with a sense of the multi cultural Britain that isn’t so obvious back home. Before I’d even walked out of the main doors to the station I’d heard 2 or 3 different languages, all stood looking at the departures board, confused at our running of public transport and unaware of the experiences they were about to have on board one of our ‘fantastic’ national trains.
After a brief shake of the head and a huge puff of despondent breath towards the 30p charge for being allowed to go the toilet, and with Euston stations very own ‘toilet monitor’ guarding the entrance to the cubicles like the Orcs of Mordor in Lord of the Rings which meant I couldn’t jump over the barrier, we went underground to the London tubes.
We were due to meet an old friend in Finsbury Park so our detour meant a couple of different lines before our final stop at White Hart Lane. Making our way down the 25 escalators before getting to what felt like the core of the Earth in the heat of the underground, we spotted Everton’s very own legendary striker Graeme Sharp. My friend, the Evertonian and season ticket holder at Goodison Park almost dropped the can of Kronenbourg he was carrying about the place as he meandered his way through the disgruntled Londoners awaiting their train. It’s safe to say the Cheshire Cat would have been proud of his smile, and after a brief conversation with his hero and 5 more minutes on the tube with his mouth gawping as wide as the Mersey Tunnel entrance staring at him, we arrived at Finsbury Park tube station.
My friend Karl, who we had just met, informed us that no pubs were open till 12pm, so being the excited away day travellers we were, stood outside the pub down the road from the station 10 minutes before opening time, eager to get our lips on the first proper pint of the day. We were greeted by a barmaid who seemed disgruntled to the fact we were keen to drink so early, but our awkwardness towards that particular situation was shared by the 7 or 8 others also waiting to enter the alehouse, so it wasn’t so bad. It seems our capital is a city of alcoholics and we were happy enough to get on board with that for the day.
Some pints later and a couple of expensive shots of Jager, we said goodbye to the creepy barmaid who was definitely high on something (and it wasn’t life) as well as arranging to meet Karl for a couple more drinks after the game. We merrily made our way down towards our tube station with Sharpy belting out a couple of Everton songs as I laughed and apologised to every passer by who’s eardrum had suffered thanks to his version of ‘Jela-Jelavic’. On the train we leapt and White Hart Lane was a few brief stops away.
Mini match report
The game itself was an enthralling one, with both teams having dominant spells throughout which created some fascinating counter attacking football. Both sides had players missing after injury or suspension sidelined them for the afternoon’s activities. Both though played like they deserved those coveted European spots and both had fantastic support from their respective fans on a fresh mid afternoon in North London.
Kevin Mirallas was the pick of the players for Everton as he created and scored the Toffee’s second with a couple of twists and turns to send Stephen Caulkner into a defenders nightmare. Victor Anichebe worked tirelessly but to no avail as he squandered a one on one with Hugo Lloris right at the death. Nikica Jelavic needed to find form in this one but found himself on the bench at the start of the game. He got his chance in the 52nd but didn’t do enough to convince the Everton faithful his form was returning. The Croatian’s 8 goals in 36 games this season is a poor return in comparison to the 11 he bagged in the 16 played after his January signing in 2012.
Tottenham at times looked tired, and with their Europa League fixtures continuing to pile up it almost felt like the late Gylfi Sigurdsson tap in was something of a surprise. 1 point in the last two home games has given the Spurs fans a minor cause for concern and this was pretty evident as we chatted to a couple of them on the walk back to the tube station.
They lacked pace, particularly on the wings with Aaron Lennon and Gareth Bale both out. Scott Parker isn’t the fastest and as much as Dembele has controlled games on many occasions this season, he didn’t have his usual impact and was replaced by Tom Huddlestone in the second half. Tottenham though have a certain resilience about them that hasn’t been around in years before, and watching up close I got the feeling Andre Villas Boas has really moulded his team into what he’d tried but failed to do at Chelsea. Next season I have no doubt they will be one of the favourites for the Champions League places, and with added signings to go along with prospects like Lewis Holtby as well as Sunday’s goal scorer Sigurdsson, they look a potential force to be reckoned with.
With the game finished, we met Karl for a couple more drinks near Euston before getting on the wrong train back to our connecting station Crewe, and found ourselves on a four and half hour local stopping station train instead. This didn’t scupper my satisfaction at a great day of football and ‘away day’ travel. I’d ventured out of many people’s comfort zones and gone almost against the grain of what most believe shouldn’t be done in football. On the other hand, as an aspiring Sports Journalist, I’d gotten everything I’d wanted and when on that sloth like train crawling back to the North I couldn’t wait to get back and write this on my site.
Part of what football and sport is about is that of competitiveness, of people coming together and celebrating it, of cheering on the teams and the competitors we are lucky enough to be able to watch, to form a rivalry that’s respectful and not resentful of others. More often than not we see the negative side to what football has created, the vile chants, the abuse of players from fans, the abuse of fans to other fans. It’s a side I’ve never liked and will never have time for. One of the reasons I travelled down to London to watch Everton was to gain a simple understanding of fan culture. Many see going to watch another football team at another ground other than theirs as an act not even the devil can conjure up.
I can tell you right now that these 3500 Everton fans I stood in the middle of don’t have 3 heads, purple slobber and webbed hands or feet. They, like everybody else, spend incredible amounts to cover all corners of the country, of the world sometimes, to watch their team. They drink the same beer, sit on the same train, debate the same debates, read the same articles, sing the same songs (albeit with a couple of different words) and most importantly, they go to watch the same sport.
This article won’t change the minds of every rival hating supporter; this isn’t the angle I am trying to take here. I’m not a pushover fan either, I have one team and that will never change. I will happily go for a pint with a level headed Manchester United fan before they play against Liverpool. The debates can ravage on for hours, with healthy talk about best teams and great managers, and no bitterness towards past incidents of chants about Hillsborough or Munich. But once they enter their away section the rivalry (albeit respectful) begins. Unfortunately that isn’t the case for everyone, and that’s the unfortunate part of our sport. Maybe people should disagree with Bill Shankly, and open their curtains to any game, and enjoy it for what it is. I certainly did, and feel all the better for it.
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