McClaren's first defeat
Here's the situation: A new management team started their reign with three wins
on the trot, starting with a friendly and then two league games, scoring 10 goals
in the process and conceding none. Then, in the fourth game, they had a dip in form
and could only draw at home (to a decent team) so failing to do the double over
them. At least they kept their clean sheets record and they did come close to winning,
by hitting the bar. In the fifth game, away to probably the toughest other team
in the league, they lost 2-0 (one goal being due to a fluky bounce on the uneven
pitch) and apparently played poorly. As a result every man and his dog are shaking
their heads in despair, calling the management names and almost (I've not quite
heard it said yet, although it's clearly been on their minds for weeks) for their
sacking.
Can you imagine this kind of response at any league club or any other nation? I
can't. The truth is that the lynch mob had already got the rope out ready even before
a single ball had been kicked. McClaren was already guilty by association with that
other tosser, Sven. The fact he managed to win three games to start with simply
provided an awkward delay to the execution that everyone had been rubbing their
hands over for weeks.
I must say, I'm now really glad Martin O'Neill didn't get the job because I know
full well the lynch mob would be crucifying him right now instead. Ok, maybe not
*right* now. Perhaps O'Neill's 'honeymoon period' would have been a little bit longer
but, in the end, every England manager gets the same treatment: Sven: Tosser, Keegan:
Tosser, Hoddle: Tosser, Taylor: Tosser, Robson: Tosser, Greenwood: Tosser, Revie:
Tosser. The only exception in our adult lives was Terry Venables, but only because
he left on a high (what was that? Oh yeah, getting bundled off to court after losing
to Germany in the semis of Euro 96 on penalties, basically after one good win against
Holland.) And besides, he's now part of the management team, so Tel: Tosser, all
the same.
It's odd isn't it? Every single manager the FA ever picks is a tosser. Amazing talent
they've got for spotting tossers. Can you spot a trend here? It's quite an impressive
list of managers really. Each had their own style of play they preferred, their
own unique way of doing things and their own strengths and weaknesses. They were
all different. Some were emotional, some were placid. Some kept dossiers on opposition
players, others believed it was more about "how we play on the day". Some were attacking
minded, others more defensive. Some had reputations of being tactical wizards, others
were more akin to Mr Motivator. One was a Swede. None of them thought it was worth practicing taking penalties.
But all of them were tossers.
This disparate bunch of managers all have something else in common too. Before the appointment
to the England job, each of those managers was well respected and well supported
(if not idolised) by their club's fans. Most of the time, they were the country's favourite for the job too. They'd
usually won things for their respective clubs, but if not they'd taken them to unprecidented
heights and earned their reputation as 'the man for the job'. Not one of the appointments
was met with universal derision, with Graham Taylor the one possible exception there
- but only because the nation had a gut feeling that a certain Brian Clough should
have got the job. Incredibly, despite the relative popularity of the choice, every
time, just a few matches later (Ok, sometimes it took a whole two years), The Sun and the lynch
mob they recruit were calling them names, sneering at them and basically hounding them until they cracked under the strain and resigned or got sacked.
Now you may argue that O'Neill, if he'd been given the job this time, would have done better,
and I'd agree with you. Maybe under him, England would have beaten
Andorra
7-0, instead of 5-0. Perhaps England might have beaten Macedonia at
home and sneaked a draw in Croatia. Maybe they'd have played a bit better and Rooney's dip in form just wouldn't have
happened. Maybe Gerard wouldn't have got booked against Macedonia. Maybe Hargreaves
wouldn't have broken his leg. Then again, maybe not. We'll just never know. Whatever
O'Neill's (or Scolari's or anyone's) record would have been, the evidence clearly
shows that sooner or later there'd have been a performance that just wasn't sparkling enough, a shock defeat at 'lowly' opposition, an irritating
decision to persist in picking player X, when everyone knows it should be player
Z, a tactical decision that looked, with the benefit of hindsight, a bit bizarre,
or, ultimately the classic England penalty shoot-out
defeat in the quarter finals
of a big tournament. Sure enough, you can bet your mortgage that when that happenned,
some clever bastard snide journalist would have already started the ball rolling:.
"So, the honeymoon's over for ..." Then, cue the boo boys to start
to come out and join the ranks of the disgruntled once again. Sooner or later, we'd
have been back to square zero, slagging them all off, as is the norm, joining in
the tradition of being an England fan: Collectively pressing the self-destruct button,
whilst singing "we're shit and we know we are!"
What is that thing, anyway? Who invented it? "The Honeymoon Period". What does it
mean? A period of time when journos tie their right arms behind their backs, restraining
them from their natural instinct of writing the usual vitriolic outpourings of nastiness?
("Only doin' me job, mate!") And then, when the honeymoon's over at last, they can
relax and get back to doing what they do best: writing as much sleazy shit as they
can to cause as much agro as possible. Good ol freedom of the press. Long live the
honeymoon period, I say.
It seems to me that we have two possibilities here: Either the FA are amazingly
talented and impeccably consistent at selecting, again and again, out of scores
of possibilities, the one man who currently has more of the nation's respect for
football knowledge and management skills than the others, but amazingly, just a few matches later
is revealed, yet again, (and unbeknown to anyone but the clever
journalist who first exposed this truth to us) as really just another big tosser, or... the problem lies
elsewhere.
I have a radical idea. Maybe, just maybe, the FA are picking managers who, on balance,
actually are the right people for the job. Maybe they couldn't have done better
with any of the alternative appointments they might have made. Maybe the problem
lies, not with the FA, the managers they pick, or the players *they* pick. Maybe
it lies with the nation's obsession for self-criticism and, specifically, the
most visible manifestation of that obsession: The cynical,
carping, negative writing of the real wankers here - the British press. It's bastards
like those, the sort lined up in Baden Baden opposite the England hotel, looking
though their expensive
zoom lenses, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mrs Lampard's right tit, that
start all of these moronic witch hunts. The only difference this time is that it had already
started before the previous regime was over. That, and perhaps, the sad fact that
an entire nation of England fans are so used to this kind of behaviour they'd already
anticipated it before the new management's team had even kicked a ball and before
the press had even written a word, and started it themselves.
Ho hum! I'll end this rant on a positive note.
When Rooney gets his form back and our best players return from injury and/or suspension
to some kind of normal form, England will continue to be one of the World's top
ten teams - if the press and the fans give them the chance. Being one of the top
ten teams doesn't mean we'll win every game or play well every time, but it does
mean our playing record will be better than over 140 other nations. That's not bad
going by anyone's standards except, perhaps, the England fans'. Maybe it takes a
half-Lithuanian, half German-Romanian mongrel living in Australia, supporting a
team in Division Three to remind you guys, but things really aren't that bad. Even
a poor display in Croatia is not the end of the world mates. I'm going to have a beer now.
Love.
Algirdo
Algirdo Retires...
Just 45 minutes ago on this very evening,
Monday, 16th October 2006, Algirdo announced (although no-one was listening) his retirement
from playing football. It was an ignominious exit from the game if ever there was
one, although perhaps it was not quite in the same league as Zinidine Zidane’s.
His team were literally one kick away from mid-table mediocrity but instead, now
face a play-off next week for the wooden spoon. Not that Algirdo will be playing
in that match. He’s just retired from the game, remember.
Being born of parents that were East
European refugees, grateful to still be alive whilst Stalin trampled all over their home
lands and terrorised their families, Algirdo was not really brought up to like football.
His father had been to see one match in
Barnsley, where he worked as a coal miner, against Newcastle United, but that was it. So,
while England were shaking the football universe by winning the World Cup in 1966,
insipring a nation of boys to wannabe Bobby Charlton, Algirdo was playing at being
Scott Tracey rescuing his cat, Tiggles, from disasters he’d inflicted on the poor,
scraggy moggie himself.
However, despite this inauspicious
beginning, Algirdo’s footballing career, if you could call it that, would span some
forty years. He consistently played at the very lowest levels of the game for all of that time. It's quite remarkable
how bad he was. In 1968, for example,
at the age of 9, he made his debut at school team level. Being new to the school,
Mr Cooper, the head of PE at Kingsway Primary, and Algirdo’s form teacher, picked
him to play left back in a school match against Jeffries, probably only because
Algirdo was keen at maths and loved Mr Cooper’s readings of “Stig of the Dump”.
Not quite familiar with the rules, or perhaps it was just nerves at playing in such
an important match, Algirdo repeatedly ran inside the penalty box to receive a goal
kick from the goalkeeper until, on the third ocassion, Mr Cooper (who was also refereeing)
was so furious with him that he thought it best to leave the ball alone and let
to go, instead, to a Jeffries striker who promptly scored. Later, in a truly bizarre incident, the referee substituted him and he spent
the rest of the game watching from behind the goal. The egg on his face is
still there, 38 years later. That match remains his one and only appearance at school team level.
At his next school, Ashfield Comprehensive,
an institution of some 2,000 working class pupils, the chances of being picked for
the school team were pretty slim, even if you had any talent which, of course, Algirdo
did not yet possess - at that time. Even his class mates from Kingsway, Andrew Shaw
and Anthony Cobb, who were both comparatively brilliant, struggled to get into the
team, so what chance did Algirdo have? None whatsoever. He did play for his school
house, Trent, a couple of times, but his performances were as forgetable as the score lines. Needless
to say, he never scored a goal. His experiences of playing football at the comp
were
never good. Mr Jay, the masochistic, and Welsh, PE teacher used to select only the
very coldest days, when the ground, and the footballs, felt like iron, to play the
game - days when blue/black bruises, left on the thigh after blocking a shot, would
last for days. This cold approach ensured that whatever enthusiasm for sport
he might have had was killed, frozen stone dead, in its tracks. But away from school,
and in the summers – with Mexico 1970 still fresh in his mind - his passion for football increased and, with his pals, Cobby, Hobbsie
and later Hilly and Kelly, they’d spend countless hours on the Acre playing game
after game developing skills that, in another life, might have bore a rich and remarkable
fruit. Alas, not for Algirdo. Not yet. Fate was to decree that his bad start would
get much, much worse, before it could ever get better.
His ‘career’ advancement was further
blighted by an unfortunate combination of being pathetically skinny and unathletic,
and having a blood testosterone level that was about that of a foetus. Year after
year, then month after month, and week after week, as more and more of his school
mates boldly stepped into PE changing room showers revealing their masculinity with
ever more pride and gusto, Algirdo was left as a member of an ever shrinking band
of sad little boys, whose pubes had not yet sprouted, whose willies which had not
yet started to expand and whose voices seemed to grow more shrill with every manly
grunt they heard. The psycho, Mr Jay, determined that every boy should go in the
shower after PE, and this humiliating torture was endured for years, despite ocassional
notes from mum saying that he couldn’t do PE because he had scarlet fever, and other
such unlikely excuses. When Laittey, and then Hitchy joined the ranks of men, it
was just too much to bare. Luckily, Algirdo had reached the 5th year
at secondary school by that stage and finally, he had an escape clause – he could
choose to play table tennis instead, an opportunity he grabbed with both skinny
hands.
Who knows what kind of a footballer
Algirdo might have developed into, if only his puberty had kicked in at a normal
age, or even earlier, instead of the absurdly cruel 17, when his voice finally
did deepen and
he started to look like a 14 year old, instead of just 12. Probably one that was
not quite as awful as he was. So, finally, as a sixth former, Algirdo began to make his first,
hesitant, steps into the world of playing football with ‘big lads’. At first, it
was just a friendly five-a-side session in Sutton,
one evening a week, organized by Raz, but by the time Algirdo went to
Nottingham
University
, he began playing, for the first time since his forgettable displays for
Trent
, on full-sized pitches in competitive matches. Inspired by being a fanatical follower of Cloughie’s
Forest
, Algirdo just had to blossom into some kind of footballer, and that he did – ‘some’
kind. For Sherwood Hall (second team) he was actually a regular. Every Wednesday
afternoon, he’d get the bus, or a lift in
Chesterfield
’s mini, down to the Trentside playing fields to join up with his fellow team mates
playing football at a quite respectable level, even scoring a goal once
(as a centre half going up for a corner). Certainly, the Sherwood Hall first
team included some really talented players. Graham Batey had trials with
Southampton
and a couple of other players, including "Borstal Boy", were also watched
by scouts on ocassion. So, you can imagine how exciting it was when Sherwood Hall
Second team made it into the semi-final of the Nottingham University Cup with the
honour of playing on one of the ‘posh’ pitches just opposite the main university
buildings. Sherwood Hall first team had stormed their way into the other semi-final
and as the seconds had the easier draw, Lenton Hall third team, it all looked set
for the tantilising prospect of an all-Sherwood final. That cold but sunny winter’s afternoon
was the nearest Algirdo would get to anything resembling glory in his long playing
career. But Lenton wanted it more on the day and earned their right to get thrashed
by Sherwood firsts, instead of his team. As University days wound down, he’d spend
many evenings kicking a ball around with the likes of Boro and Jakey, as well as
the Sherwood stars, like Batesy and others whose name I fail to recall. One of Algirdo’s fondest memories was,
after making quite an impressive sliding tackle once, Graham Batey (remember, the
guy who has trials with Southampton), who was playing alongside him at the
back at the time (it was only a knock about,
remember) turned to him and said (words to the effect) “Algi, that was a great tackle.”
During his university days, he often made the very short journey back home to Kirkby
(usually to get his mum to wash his clothes) and joined up with 'the lads' in The
Waggon & Horses on a Saturday night. When 'the lads' weren't playing rubgy or
cricket they sometimes played football and, as Algirdo loved the game so much, he
agreed to join a team called 'Ashfield Old Boys' who played in the local leagues
on Sunday mornings. At last, Algirdo had the opportunity to test his growing skills
with players who had played for Ashfield's school team - top guys like Jeff Newcombe,
Tim Caunt, Roddy Ross, Steven Clarke and, later, Paul Stevenson. The rules of the team were very strict
and all the players adhered to them without question. Under no circumstances was
there to ever be any training. It was strictly a very informal set up.
No 'keen bastards' would be tolerated. Whoever was in the Waggon on the Saturday
night and sober enough to make note of the wherabouts of the match the next morning
and also not be so badly hung over the next morning to actually turn up,
would play - no questions asked. Amazingly, this formula usually worked even though,
on one memorable ocassion after a particularly heavy night's drinking, an away game that was a little further away and a little earlier than usual, was played with only
eight Ashfield Old Boys present - against the usual eleven. Algirdo, of course,
was one of the gritty never-say-enough players that turned up, although with hindsight
it would have been better if they'd just forfeited the match. They lost, I'm sure,
by a score that was in double figures. The rest is a blur except for one unforgetable
image when, defending a corner, Algirdo and two team mates took a couple of seconds
out the proceeding to simultaneously vomit behind the goal, as the attacking team
got ready to launch in another cross.
It was about at this time of his life that football was having the most profound
effect on him. For a boy that never experienced a wet dream in his life (unlike
'Barnsley', lucky bugger), he began to experience the most fantastic and vivid football
fantasies, but only whilst in the midst of the deepest, usually alcohol induced,
slumber. Usually, he'd be the midfield dynamo, spraying millimetre-precision passes
to every corner of the pitch to chants from the always massive crowd of "Kul - i
- ukas". If only.
Algirdo found his true level in real football
when he left university. Never before or since was he to experience such adulation
as in those brief two years as a maths teacher at North Border Comprehensive school,
in Bircotes – as the name suggests, right on the border with Yorkshire (which made
for a very scary time during the miner’s strike.) Why adulation?, you might ask.
Surely an exaggeration. Well Algirdo, being ever keen on football, decided to organise
a five-a-side tournament that perhaps a third of the school took part in.
It was a great success and every Monday, as he walked into the school, he’d get
swamped with kids asking for a copy of the latest programme he’d printed off (including
ludicrously complex statistics from last week’s games) from the school’s bander machine.
Furthermore, as quite a big bloke now that the testerone had been flowing for all
of five years, he found that he had a knack for keeping goal for the staff side
and won a reputation as being practically unbeatable, especially when playing against
13 and 14 year olds.
Some players blossom only later in
life, perhaps when they start playing for their works team, but Algirdo was not one of them.
He was to leave teaching as soon as they sent him on a training courses to teach
him how to use computers. The idea was that he might use his new found skills to
teach the kids but it only gave him the excuse he was looking for to get out of
teaching and join the money-grabbing, selfish, rat race of the Thatcher years.
(Yes, even I blame Mrs T for that part.) At British Airways, as a PL/1 programmer who joined
on BACT 34 (the 34th British Airways Computer Training regular intake of scores of graduates
who were so naďve about computers, they could be brainwashed to learn the ‘BA Way’),
he was to receive ample opportunities to play in the regular BA five-a-side leagues
and he did so with relish. Unfortunately it never went any further than just relish. His performances were as mediocre, as was his team, as was the competition. The only memorable aspect of that era was the way every nintey seconds or so, play
would have to go into a surreal kind of suspended animation as yet another ridiculously
huge lump of steel, unfeasibly floated across towards the nearby runway, just a
few metres above their heads, with jet engines screetching so loudly, it wasn't funny.
At his next
company, Metier Management Systems, he played a couple of games for a bunch of lads
at the airforce base near the Polish War Memorial next to the A40. These sketchiness
of the details of those games are on
a par with the level of playing standard achieved. His next company, Ashton Tate,
never had a football team and never organised a football tournament,
as far as he knew (or maybe they did, but just never told him), and so, as he was about to go self-employed, another avenue
into football playing glory was about to close.
When one door closes, another door
opens – or so the addage has it. Not for Algirdo's football 'career'. For the next few years the only
opportunity he had to test his football skills was on the back lawn dribbling rings
around his three year old son, until he gave up crying (his son, that is, not Algirdo.) No wonder when, a few years
later he rebelled against his tyrannical dad by refusing to go, week after tedious
week, to watch Wycombe Wanderers by telling his mum “I hate football”.
As the years of bringing up sweet,
cute, cuddly, lovely, innocent, darling children gradually, and imperceptibly, metamorphosed
into a life of seemingly endless parental servitude, and all thought of actually
playing football had long gone, Algirdo
was suddenly re-launched into a group of new-age lads that regularly played five-a-side.
Of course, he’d love to join in. He always
loved to play football. So, at the age
of 40, he relaunched his ‘career’ with Steve, Gerry, Rory and a few other lads,
who’s name he can’t quite recall today. They played on an astroturf pitch near
Penn.
It was a glorious feeling to play again, at least it always was at the beginning
of every game, but, by now, with the years ticking by, he was prone to
minor injuries. Every game he played, it seemed, he’d pull a muscle and have to limp off and
watch the rest of the game from the sidelines. Then, after a two week lay-off, he’d
try again, when the same thing would happen. It is well known that some of the greatest
footballers’ careers are cut short with cruel injuries, but few people realise just
how the same is also true of some of
the crappiest footballers ever to try to play the game. Algirdo was very much in the later
category, no doubt about that.
His final game with the Wycombe ‘boys’
was, ironically, in an indoor five-a-side pitch in Ealing,
West London
. This time, he’d had a long lay off and was determined not to pull a muscle. To
make sure, he decided to ask the lads if he could start the game in goal, remembering
his ‘glory’ years at North Border Comprehensive playing against 13 year olds. They
agreed and so it was, in front of the sticks, that he faced his first competitive
match in years.
Seconds into the game, the ball broke loose to a huge guy on the opposition team.
He sprinted forward from the right side, bearing down on the goal. Algirdo, brave
as he is (or should that just be ‘stupid’?), came to narrow the angle and went down
to clutch the ball at his feet, as he had done many times against the boys (and
sometimes girls) in Bircotes. This time, however, the striker was not intimidated
and came through with all his weight, outrageously into the ‘D’, it seemed, fully against
Algirdo’s neck. The save was made but Algirdo lay, head spinning, on the ground
thinking “I’m a bloody quadruplegic!” Fortunately, the injury felt worse than it
was and he was able to get up and go back onto the subs bench, whilst another guy
stepped into the goalie’s shoes. Not to be put off, later Algirdo was to finally
reappear to make a final contribution in the middle of the pitch. For the first
few seconds he felt masterful, striding around the midfield area purposefully
and actually made
a couple of nice touches for several (maybe even four) minutes before disaster struck
again.
Algirdo received the ball, in space,
in the middle of the pitch as his team started to launch a counter-attack. He looked
up. He saw Gerry’s mate from Ealing (who’s name I can’t quite remember now) on the
right, in some space, looking for the ball. There was a defender right in front
of him. In a flash, the obvious move came to him. Like Pele's, his brain clicked into
gear. He’d lay off a nice, soft pass to Gerry’s mate and then, just as the ball
was about to be received and the defender would have committed himself to close
him down, he’d call for the ball to be returned quickly into the vast gap in front
of the ‘D’ that he’d just opened up. The first part of the plan was executed to
perfection. The ball was weighted just
right. Gerry’s mate had nothing to do but to control it with one touch and then
lay it off, in front of the approaching defender into space, where Algirdo would
surely pounce. This he did, beautifully. Algirdo’s brain now saw glory… a right
stride, then a left stride and then, whoosh!, a right-foot controlled power stroke,
with the head well over the ball with a slight swing of the foot across
the path of the stroke from outside to in so as to impart a bit of a bend on the
ball and BANG! It would curl past the goalie into the bottom right corner of the net…
1-0! The brain conceived the plan well enough and sent the messages down the neurons
to the muscles at the speed of … well, neurons but… unfortunately the muscles refused
to comply. It was as if a myofibril trade union meeting had immediately formed,
and sent a complaint back to CNS management: “Fuck off! – we’re not doing that!”
and, instead of glory, Algirdo collapsed onto the hard floor in a crumpled, pathetic
heap, falling over his own, over-enthusiastic (or should that be ‘under-enthusiastic’?)
legs. From that day onwards he would often complain to himself (or to his wife when
he was looking for a bit of sympathy) about his dodgy hip that began that fateful
day.
Algirdo's international career almost, finally, took off early in the 21st century when he had
the chance to play for his father's country, Lithuania.
Sorry, that should read "in" his father's country, Lithuania. The newly independent
Lithuania had orginaised an 'Olympiad' for Lithuanian exiles from all over the world
and the question on everyone's lips (well, on the lips of Vince O'Brien, the
guy trying
to organise it, during a desperate phone call, at least) was would Algirdo like to play for the English team? Of course he would, he loves
football. So, on a mole-hole infested volleyball pitch at the Lithuanian country
house, Sodyba, in Hampshire, a match was organised for these would-be Didz-Brits (British Lithuanian)
football heroes to play out a game to get their tactics right for the tournament
to come. Algirdo played as well as he has ever played that day (don't ask) and the
game will always stick out as the one match in his long career where the fan(s) actually
began chanting his name from the terraces. His ever-supportive, darling wife, Lesley, was watching and try
as she might, nobody else joined in with the chants of "Algi! Algi!" In the end,
Algirdo couldn't join the squad of elite athletes that went to Lithuania to play
in the Olympiad and so
he was unable to help his team mates as they went down 17-0 to a team of veteran
Lithuanian ex-army footballers.
After this Algirdo decided that, at
the age of 43, it was time to hang up his boots. So, thinking about the best way
to guarrantee that would happen, he emigrated to
Australia
, where they don’t even play football. Wrong again. Upon arriving in
Perth
, Algirdo soon discovered the amazingly busy grass roots level of the game for young
kids, including girls and Algirdo had three of those. Soon, he found himself, three
times a week, going to Lynwood Soccer Club to watch his youngest daughters either
train or play. Being so keen on football, he’d invariably help (in almost imperceptibly
slight ways) the big scouser Pete, or the big Chelsea fan (whose name I can’t quite
recall) with the training sessions. It was here that, finally, he learned something
shocking about football that was a revelation to him: Before games, players should do stretching exercises to reduce the risk of pulling
muscles. If only someone had told him years earlier, it might have made all the difference. On one ocassion, when neither Pete and the
Chelsea
fan could turn up, Algirdo’s heart pounded with excitement at the scary prospect
of actually having to manage a training session on his own, for this group of nine
year old girls. Luckily, one of the mums, who was a bit of a netball coach, saved
the day and took over. Phew! What a relief. Algirdo did referee a couple of games
when the official ref didn’t turn up and the
Chelsea
fan wasn’t actually around at the moment they were looking for a volunteer to step
in. But his most memorable refereeing moment came as linesman for his daughter Zemyna's
league debut away at Sutherland. Drawing 3-3 the ball came though to the nippy little
blondey-girl and Algirdo made the fateful decision to keep his flag down as she
sped through to clinch the winner just minutes before the end of time. The joy of
that moment remains the greatest he's ever experienced whilst participating in a
live match. Algirdo was always willing to help, as long as people’s expectations were not
high.
Eventually both his daughters retired
from the game and so, it seemed, should he. Then, one fateful day at UWA he was
arguing with Jens, a German-Australian football fan about
England
v
Germany
games. Stupidly he got the idea into his thick skull that they’d lost to
Germany
in the Euro 96 semi-final on the golden goal rule. Jens, with typical German efficiency,
knew it was on penalties and Algirdo agreed to bet him: If it was on penalties,
he’d have to come to a training session with Jens’ team (who’s very odd name I can’t
remember.) It was on penalties, of course, so Algirdo had to go to a training session.
He not only survived the ordeal but played well enough, in his mind,
to decide that maybe his playing days were not over just yet. One of the other guys
was even older that he was and this evidence seemed to confirm his feeling that
he should try to play some more.
So, Easter 2004 came and so did the
Margaret River Football Festival – an opportunity for local WA soccer teams to endulge
in a pre-season friendly competition and down lots of beer. Algirdo could never resist that sort of combination
and, after downing lots of beer the night before, he found himself lined up in Jens' team with a name
I can’t remember against another team whose name I can’t remember. (They played
in blue, I remember that). In one real sense, this match signified the very
peak of Algirdo
’s career. Never before, since, or, lets’ face it… ever, has he played on such
a good pitch surrounded by a rail to stop spectators getting on the pitch and four,
not one, floodlights. It was exhilirating. The match kicked off. Algirdo found himself
at the centre of defence, marking a short but very well built number nine in the
Alan Shearer mould. Trying to look cool, dropping off the No. 9 slighly, realising
he probably would do him for pace, Algirdo kept a close eye on the play, whilst
keeping ‘Shearer’ in his field of vision at the same time. He managed to do this
for all of three minutes before a through ball was played from midfield straight
over him into the space in front of goal. Algirdo glanced to his right, expecting
to see ‘Shearer’ close by, but, he’d already gone. He’d turned backwards, sideways
and then forwards (I'm guessing here because I didn't actually see him do this) a moment after the ball was
passed, expecting (naively) Algirdo to try to play some kind of off-side trap, and
then sprinted into the space he knew would open up. In one touch he killed the ball
and in the second touch he stroked the ball into the corner, past the goalie (who,
it would later transpire, was actually quite brilliant, if similarly middle aged.)
The fellow defenders of the oddly named team offered Algirdo sound advice like “try to stick with the striker”
and “drop deeper” but the damage to his confidence was already done. Somehow, they
managed to survive the rest of the game only conceding another two goals and Algirdo’s
second half performance was actually almost not too bad. He did, at least, make
a couple of hoof-like clearances. Algirdo dropped himself from the remaining games and, it
seemed, that would, at ,ong last, signal the end of his 'career'.
Wrong again. In 2006, at the age of
47 and inspired by the World Cup in
Germany
. Algirdo persuaded himself, one last time, to squeeze into his much too small football
boots and put on his nine-year-old daughter’s shin pads. This time there’s no forgetting
the name of the team he played for (he played for them tonight, after all)… a team
called ‘Arse’. In the UWA postgrad evening five-a-side league, the Anatomy Research
Students Experience lads needed gulible volunteers to come along and add depth to
the squad, and Algirdo, never intimidated by the prospect of looking ridiculous, agreed to turn
up and play alongside lads, some of which were only marginally older than his son.
After a very scary moment when an e-mail went round suggesting that the players
should meet up for training once a week, Algirdo managed to persuade the squad that
it was probably best if he didn't particpate in that part (or indeed
any part) of
the pre-match build up.
In the first game, Algirdo thought he played reasonably well before pulling an adductor
muscle so badly it made the inside of his thigh go black n blue like a free kick
smacking the thigh would have done in Mr Jay’s era. So, after his traditional two-week
lay off, he returned to the Arse line up and played one of the greatest games of
his long career. The incident that will
stick in the mind of everyone who saw it and was interested (ok, so that's just
Algirdo, then) was a delicate short pass to Swedish international, Mats,
from the middle of the pitch, taking out two defenders at the same time. Mats controlled it beautifully (how could he not, it was so well placed) and then beat one of the
defenders who had recovered ground before
stroking it majestically into the net to win the match 2-1. That “assist” would
end up being the second best statistic (second only to his goal for Sherwood Hall seconds) in his long and remarkably eventless
playing career. The
next game, having had a couple of beers before the game, was a disaster and Algirdo
didn’t succeed in making a single accurate pass all match. It was, quite simply, the worst performance Algirdo had ever given, been part of
or seen. After a self-imposed dropping from the squad for a couple of weeks (one,
which they lost 15-0), Algirdo came to the match tonight knowing that Arse were in the play offs.
The league of 12 teams had finished and teams now played each other in groups of
four in a knock-out basis. Arse had finished an amazing 10th and so were
favourites against the team who had finished one place below them. This was especially so
as they had a full strength squad with everyone fit for a change,
as well as exciting new blood in the
shape of ‘Mike’ a young Mancunian who obviously knew his stuff. But someone had
not read the script to the other team because they tore into Arse from the beginning.
Arse tried to keep it tight but were too slack at the back. Before long they’d stuck
it up Arse big time and they were down one nil, having the floor wiped by them. Arse had their backs up against
the wall for sure. Screams of “Come on, you Arse!” from the fan (Algirdo) didn’t
seem to help much and a glorious end to the season seemed to slipping away from
Arse as quickly as … well, you can imagine. Algirdo avoided coming on as a sub until
all the other players had had a go, but eventually, his services were called upon
once more. He
did disappoint - a lot. Forty-five seconds, three kicks of the ball, two fallings
over and a some pointless running later, after coming on, he went for a tackle,
slipped on the geasy surface and, once again, pulled a muscle – a right calf muscle
this time – and hobbled off again just before half time. In the second
half, he watched his team go
2-0 down before the brilliant Mike almost led a solo recovery, making one and scoring
one to make it 2-2 just before the end. If the score had stayed that way, Arse
would have won through to the grand final play off for 9th place (based on their higher league placing), ensuring
near mid-table mediocrity but alas, even this small achievement was not to be. With
literally the last kick of the game, the other team employed their odd tactic of
blasting corners in low and hard into the box for the tenth time. On this ocassion, one of their strikers managed to get a touch on the ball and in it went, past the
hapless Mats, who’d made at least a dozen point blank saves before hand. And so,
next week, the final week of the season, Arse face some other unknown team for the
wooden spoon
but will do so without Algirdo - because, you may remember, he's now retired.
Alas, as Algirdo hobbled away into
the dark, thoughts of “my body is trying to tell me something - pack in playing, you old tosser!!!”
kept bursting into his mind and he decided
that it was finally time to end this ridiculous debacle and pack it all in.
So ends the football playing ‘career’
of someone who was always keen, but always, equally, appaulingly bad. Never again
will he soil the beauty of a game of football. Never again will his clumsy frame
be seen trying to hoof the ball away from danger. His loss, we should remember,
is football’s gain.
As time passes us by, though. let's remember that in 2006, two of the many, many players
that retired from the game were notable for opposite reasons: One was at the very
top of his game, at the highest possible level – Zinadine Zidane, in the World Cup final, after
a brilliant playing career glittered with talent and brilliance and… one was at the very bottom, determinedly
so, never to have played to any level worthy of the title 'level' – Algirdo, after years of consistent shite, he finally gave it all
up. Relief all round. Now, he
only has his dreams.
England Humiliated?...
It's not football, but I can't let the Ashes series fade away in my memory without a quick moan about it.
Yesterday, as we were huddled in our make-shift and severely battered holiday accomodation in Esperence, as a once-in-a-generation storm ripped into the usually sleepy and quiet seaside town,
Australia were, spookily, doing exactly the same thing to the England batting line up to secure the first 5-0 whitwash in over 80 years.
Phuh! There's irony for you! The big difference, of course, was that the bad weather in Esperence was a surprise.
No one, not even me, imagined that England would manage to hold on to the silly little ern. By 'hold on' I mean figuratively, of course, because in reality they never leave the Lords for more than a few weeks, so in the real sense England seem bound to hold onto them forever.
Anyone who knows anything about cricket can tell that Australia are a far stronger team than England at the moment.
In particular, you look at their batting line up and it just goes and and on. Glen McGrath, I suppose, is a bit of a weak batsman but I think Brett Lee would deserve to go in at 6 in the England team.
Then, there's the bowlers but we're all sick to death of hearing about how great they are. Let's just note, clinically, that Warne and McGrath are probably the two best bowlers in the world at the moment, and they both play for the same team.
So, big surprise, Australia beat England at cricket again. The only question on our lips really should be: How on earth did they lose to England last time?
Well, home advantage certainly counted. A whole nation of frustrated English cricket fans managed to whip themselves into such a frenzy of excitement that they actually began to believe they had a chance of beating the aussies
and somehow this belief seemed to transmit to the players and, sure enough, in matters of sport once a team has real belief anything is possible.
Cricket Australia recognised this factor and decided, very early, that the 'barmy army' would not have it so easy down under. It was very difficult getting tickets for any of the games, even if you were a full blooded Australian (whatever that means) but for us Pommies it was
even harder. They managed to stop the fans sitting together in Brisbane and most grounds even banned the trumpeteer from bringing in his trumpet. I'm proud that Perth was the one major exception to this - oh and the last day at the SCG - what a magnanimous gesture that was.
So, without the trumpet how on earth could England have done anything but capitulate in the first test? Too blady easy!
Well, in terms of the fans, it wasn't easy. The barmy army continued to outsing and out-support the aussies throughout the series no matter how humiliating it got.
I'm not a big fan of seeing fat blokes dressed like prats, tanked up to their eye balls singing moronic chants but you can't deny their commitment.
Whether or not it actually helps the England players is debatable but Monty seemed quite keen to get them going a couple of times so one can only imagine it lifts them in some way.
Anyway, despite being better supported than the aussies (who's only response is ever: 'aussie, aussie, aussie... ' wait for it ... 'oi, oi, oi') England were still slaughtered so we have to dismiss the home factor, I think.
What else? Well, clearly losing three of your best players isn't going to help a side which is already struggling.
Alister Cooke isn't yet a replacement for Trescothick, Flintoff, bless him, is not the captain Vaughan was, nor the batsman. And without Simon Jones, our bowling was never going to be the same.
Australia, it has to be said, probably could afford to lose their three best players and they'd still have won easily - they have such strength in depth - but it's England we're talking about here.
To have a chance we needed to be at our strongest and we weren't.
Another key factor was the preparation for the series. Australia, it seems, started preparing the day they lost the silly ern at the Oval. Fourteen months of careful meticulous planning to get them back. England, it seems, had fourteen days.
Steve Harmieson, one can only imagine, could have done with a few more warm up deliveries before starting in Brisbane. But let's not be too harsh on the coach. If it wasn't for the South African we'd never have won the ashes.
The bottom line, that "Australia wanted it more", is such an understatement in the context of this series, it's almost absurd to even mention it.
They wanted it sooo much it was painful (and pathetic) to watch. England, basically, couldn't give a toss. They'd won last year - what more do you want? To win it
twice? That would just be being greedy.
For England to win something every generation is enough for us, just to prove we can be good when we really want to be. But winning something again and again is only for clockwork Nazis with some wierd and perverted need to publicly demonstrate their physical superiority.
So, Australia thrashed the pants of England at cricket! Who gives a shit? When Ricky Ponting, with typical arrogance, smuggly noted that if England are the team ranked no 2 in the world then this must put Australia well ahead of "the pack".
Well, true enough, Ricky. But the sad truth is that that this 'pack' you refered to comprises five teams mustered together out of the collaping British empire and one of those is New Zealand, for heaven's sake. (Doesn't that say it all.)
If the USA beat Englang 5-0 at golf (another sport the English invented and adopted by a colony) no-one would raise an eyebrow but when the aussies do it we're supposed to treat it as some kind of sporting milestone of brilliance.
It's a bloody daft game anyway. How many key decisions rely on the incumbent priest (sorry, umpire) at the time being sufficiently moved by the sincerity of the war dance (appeal) to make the magical symbolic gesture of death? (the deaded raising of the finger)
The irony did not escape me that whereas, at the MCG, both Symmonds and Ponting (twice) should have been out to as plumb lbw decisions you could ever possibly see, Fred Flintoff, in Sydney, was dismissed by a stumping after the 3rd umpire was summonsed to make the millimetre-precision decision because Billy Bowden wasn't quite sure.
Millions of people watching the games saw, with amazing clarity, within seconds whether a ball was going to hit the stumps as it bounced off the pads and whether or not there was a snick on the bat or glove as the ball floew into the keeper's gloves.
The one person denied the amazing technology of the snicker, hot spot and tracker was, of course the umpire - but only on those decisions which have, arbitrarily, been left into his domain. Run outs and stumpings - they're different. The umpire at square, it appears, is now there just spectating.
Well, why not make both of them spectate? When not employ someone just to hold the bowler's hat and let the real decisions be made using 21st century, as opposed to 18th, technology?
It's absurd that so much rests on the whims and fancies, and blinks of an eye, of the bloody umpires. If Rudi Koetzen had given Ponting and Symmonds out at the BCG when he should have, it probably would have lopped off a massive 300 from the aussie's 1st innings total. That is not an insignificant error and it certainly handed the game to Australia, as if they needed any more help.
I know it sounds like sour grapes from a whinging Pom but there's no doubt that Australia had the majority of these dodgy decisions go their way. No-one is asking for favours, just fairness.
Australia would have won anyway, but at least it might have been a bit of a contest, something that fans might actually have enjoyed watching.
And this brings me to my last point - what kind of mentality is it that leads to an entire nation whipping itself up into such a frenzy of 'Pommie bashing' that adverts singing "we'll smash the poms for six!" and promoting web site games such as www.tonkapom.com.au are deemed as ok.
Imagine if English television had such artefacts against "Pakis" or "Sheep shaggers." Somehow I don't think it would go down as well. Now, personally, I'm not offended by being called a Pommie. I take it as a joke. Good ol' aussie having a bit of a laugh at our expense.
But I think this is really the point here. Most Pommies don't take themselves that seriously and they certainly don't take their sport that seriously.
They love their sport and they support their teams through thick and thin. They'd love, more than anything, that they'd win but it really doesn't matter that they don't. They'll be back supporting them next time just the same.
Their teams too, want to win. But when they don't they look at it philisophically and shrug the shoulders as if to say 'what did you expect'.
I get the impression that for aussies, especially their sports men and women, this is not true. They expect to win. As Glen McGrath said after they won the ashes back. "I know it sounds arrogant, but ... order is restored now". Yes, Glen, arrogant and obnoxious.
Such is the desire and expectation to win, I barely think it qualifies as sport, it's more some kind of distasteful desire to show superiority.
One of the most memorable images from the ashes series in England will always be, for me, that of Andrew Flintoff consoling Bret Lee after he just got himself out, at Edgbaston, after a heroic attempt that nearly succeded in turning an impossible-looking situation for the aussies into victory.
Lee's wicket mean that England equalised in the series and gave England real hope that they might regain the ashes but at that moment Flintoff could only see how distraught Lee was and he gave him a 'hard luck mate' pat on the back.
Did anyone notice any similar incident of compassion in this series? I didn't.
Instead the Australians were bent on not only winning back the silly little ern but restoring, as they put it "order". We all heard have "hurt" they'd been to lose the ashes.
(Ooooh those poorly dearly aussie boys... to actually lose a game. Doesn't your heart bleed?) So they wanted to make England pay, big time, for that pain.
Winning wasn't enough, it had to be humiliation. I didn't see any Flintoff-Lee equivalence, but I did see Ponting scampering off, like a mad-man possessed, trying to stave off a boundary which would have given England a total lead of 53, instead of 52.
And I did see Shane Warne not walk when he clearly clipped a Pansear ball to Read. As the priest didn't give him out, Australia were able to amass a lead even in that test too.
Overall, I'm left with a bad taste in my mouth. As the big boxer might have said "that just wasn't cricket."
What could have been a great summer of exciting sport was turned, partly because of the typical English cock-up but let's face it equally due to a rabid desire for humiliating retribution, into a perverted slaughter.
Ben Elton once said, in one of his hilarious skits, the Australians should give England a chance and bowl a few under arm. "That would be sporting".
Charity like that has no place in sport, but I'd argue neither has the rabid desire for domination shown by the aussies.
It reminded me of a Christmas party we had a few years ago where we organised a table tennis tournament for the extended family. In one game, two aunties did battle. One, a bit of a sporty type played another, a complete novice.
Not just content to win, auntie A beat and humiliated auntie B 21-0, and took great pleasure in it. It no doubt made her feel that she was every bit as good and clinical as she had hoped but for everyone else it was just embarassing.
Ditto the cricket.
Algirdo.