England’s Tiger Woods – Chelsea’s John Terry

Hacking was outlawed on the field in English soccer over a hundred years ago but it continues to thrive in the country’s sporting press. Captain of England’s national team, John Terry (left), a married father of two, has just felt the crunching chop of Britain’s vicious tabloids for his sex romp with a former teammate’s girlfriend. Terry, recently anointed Dad of the Year in the UK by a ketchup company, scored the winning goal for his club Chelsea last Saturday, hours after Britain’s #1 selling tabloid, The Sun, spilled the sexy sauce as he played away from home. His goal celebration will go down as the biggest drip of the English soccer season. The man looked broken.

The British tabloids love to destroy their soccer heroes. Beckham was crucified for costing England a World Cup in 2002; last year Terry’s teammate, Ashley Cole, was branded a Love Rat in the tabloids for his extra-marital affair. The paparazzi chase players through the streets of London hoping to catch them with their jock straps off. It’s tough earning $300,000 a week especially when you are bored with the missus.

The promotion of the world’s top soccer players to the God league necessarily scripts tragedy, especially when there are commercial commandments to uphold.  Thou Shalt Not Be A Naughty Boy is usually number one on the corporate endorsement tablet and we all know what happens when you tell a boy not to be naughty. He goes straight out and does his worst. Terry’s endorsement with a popular razor brand is likely to see his contract being sliced to ribbons. And he can forget about getting down on bended knee before the Queen at Buckingham Palace should England win the World Cup in South Africa. There will be no Arise, Sir John. That scenario will have to remain inside his shorts.

The British tabloids are famous for their fabulously brutal headlines. And the hacks that write these blazing leads are salivating over Terry’s sloppiness and what it means for England at this year’s World Cup in South Africa. It’s possible that England’s defense could line up Terry and the teammate he cuckolded, Wayne Bridge, with the two of them playing next to the Love Rat. Oh, what an English pickle! It’s like a complicated Jane Austen novel. Terry and Bridge will hardly be on speaking terms, and likely to turn their backs on each other. This is great news for the well-behaved Americans, England’s first opponent in the Finals. A few choice words in Terry’s ear during the June 12 match-up – You should see what Bridge is doing behind your back, John – could open up holes in England’s defense, and lead to a romp of American goals against the colonial ancestor. Let’s hope so.

Alan Black is Scottish. And American. His book, The Glorious World Cup – A Fanatic’s Guide is published in the US in early May, by Penguin.

www.thegloriousworldcup.com

England Coach Capello Bans World Cup Song

The Brits have their weird soccer traditions. Perhaps the most laughable is the World Cup song. In the past, after England had qualified for the Finals, the players were forced into a studio to record a song. The television cameras would capture a tuneless striker belting out a ditty that made grandpa yell – Turn that bloody racket off! Fans were made to feel guilty if they failed to buy the single and put it to the top of the hit parade.

In 1970, the first English World Cup song, Back Home, made its assault on the ears with blunt instruments and cheesy lyrics. It was prophetic. Soon, England was back home from the Finals in Mexico without the trophy. A lack of composition in the studio spread to poor harmony on the field. The English would have to wait twelve years before another World Cup song hit the airwaves. The 1982 song, This Time We’ll Get It Right, raised false hopes but did increase sales – sales for earplugs. By the 1990 World Cup, a hint of credibility circled the England squad’s tune when the band, New Order, signed on to record with the team but predictably it ended in embarrassment again with England winger John Barnes trying his hand at rap. He had poetry in his feet, not his voice.

The last time England was free from the World Cup song was 1966, the year they won the trophy. And so it will be this time round. Great sighs of disappointment echoed around the country last week when the English FA announced there would be no daft World Cup song this year on orders from national team coach Fabio Capello. This extraordinary seriousness was to be expected from an Italian used to opera. The image of England’s team making fools of themselves in a chorus did not strike a chord with the mean Capello.

So those of us who always root against England, and know that their song acted as a curse on their chances, we now face the prospect of them winning it all in South Africa and possibly coming home to record a victory song that will fly to the top of the charts like God Save the Queen did in 1977. All we can do is hope Capello’s English opera will be a tragic one and the first blow will be delivered by the American colonists on June 12.

Alan Black is the co-author of The Glorious World Cup due for publication in May 2010. www.thegloriousworldcup.com

England’s first World Cup song, Back Home

Landon Donovan – mas gringo

Landon Donovan, the US soccer ace, has set fire to Mexican public opinion. He appears in a TV ad for a Mexican lottery dressed in the costume of hyper-Mexican stereotyping – the large sombrero, the big mustache and the poncho. He attempts to sneak across the border, into Mexico, under the nose of a dozing Mexican border guard. Many in Mexico are offended. And it has come from the American they love to hate.

Donovan has stuck the boot in to Mexico before. Reportedly, he urinated on a Mexican soccer field after a game between the countries, and referred to Mexicans being jealous of Americans because America had everything and Mexico had nothing. In soccer terms, it follows in the tradition of glorious insult. Ronald Koeman, a Dutch player, simulated using a German opponent’s shirt to wipe his butt, after the German had swapped shirts with him at the end of a game. His potty act was prompted by the collective Dutch grievance towards Germany as a result of Nazi occupation during World War 2. Argentine legend Diego Maradona insulted Brazilian great Pele by claiming Pele had lost his virginity to a man, after the Brazilian had questioned Maradona as a role model for children. Diego liked cocaine and partying as much as he liked being the best soccer player in the world.

Those of us who saw Mexico play the USA in a World Cup qualifying game last year witnessed Donovan taking a corner kick under riot cop shields, as a hail of bottles, cans and urine bombs crashed down. According to reports, the USA dugout was shelled with trash and rocks throughout the match. Mexico and the USA are in a bitter soccer war. It could be argued Donovan’s aggression marks the arrival of US soccer on the world stage. Rivalry and grudge are very much part of a mature soccer tradition. No longer willing to submit to the mockery of the more established soccer powers, US players are giving as good as they get, getting stuck in, and US fans at games are no longer silent lambs waiting for slaughter.

Some commentators in Mexico have asserted that Donovan’s costume in the ad is so over the top it merits ridicule, and therefore is comic, and not insulting. This is the spirit of play.

Here’s the ad, make up your own mind.

Alan Black is the co-author of The Glorious World Cup due for publication in May 2010 (NAL/Penguin Books) www.thegloriousworldcup.com

Coaches. Who Needs Them?

In most jobs, if you screw up, the boss sacks you. Fair enough. In soccer, the players screw up and the owners sack the coach, usually after hearing boos. There’s no sympathy. The fans blame the coach for the poor players. The players blame the boss for their bad performances. The losing era is associated with the coach’s name. So why not just get rid of the coach once and for all?

Let’s assume we do. The players in the squad will pick the starting eleven by a show of hands in the changing room before the game. Defenders will not be allowed to vote for defenders, and so on through the positions. Now let’s assume cliques may form – for example, maybe a forward and a midfielder go drinking together and connive to always pick each other, no matter what. How do we get around this? By taking the money in football out of the individual’s self interest. Players will be paid equally. But how can one player earn more than another player? Easy – by scoring goals, by stopping goals, by setting up goals – the bonus system. Collectively, if the team wins games, everyone gets a day off during the Christmas holiday. If they win a trophy, they get to share an extra large pizza after the Final. Rich teams will still dominate poor teams. No need to worry that Manchester United will be in the same league as Scunthorpe. They will always have bigger slices and more toppings for their players. And there are always merchandising sponsorships to be had for the Gods.

In this utopia, when a player kisses the team badge on his strip, he means it. When a player makes a phone call, it’s to a fellow team player to check on his health, and not to his agent. The scurvy of money ball will be cured and soccer saved.

But naturally, we prefer to keep an individual around to blame, his effigy to burn; a scapegoat we love to boot. It is a kicking game, after all. Keep the coach.

Check out thegloriousworldcup.com. The Balls Out Guide to the World Cup Finals, 2010.

North Korea Will Qualify From Group Of Death in South Africa

North Korea’s inclusion in the Group of Death in South Africa is excellent news for those of us supporting the DPRK at the Finals. Brazil, Portugal and Ivory Coast are all advocates and practitioners of the era’s attacking football philosophy. Watch them come unstuck.

In 1966, in North Korea’s last appearance at the Finals, the prevailing world soccer philosophy was defensive. North Korea showed up with ten attackers and went to the quarter-finals, only to lose to Portugal, after leading 3-0. This time, they come to the Finals with an all-out defense, their own peculiar Asian form of catenaccio. Brazil, Portugal and Ivory Coast will be drawn out, and the Chollima will strike on the break with a venom that will leave their opponents paralyzed with shock. For those of us who admire and believe in defensive football, it will be vindication.

Jong Tae Se is the North’s secret weapon, their top striker during qualification. On hearing of the draw for South Africa he said, “I want to play against the strongest teams in the world. I am not afraid, I think it’s a great opportunity and a challenge. I will be very ambitious.”

With the North Koreans able to conceal their plans, their opponents will have little clue on what to expect. While Brazil, Portugal and Ivory Coast will bring their arrogance, North Korea will bring home the results. North Korea. Second round. Bet on it.

www.alanblack.info

The Hand of Henry

The Hand of Henry

Think of all those brand names that players pick up as endorsements. And make bags of money in the process. And the team strips emblazoned with corporate logos. But maybe it’s time for a new logo to be branded across the chests of our favorite soccer stars, those ones who like to dive, or use their hand to earn a goal. Welcome to soccer’s growing, dynamic brand: CHEAT.

Branding a player a cheat is a tough and ugly call. Some argue that unfair advantage is a natural part of the game. Yet, French star Tierry Henry deliberately used his palm to knock Ireland out of the World Cup Finals. Shouting and cursing will follow him like the smell of rotting escargot but it will come to nothing. The hubris of star players demonstrates their supremacy over the game. Henry will shrug his shoulders and be happy that his World Cup appearance bonus is secure.

But back to that CHEAT endorsement. FIFA will no doubt be happy that its marketing department has all the big teams in its World Cup 2010 tent while gearing up its message of liberty, equality and fraternity for all the soccer-loving nations. But maybe it’s time to add a new positive campaign like FIFA’s No to Racism effort. We need a Kick Cheats Out of Football crusade. A yellow card for simulation needs to become a three-month ban. A Hand of Henry goal needs to be a year ban.

A ruthless manufacturer in China could make three million fake Henry tops with his new endorsement and sell them to every man, woman and child in Ireland. They will not forget the Hand of Henry. The Irish memory is long.

Cheating – Should Players Get Away With It?

The Liverpool player N’gog is a cheat and an actor worthy of nomination for this year’s Oscar for Best Simulation on A Soccer Field. His dive extraordinaire, earning his team a converted penalty in Liverpool’s Monday night Premier League match up against Birmingham City, will stick in the memory of opposing fans like superglue on a toilet seat. Like celebrities heading for liposuction, many are calling for soccer to suck out the simulation that is killing the heart of the game.

Why do people like N’gog play soccer when he would have been better off around a diving board or taking acting lessons at the local dramatic society? OK, he wants his team to win but like that? It’s not going to do Liverpool any favors. Watch the next legitimate penalty claim from Liverpool being turned down by a nervous referee keen to avoid the humiliation inflicted upon their colleague by the phony N’gog. Cheating comes at a price.

Diving practice has always had a following in soccer but today it is reaching religious levels as the hubris of some players run amok. Portugal’s Cristiano Ronaldo, blessed by God as his divine soccer son, is nailed to the flopper’s cross. With pout and glower on his immaculate face, he converts dives into penalties and free kicks, from whence he scores. Millions follow and worship him. As everyone knows, Maradona thanked God for his diabolical handball goal in the Mexico World Cup in 1986. He was supreme enough to blame the hapless English goalkeeper Shilton for coming off his line. Far from being crucified as a cheat, El Diego was carried to the Temple of the Gods.

So cheating –  is it OK to get away with it?

The End of the Daddies

Sir Alex Ferguson of Manchester United refers to his players as “boys” and calls them “son,” when speaking to them of matters most important. His “sons” grow up to call him “father.” Both Beckham and Ronaldo have described him as such. He is the last of the great British coaching daddies.

He ends a line that stretches through England from Herbert Chapman to Alf Ramsey, and Don Revie, in Scotland, it was Jock Stein, Ferguson’s own soccer “father.” These men grew up and played in an era when daddies and their sons were the only people inside soccer stadiums. Women were secretaries in the front office, and tea makers. It was an age when daddy lifted junior over the turnstile, a tradition now gone in the age of season tickets and seats. It was daddy who showed his son that losing control in moments of joy and loss was acceptable, and normal, during ninety minutes on a Saturday. Just don’t cry in the real world, son.

But the old-fashioned coach is rapidly going out of style. The internationalism of club soccer, and the supremacy of the star player, has diminished the need for parenting. Younger coaches treat their players as equals, hoping to bond as a team, instead of family. Servitude to one tribe is no longer for life. Recently, Chelsea’s coach Ancelotti, remarked that talking to the players in the changing room before the game was increasingly redundant as most of his stars were plugged into I-pods listening to hip hop. He listens to Elton John while at home.

There is much talk about the diminishing daddy figure in society. And futbol follows society. We can expect a future age of youthful player tyranny, and a purge of middle age wisdom. Maybe the players will pick the team themselves. And no more will the word “son” be heard in the changing rooms.

Video Refs – No Thanks

The World Cup Final, 1966: England’s Geoff Hurst strikes the ball off the underside of the bar. As fast as a bullet, it lands over the line if you are English, and on the line if you are German. The referee looks to the linesman. The linesman looks to the Queen of England sitting in the stands. Maybe he saw his head on a pike at the Tower of London. He indicates goal. On his deathbed, the Russian linesman confesses. He didn’t like Germans much. He remembered the Second World War.

Do we need video referees? It would eliminate this type of prejudice, herald an age of fairness, and soccer would be most boring. Let’s face it, when fifty thousand pairs of eyes inside the stadium see one thing and the referee fails to notice, the stands explode with debasing officialdom. What a loss to the choir if we can’t sing, “the referee’s a wanker” because he can correct his mistakes through television replay. Futbol is like burglary. “We were robbed” – every fan has said it. And you never recover the goods. The grievance morphs into a grudge against the benefactors and makes for bitter rivalries.

And where would TV correctness end? Was it a penalty? Or a free-kick? Did he use his hand to score a goal? Maradona would not be a Saint in Argentina if video ref had been around to sever the Hand of God at Mexico ‘86. Thousands of replays of the incident throughout the years would never have happened, TV pundits would have less to talk about, England and Argentina would be less angry at each other. Longevity of grievance is a rocket booster for match ups. Soccer needs tragedy.

So, putting the video ref debate on the scales of Justice, we rob futbol of its core. Mistakes, regret, and thievery, are all supreme in the beautiful game.

www.alanblack.info

Whatever happened to the handshake?

From Handshake to Pile-On - The Evolution of the Goal Celebration

Has anyone noticed the increasing use of lying down on the grass to have teammates jump on top of you as the chosen mode of goal celebration?  In a recent game, scorer Wayne Rooney flopped to the ground, and waited for the pile-on. The camera caught team mate Darren Fletcher with his legs apart, standing over Rooney. Wayne raised his head, his face disappearing in front of Fletcher’s shorts. Not that there is anything wrong with men on men rolling around on the grass.

In the really old days, before the hug culture helped spread coughs, a scorer would have his back slapped and his hand shook. Then came the invention of the individual. Blame the sixties and George Best. Soccer players became superhuman; they were photographed in magazines with their tops off, sexy ladies in fur dripping from their manly chests. The average bloke was confused. He had never looked at his own body, now he was looking at George Best’s hairy ribs. Touching and intimacy was not a trait held in high regard in working class England. Foreplay in sexual intercourse was best described as – Brace Your Self.  But the fancy touch on the field had moved off it.

The feel of the swinging sixties spread fast to other players, and to the stands. By the seventies, back slaps and handshakes were replaced with scorers running around the field, arm in air, like a victorious conqueror. Teammates followed; arms around the triumphant shoulder. Fans began to grab each other intimately, and strangers kissed in crowds numbering in the tens of thousands. The eighties came, and the wearing of tight shorts sewed the seeds of the modern hug. Mounting for a piggyback ride was most popular. But it took the arrival of the ecstatic nineties for the hug to be embraced by raving soccer players. Kisses, whispers, head-grabs, and bum slaps cascaded through the euphoria of scoring. Who needed drugs? Today’s grass orgy will likely fade but what will be next?

www.alanblack.info