Showing posts with label guest bloggeur. Show all posts
Showing posts with label guest bloggeur. Show all posts

30 May 2011

Rehab, Interventions, Hangovers, Pools of Vomit - Welcome to the Imminent Title-Winning Downer of a Summer at Real Madrid


Please welcome Elliott de Futfanatico, who, as in a previous time of turmoil, is our guide to the wonderful and frightening world of Real Madrid.

Success? Blah. Only the successful really care about success. The rest of us get by on whip-its, whiskey, and making the front page of Marca for multi-billion dollar transfers. Sadly, I suspect my summer will be devoid of any of those things. Why? Well, we have entered the hangover stage of the Real Madrid cycle. Allow me to explain.

Everybody remembers the glorious Galacticos phase of Madrid - Zidane, Ronaldo, Raúl, Figo, Beckham, Santiago Solari, etc. Real Madrid spent millions, signed big name players, and with a wave of his wand Del Bosque coached this horribly balanced smorgasbord of egos to titles. Sadly, the early 2000s Madrid was the last of its kind - since then, a rhythm has emerged. First, we spend lots of money on players. Then, a respectable coach induces the board to purchase "value players." For example, the Capello/Schuster era saw us buy a lot of good Dutch players - Ruud was value because of the Sir Alex divorce, Sneijder had not yet ascended to his current play-maker pedestal, and Robben was a gamble given his injury history. And with these "value players", Madrid won some titles.


But there was just one problem - Booooooorrrrrring. Does a celebrity brag to E! reporters about a discounted dress she purchased at a thrift store? Nein. It's like shooting a Lady Gaga music video on a cellphone camera. Sacrilege! But oftentimes, marketing, press coverage, and good business practices diverge. Mourinho has convinced Madrid to purchase affordable Turkish-Germans. And the results are not promising. From a non-playing-football-games perspective.


Exhibit A. Despite having played for Real Madrid for an entire year, Mesut Özil has yet to release his own line of underwear. In fact, he has yet to pose semi-nude for any respectable fashion magazine. Madrid fans are pissed as hell and rightly ask: is Altintop really the answer? Or is this just another bargain bin German-Turk that keeps his boxers in his shorts, his shirt on his chest, and can't even land a half-decent Pepsi commercial?

What has tossed Real Madrid into this atrocious, never-ending cycle of fiesta-or-functionality? We all know the sinister culprit: FC Barcelona.


For decades, a simple deal endured between the Catalonians and Real: they could be the indie rocker "més que un club" and win the Copa del Rey, while European glory belonged to mega-star Madrid. Sadly, while titles have accumulated at Barça, the moral superiority complex has withered before the forces of capital and human frailty. Let me count the ways. Barcelona's current payroll exceeds Madrid's. They needed a short-term loan to make payroll last year. After the recent election, their new President threatened to file suit over hidden debts. And, of course, they sold the front of their shirt to Qatar.


Many Madrid fans delight in these pleasures. They poke fun on Twitter and in Tumblrs. But not me. When Real played Barcelona, it used to be a metaphor for us being really rich and successful and them being less rich but still pretty successful. But now we belong to the same country club. And the world is poorer for it.

Thus, unbuckle your seat belt, adjust your recliner, and get some heavy-hitting prescription NoDoz. Madrid has retained Mourinho and will spend this summer buying value players to mount a serious La Liga run. And I can't think of a poorer way to spend my summer.

Elliott blogs about soccer at Futfanatico.com

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15 March 2011

The nerds will rise again


There's a lot of it about, you know. As you've surely noticed, the beauty and fun are being sucked out of football by the New Seriousness — no, not a Starsailor reunion, but the inappropriately close watching of games, as propagated by those who believe spodliness to be next to godliness. The official SIATVS line on this, in concert with others, is to decry it with all our not inconsiderable might, as we've made abundantly, devastatingly clear. Now, it's the turn of Fisted Away's Nick Dunmore to have his say, by way of a certain band of Mancunians. Singalonganicknmark!



The grotesque pedants stalk the land
And deep down inside you know everybody wants to like Big Paper
Hands send tweets to famous apes
Male slags, male slates, pass completion rates
Water carrier now grim thoughts
The whole country is post-Graeme
Echoes of the past


All hail the new seriousness!
Insidious maelstrom, cook one


And all hard-core fiends
Will die by me
And all decadent sins
Will reap discipline


New seriousness!


This is the grim referee
The snap at the end of the straw
With a high 6+5 quota
Your star karma, Jim


New seriousness!
New seriousness!


The conventional is now experimental
The experimental is now conventional


It's a dinosaur tackle
A pteradactyl debacle
In N1 a drunk is sick on Rob Smyth's star on York Place
Ha-ha ha-ha
Vintage strips take off in Britain's black spots
The Guardianistas run for cabs
This I have seen


New seriousness!


In Britain the scream of real-ale pumps in a gastropub
Your stomach swells up before you get drunk
The bars are full of male slags
At 10:35 they play "National Shite Day" once


Why don't you ask your local team's winger how many corners he took today?
What do you mean "What's it mean? What's it mean?"?
"What's it mean? What's it mean?"


New seriousness
New seriousness


Hail the new puritan
Out of hovel, cum-coven, cum-oven


And all hard-core fiends
Will die by me
And all decadent sins
Will reap discipline


New seriousness
New seriousness


New seriousness
New seriousness
New seriousness
New seriousness
New ser...ious...ness


New seriousness


I curse the self-copulation
Of your lousy fanzine collection
New seriousness says "Coffee table WSCs never breathe"


New seriousness
New seriousness
New seriousness
New seriousness
New seriousness says...


New seriousness
Teymourian!
New seriousness
New seriousness
New seriousness

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05 March 2010

Mark E. Smith on Ramsey and Shawcross: Gymwork cops stalking the streets-uh



I've been tempted to write something about the Aaron Ramsey/Ryan Shawcross "coming together". Alas, every time I try to publish my thoughts on it, an error message flashes up: PERMISSION DENIED: YOU KNOW IT'S GOING TO END IN TEARS, FREDORRARCI. Which is fair enough.

I can, though, pass on the opinions of others. I was delighted last night to receive a voicemail message from my old whist pal Mark E. Smith From Out Of The Fall, which I relay to you here:



Uh ... thing fucking work— Ah, yaright, Fred, 's me, Mark Smith. Ah, just calling about that, uh, dog of yours ... and, uh, 'cos I've written a song about that thing with Shawcross and the Welsh lad and, uh, just thought you might like to hear it, you being a fucking Gooner and 'at, youknowworramean. 's not finished or owt, but (inaudible) dead good, I reckon. I'll sing it for you now, haven't got the band with me, like, but I'll just sing it. My singing's getting really (inaudible) (laughter) (cough).

This is a warning from—

—Fuck, forgot, 's called "Playground Letraset Forgiveness Compact", right...


This is a warning from the Potteries!
Beware the gymwork cops stalking the streets-uh
Boer War scar tissue and Charles M., Charles H. induction-uh, certificate-uh
Remember: when your skull gets smashed with truncheons of propriety:
You are to blame-uh!
In the Big Sam disciple courtroom showroom abattoir
The man with the prawn cocktail Molotov breath says:
You are to blame! You are to blame-uh!
You asked for it, sunshine-uh!
Don't come running to me with your broken-uh
LEG-uh!

...duh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh, nuh-nuh, nuh...

HARK AT THEE! HARK AT THEE!
Alimentary rumble of brain shrapnel halfwits
Cling to the scalpel like doctor evil Übermensch rotating the rack-uh
Rotating-uh
The RACK-uh!
He's a good lad, though
His tears fill the reservoirs all across the land
And keep the water bills down-uh
Britannia, prison yard, crap, hobnail, press conference
Hiroo Onoda emerges from the jungle and says:
That's how it's always been-nuh!

...then there's, like, a kind of guitar bit after that, right, and then it's...

Cast signed in playground Letraset forgiveness compact-uh
Cast signed in playground Letraset forgiveness compact-uh
Cast signed-uh, in playground-uh, Letraset-uh, forGIVEness compact!
You are to blame! You are to blame-uh!
Cast signed-uh, in playground Letraset forgiveness compact-uh
Know your place, son, know your place!
You are to blame! It's your fault! You are to blame!
Cast signed in playground-uh
LetrasetforgivenesscomPACT-uh!
That's how it's always been-uh!
Cast signed in playground Letraset forgiveness compact-uh...

...and that's all I've got so far, so, uh, anyway, hope you're keeping well, and, uh, the dog ... sorry about that, hope he's, you know, alive an 'at, so yeah, I'll (inaudible) ... ta-ra...
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28 February 2010

The Premier League All-Star Game — as it happened!


When the Premier League decided to import the concept of an All-Star game from the United States of North America, well, who'd have thought it would turn out like that, huh? For those who missed it, Chicago's very own Ted Harwood — editor of Running Downhill and contributor to Arsenal Station — has kindly given SIATVS permission to reprint his liveblog of proceedings...



Good evening from Wembley Stadium
, site of the inaugural English Premier League All-Star Match. A wise man once said that “We’re all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars,” and he was something of an expert on gutters. For those of you thinking that is a quotation from the late Oscar Wilde, it could come as a bit of a surprise that those words were first spoken by Mr. Jack Greaves, who worked on the grounds of Oscar Wilde’s block of flats in London. No, it’s true. For those of you then thinking what the hell does that have to do with football, it should come as no surprise at all that it has nothing at all to do with it, so let’s move on, then, shall we?

This match will feature two squads, one from the EPL teams in the North, and one from the EPL teams in the South. The rules for the match state that each team must include at least one player from each EPL club. Substitutes are unlimited. The North will wear white shirts with a giant rose on them, and the South will wear navy kits with a large white lion. No word about the red shirts with St. George killing a dragon drawn on the rear of the shorts, as far as we know. Maybe next year.

Teams:

North: Reina, G. Johnson, R. Ferdinand, G. Cahill, Evra, Nani, Gerrard (c), Barry, Giggs, Torres, Rooney. Subs: Jensen, Richards, Samba, Scharner, Baines, Kuyt, Fellaini, Cana, Hunt, Rodallega, Tevez. Manager: Sralex.

South: Čech, Sagna, Terry, Vermaelen, Cole, Lennon, Fàbregas, Lampard (c), Arshavin, Drogba, Agbonlahor. Subs: Hart, L. Young, Dunne, Shawcross, Konchesky, A. Young, Milner, Milijas, Belhadj, Defoe, Diamante. Manager: ‘Arry.

Referee: Steve Bennett.

6:35pm: I have already received several texts asking about the squads for this evening. Some of you appear to be puzzled about the selections. Hey, I didn’t make the rules, man, I just work here.

6:37pm: Apparently Prince Harry is in attendance this evening. No word about which side he’s supporting, but my money’s on England.

6:39pm: Giggs, Tevez, and Defoe have gathered in the center circle for a pre-game warmup chat. Smiles all around.

6:40pm: Re: 6:39: “If you put the three of them together, would they reach Peter Crouch’s shoulder?” wonders Billy from Cheltenham. Surely that depends on whether they are all standing atop each other in the same trench coat?

6:52pm: Sorry, just popped off to the cafeteria for a cuppa there. What’d I miss? My mate from a rival paper reckons that the acrobats and lion-tamers were good. He said the 16-foot animatronic Queen Elizabeth with the flares in each hand was a bit odd.

6:56pm: We’re a few minutes away from kickoff, and a bemused 85,000 or so EPL fans have just been asked to stand and sing “God Save the Queen.” Immediately thereafter, a squadron of RAF fighter jets flew underneath—I’m not joking, underneath—the Wembley arch, and a pair o’ paratroopers landed on the field, one to each penalty spot. As far as American imports go, so far, I’d put this match somewhere between the Ford Festiva and Budweiser.

7:00pm: Mr. Bennett fumbles for his whistle, and…


0 mins: …we’ve achieved liftoff. Drogba passes back to Lampard, who immediately ignores Fàbregas and passes back to Terry, who, after having a look up the pitch, passes back to Čech. It’s all a bit partisan at the start. Čech, thankfully, doesn’t slide it out to Ashley Cole. And you were all worried that the Blues would be snubbed.

1 min: Gerrard wins a free-kick about 25 yards out on the right after a lovely exchange between the Liverpool captain and Ryan Giggs. Giggs curls an effort toward the top corner, but it misses the target and hits an unsuspecting fan in the pie. I’m not making that up; someone’s pie has felt the full impact of a Ryan Giggs freekick. Disgraceful.

4 mins: Not much on here at the start. There’s not been a high workrate, but neither has there been tremendous urgency in the attack.

5 mins: Fàbregas springs Aaron Lennon up the right, the Spurs man flinging in a wild and woolly cross that Drogba just barely misses with his outstretched foot. The ball rolls harmlessly out of play for a goal kick. “Will there be a half-time show?” wonders Ken in Norfolk. Well, Ken, in fact, there will not be. We’re not totally Yankerised here today.

GOAL! North 1 – 0 South (Rooney 6’) Well, that, it has to be said, is just poor defending. After Steven Gerrard collects the ball at the halfway line, he spots Rooney running towards the South penalty area. He lofts a long ball over the top, Terry’s effort in the chase was uncharacteristically tame, and Rooney collects the pass and rifles a laser over the shoulder of Petr Čech. Thomas Vermaelen looks at John Terry with the blank expression of a teacher whose star pupil has just completely ballsed up a maths problem.

8 mins: Oooo, nearly! Fàbregas slides a lovely ball through into the path of Gabriel Agbonlahor, after some great work from Sagna on the right took Patrice Evra out of the play entirely. Sadly, the Villa man scuffed his shot and Reina saves with no problem. Reina shouts something in Spanish towards the Arsenal captain with a smile on his face, and Fàbregas can only laugh. Good-natured fun; that’s the EPL All-Stars’ motto.

9 mins: The crowd have slowly begun getting into the geographical spirit of things: a contingent of supporters in one corner of the ground have begun rocking back and forth while singing “Hit the North”. Mark E. Smith nowhere to be seen, though. As I type that, Rooney goes down in a heap after being shouldered, hard, by Lampard. Wazza not best pleased.

12 mins: Despite the lax defending and workrate, it’s all gone a bit quiet.

GOAL! North 2 – 0 South (Barry 13’) And as soon as I type that, the Northerners start to string together roughly 234 passes, the last 159 of which are inside the area, before Gareth Barry chips the ball over Čech’s head from five yards out. Bewildering stuff from all parties. These all-star games are really something, I’ll tell you what.

14 mins: A triangle of Fàbregas, Arshavin, and Lampard slowly make their way up the field with a series of five-yard passes before the Chelsea man attempts a 20-yard blast. Reina watches it balloon over the crossbar.

GOAL! North 2 – 1 South (Fàbregas 16’) Nothing wrong with the defending there, but Reina would’ve needed something ethereal to stop that one. Ferdinand’s attempted clearance of a Sagna cross finds its way to Fàbregas’s foot, and from the corner of the area, he unleashes an outside-of-the-foot smash that curves to the right on its way to the opposite top corner. The Arsenal man runs the entire length of the pitch in celebration. Dynamite. Reina shouts something in Spanish again; no smiles this time.

17 mins: After that, someone in the crowd has started a group of Arsenal fans singing “London Calling.” I don’t know what to say.

19 mins: Giggs just misses another free kick, this time from farther out, but a wonderful effort. No pies harmed this time around, and grateful we all are for that.

21 mins: “What do you reckon the odds are that a fan wouldn’t be watching the flight of the ball? Who are these people?” chirps in Tom from Croydon. Well, Tom, as Otis Redding once sang, you don’t miss your fiver ‘til a free kick hits your pie.

22 mins: Gary Cahill heads just over from a North corner. Unlucky for the Bolton man.

23 mins: Gary Cahill, again, heads just over, this time from a free kick. Unlucky, again, for the Bolton man.

25 mins: Impossible. From a North corner, Cahill heads just wide. Somebody please mark him, if only because this is starting to look a bit like an anti-Bolton conspiracy.


27 mins: The North win(s?) another corner. Giggs steps up, lashes it across, and it bounces around before being blasted just over the bar from nine yards out. By…Nani. Gary Cahill was nowhere near it this time, if you can believe it. The South under real pressure for the last seven or eight minutes.

THRIKER! GOAL! North 2 – 2 South (Agbonlahor 30’) That is better from the South, just slightly. Gabriel Agbonlahor receives a ball from Drogba and lashes one past Reina after taking two touches around Gary Cahill. I don’t think we’re going to see much tackling from here forwards. Not that we’ve seen much so far.

33 mins: Someone on the North has just attempted six consecutive stepovers. No, it wasn’t Nani. It was that man Gary Cahill, who had stormed up from the back. He can’t stop laughing as he trots back to his position after Fàbregas nicked the ball off him post-stepover #6. Cahill’s not the only one laughing; Torres is doubled over with spasms, and even the normally fierce competitor Rooney has lost control of himself. He’s still running around, but he is more or less useless with laughter at the moment.

35 mins: I’ve received a text message from Barry Glendenning, and all it says is “cahill lmao”. Good to see that we’re all getting into the spirit of this all-star thing.

38 mins: In a riposte to Cahill, Thomas Vermaelen does an Ajax-fueled Cruijff turn around Gareth Barry. Vermaelen doesn’t smile, though. He just glares at the ref who books him for holding off Evra illegally. Icy.

42 mins: Reina pulls off a great double save from a South corner, first from a John Terry header and then from the follow-up shot from Drogba. Great stuff from the Liverpool guardian. “If Gary Cahill were ice cream, what flavor would he be?” muses Rick via email. It’s hard to say. Maybe Ben & Jerry’s half-baked, by the way things are going today for him. Maybe that’s too harsh.

45 mins: Cesc Fàbregas drags a shot just wide after some good work by Lampard opened up the Northern bulwark.

Halftime: Peep! Peep! Steve Bennett brings the first half to a close. A loose first half with a number of good chances, goals, and hilarious Gary Cahill moments. Everyone looks pretty pleased to be out there, the players shaking hands and having a laugh. Reina and Fàbregas appear to be debating something on their way off the pitch—maybe Goya? At any rate, we will have a fresh 22 players for the second half, although hopefully Gary Cahill gets to stick around.


“This has been very entertaining so far. Gary Cahill for England striker? He must be better than Emile Heskey,” posts in Carrie from Hounslow. And he could probably keep a couple of German defenders busy laughing, too.

So let’s quickly recap the first half: paratroopers, crowd chants courtesy of The Fall and The Clash, Gary Cahill singlehandedly setting back the course of Western Civilization by three minutes, four goals, two of serious quality. Depending on one’s feelings about sport, maybe the Americans have been on to something all these years.

45 mins: Time to begin again. As I mentioned, both teams have sent out a new XI. More subs are possible, depending on how things go. Harry Redknapp gives some last minute advice to Jermain Defoe, and we’re off.

GOAL! North 2 – 3 South (Konchesky 46’) That did not take long at all. Konchesky makes a sterling run inside of Nadir Belhadj, rather than overlapping, and the Pompey man slides a soft and fluffy ball through to the left-back, who smashes an effort into the roof of the net past Jensen. Not a good game in which to be a keeper, I guess.

48 mins: The North are responding well to the goal, applying all kinds of pressure. They force two good saves from Joe Hart, who catches both easily.

49 mins: The North win a free kick…

50 mins: Joe Hart makes a ludicrous save. Improbable save. Tevez curls a rifle shot towards the top corner, and just when you thought there was no chance for the Birmingham keeper, his hand comes flying into the picture and tips the ball off the crossbar, straight down in front of his prone body, and Richard Dunne clears to safety. Great great great stuff.

54 mins: Dirk Kuyt is absolutely hilariously scary. Aside from vaguely reminding me of his countryman Rutger Hauer from Blade Runner, he always sort of sneaks up out of the shadows, as he did just now, to head just wide from a Milijas cross. How soon until he breaks Harrison Ford’s fingers?

GOAL! GOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOL North 3 – 3 South (Tevez 57’) Kuyt skips through the South defense and squares it to Tevez, who chips it over the frantic Joe Hart. I wouldn’t say it was a great goal, but now that I only see Roy Batty out there, everything seems somehow both epic and elegiac at the same time. Somebody find my Vangelis records, please. No, seriously, that was a good goal, and Tevez skips away with glee.

58 mins: No good chants for a few minutes, now. Nobody really seems to know what to do. Email in your suggestions, and maybe I’ll shout them towards Wembley.

GOAL! North 3 – 4 South (Rodallega og 62’) Unfortunate for the Wigan forward. From a South corner, Jensen punches weakly, and Belhadj’s cross back into the box skips off the turf, off of Hugo Rodellega’s boot, and into the net. He looks around for a moment before he realizes what has happened.


GOAL! North 3 – 5 South (Diamante 63’) Goodness me, stop it. Straight from the kick off, Diamante nips through, positively steals the ball from Stephen Hunt, takes a touch, lays it off for a sprinting James Milner, who plays a return pass back to the Hammer, who plasters it past Jensen. Again, no tackling going on except for by the forwards today; it’s becoming a joke. The crowd is cheering both wildly and sarcastically. It’s a bit of a testimonial match out there, really. Brian Jensen is absolutely angry. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry. He’s a very nice man when pensive, though.

66 mins: Milijas and Fellaini trade 35-yard efforts at either end, both of which are approximately ten parsecs off target.

71 mins: Not much on lately, until now. Ladies and Gentlemen, there is a great, massive dog on the pitch. It’s bigger than Stephen Hunt. I’m not kidding. It’s doing a great job of evading capture; Steve Bennett himself chased it for a minute. Most of the players on the pitch got a right laugh from that one, I’ll tell you what.

74 mins: That dog has finally been nabbed. By Sir Alex Ferguson. With his coat. Extraordinary performance from the Scot. Whatta guy. Play resumes.

77 mins: Marouane Fellaini displays a good deal of skill in getting past James Milner and lashing a shot just wide of the post. Joe Hart looks around at his defense like a disappointed father. Sorry, Joe, but that’s the way it’s going to go for you in this one. “Most North American all-star games end with preposterous scores due to lack of defense,” I’m told by a woman named Christine emailing in from Boston. Well, glad to carry on the tradition, then.

GOAL! CONTROVERSY! UPROAR! DISCONTENT! North 4 – 5 South (Cana 81’)
Lorik Cana has scored, but only after he basically threw Ryan Shawcross onto the turf. As Tevez played a pass back to the Albanian, he seemed to wrap his arm around the Stoke defender and toss him to the ground, but Steve Bennett waved play on and Cana exchanged one more pass with Tevez before slotting home the return from ten yards. Shawcross, in fact, is still sitting on the ground. He’s saying something to Steve Bennett, who is sort of bemused and apologetic at the same time. Something like “It’s the all-star game, Ryan” has come out of his mouth.

85 mins: It’s gone a bit stale again. Where’s Gary Cahill.

88 mins: Jermain Defoe, who has done next to nothing tonight, finally gets through on goal, and zigs when he should zag, and before he knows it, the gigantic Brian Jensen has slid in and taken the ball. Looked a bit like a jaguar stealing a canned ham from a kitten.

89 mins: There will be 5 minutes of added time. Not many injuries, mind you, just a dog…

90 mins: …and now a fan. Goodness me, what a shambles. He’s running away from all the stewards. Disgrace. The fan, not the stewards. Well, I mean, he shouldn’t have gotten past them in the first place, but now that he’s out there…oh sod it. No more press for him.

PEEP! PEEP! PEEEEP! Steve Bennett has probably sensibly blown his whistle for full-time after the fan’s capture. No sense in having this friendly get any more out of hand.

Well, that’s the all-star experience in the EPL, then. Nine goals of varying quality and “lolz” as the kids like to say. “I’ve been less entertained by the EPL before”, chirps in Chris from Doncaster. That’s a good shout.

That’s it for me. We’ll be back next May…my favorite part was either the dog or the RAF…no, it was certainly Man of the Match Gary Cahill, for making Harry Redknapp and Sralex laugh at the same time. That’s worth more than any goal.

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05 August 2009

Soccer Goal! A Friendly Introduction to Major League Soccer

Guest post time! Richard Whittall lives in Toronto, and when he's not stalking James Richardson or "sing[ing] like a girl for cash", he's writing the excellent blog A More Splendid Life. Here, he gives those of us on the wrong side of the Pond the lowdown on the soccer sensation that's soon to land on our shores and seduce our womenfolk with chocolate and nylons.


ESPN has recently announced it will be airing live Major League Soccer games in the UK and Ireland. In an effort to promote understanding between European and American soccer, MLS chairman Don Garber has appointed several goodwill ambassadors to introduce the complicated league rules and American soccer culture to British and Irish audiences. This is part one of a thirty-part series.

Hi, my name is Richard Whittall and I’m an official ambassador for Major League Soccer. Major League WHAT!? you ask? Don't worry, it’s not some sort of crazy nightmare, the kind that makes you wake up so drenched in sweat you worry you might have gone to the bathroom in your sleep. No, It’s Olde Europe soccer with an American twist, like a croissant with a hotdog in the center wrapped in a Twinkie and covered with grits, and it’s coming to the United Kingdom of the British Isles. But wait, you ask in all seriousness: just what the hell is MLS exactly? Well rather than tell you, how about I show you?


Woaahhh! Howdy partner, we’re in Dallas, Texas! I’d like you to meet my All-American soccerball kicking friend Kenny Cooper. Kenny plays for FC Dal—wait, hold on. Okay, I’m being told Kenny isn't here because he's just signed for a German club named TSV 1860 Munich. I don’t know much about them but I suspect Kenny joined the team because they were founded to commemorate the start of the American Civil War. Although they’re a year off. Must be the time difference. And TSV probably stands for telesoccervision. Germans love their telesoccervision.


Well…hmm, okay, maybe we can just relocate this thing to Seattle, get that Freddy Montero kid on. Wait, he's leaving MLS too? Seriously, this season? So what am I supposed to do here Frank? This should have been worked out weeks ago. Well, I don’t care, this job doesn’t pay anything anyway. And I am going to write off the white wine spritzers. Because I thought they were complimentary on every Southwest flight. Yeah, well screw you too.

Okay, so in America (and in America’s Hat), soccer is a game played between two teams of eleven dudes each, much like your own Royalist Foot of the Ball. Our fans are a lot like your fans, except you have scarves and concealed whiskey bottles, and we have baseball caps and children. And our league predictability is like your league predictability, except your big clubs finish in the top four while our big clubs lose to second division USL teams. So a lot of similarities there.

But it's our rich cultural differences that make the world a beautiful place. Like for example in the Premier League, you stop the advertising buck at shirt sponsorship. In America, we sponsor things like added time. It’s Four Minutes of Esquire Added Time at the end of the ninety bitches, and if you call the ref on his Mickey Mouse watch, chances are you’ll get a ESQ Oceania Two-tone Steel Black Men's Watch whipped in your face. Don’t worry though; he’s got twenty more where that came from.


Also, team names. Lots of English Subjects get their pants in a twist on the subject of names like the Seattle Sounders and the Pittsburgh Petunias. Well, we’re natural born poets over here. And for those cities that we couldn’t think up names for, Toronto, Dallas, Washington DC, well, they’re just too beautiful to sum up in an alliterative, shirt-friendly moniker.

And no, we don’t have lasers or dragons in MLS, so you can ignore all those rumours about the high rate of blindings and third degree burns among regular starters. And that’s all you need to know about MLS. Wait, twenty-nine more parts? No Frank, I don’t want to talk about the two-division league playoff system. Because I don’t understand it. What’s a league revenue sharing salary cap system? I can’t talk about DPs, this is a family-friendly show. Ohhh, Designated Players. Because I don’t know what that means Frank. Please, put the bat down. This is Dallas, no one’s going to call for help if you do this to me.

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08 July 2009

The opposition that makes Federer great

We're going guest-post crazy on SIATVS this week, if two guest posts count as "guest-post crazy". Today's author is Mark from Sport without Spin, with a piece on that tennis chap.


"When Federer becomes the boy with the racket of fire, creating the illusion of art, he also creates an additional illusion: that his opponent is not, in fact, opposing him. That his opponent is in fact co-operating with him: conspiring with Federer to create these patterns of angle and trajectory, of curves and straight lines […] it becomes a pas de deux choreographed by Federer, dancing with a man who is partner, stooge, straight man and butt: a partner who is cherished, ravished, made much of and humiliated before our eyes."

―Simon Barnes, July 2004

For much of Federer’s ascent to the upper echelons of tennis, Barnes’ words were indeed reflective of the illusion his elegant strokes created. The Federer narrative concerned nobody beyond Federer – how else could it be otherwise for a man who had dropped but three sets in his first seven Grand Slam finals? As he has climbed the increasingly steep slope to greatness, the illusion of Federer as mere artist has been dispelled, and the story of who he defeated has come to be as important as how.

Can a player truly be great if his opponents have no great achievements of their own? This, as Federer swept from one major triumph to the next as if floating on the breeze, was the only thing which dared to blot the legacy. The sport thrives on rivalries – on the Borgs and McEnroes, the Edbergs and Beckers, the Samprases and Agassis. One defines the other. If Federer kept winning without substantial challenge, might it perversely serve to tarnish his memory?


As it happened, a man from Spain emerged who simultaneously inflated the scale of Federer’s achievements and threatened to deprive him of the number of titles he might yet win. Though Rafael Nadal is his match on any surface, it was on the clay of Roland Garros where he stood proudest, most wall-like, in the way of Federer’s most coveted title, the French Open. In four years, Rafa would not be beaten here. And every year, there was a defeat for Federer along the way, denying him the statistical greatness he craved – the semi-final of 2005, then ever-more brutally in the three ensuing finals.

Last summer, Nadal yielded just four games against him en route to a straight sets win at Roland Garros, and therein the first suspicious seeds were sown that the rivalry had turned substantially in the Spaniard’s favour. Such suspicions were confirmed when Federer was beaten by Nadal at Wimbledon a month later for the first time in 42 matches and six years. Then came Federer’s tears in Australia at the start of 2009. As Federer wept in defeat, we wondered if we were watching a man fearing that the greatness that had long been presumed and credited, pending the record books catching up with his talent, might be denied. And in the process of these record-denying defeats, something of the greatness and self-assurance of the Swiss had been stifled. He was ranked the world’s number two, and with reason.

All the while, the sport’s best finally began to look like credible challengers to Federer. Novak Djokovic, tenacious, powerful and competitive, won his first Grand Slam and started to look comfortable competing with Federer and Nadal. Andy Murray followed. Federer’s window of opportunity seemed to rescind by the minute.


And then in one furious display from Robin Soderling in May, the obstacle to greatness was removed, the window reopened. Here was a Swede whose talent and good fortune had come together for the first time, and with a force he seemed to exercise without understanding its source, he blew Rafael Nadal off the court in Paris – off Nadal’s court in Paris. Could Federer have done the same that week? He did not need to – he merely needed to win seven tennis matches, and by the time he faced Soderling in the final, he was not against the man who beat Nadal, but rather one who had given everything to his best fortnight of tennis, and did not have anything in reserve to beat the second of the world’s best players.

If Roland Garros was the confirmation of Federer’s place in tennis history, Wimbledon was his coronation, the completion of a world tour of successes lasting six years and surpassing all others. His opponent in the final was Andy Roddick, the man who had been conquered in the 2003 Wimbledon semi-final, then again in successive finals. Roddick, younger than Federer, and winner of the 2003 US Open, had once been expected to be Federer’s great rival, a role he could not yet fulfil, a burden which consumed the tip of his talent, and left Nadal to fill the breach. He had been burned by the fire of Federer’s greatness, however, and was condemned to a career on the precipice of the biggest triumphs in tennis. He came into the final with a record of 2 victories to 18 defeats against the Swiss. But Roddick’s verve has been renewed this year, his will stronger, and Federer broke him only at the 39th attempt in the final. Roddick’s career has been defined by Federer, defined by a belief that he could not be the world’s best, and in this last glorious and cruel defeat, the only difference from previous disappointment was that Roddick had performed to such standards that he was able to help define Federer’s career.


There are an infinite number of narratives being written every moment, but it is only at occasional points that we can stop, reflect on them and measure their significance. Federer could retire today with a wealth of trophies and records, enough to assure his legacy, and a rival has emerged in Nadal whose achievements are so significant in their own right that they add legitimacy to Federer’s, as well as a supporting cast of Djokovic, Murray and Roddick who have extracted and tested Federer’s obstinacy, resilience and resourcefulness. But would Roger’s Wimbledon coronation have been possible without Soderling’s day of brilliance, without the result of a match which Federer did not even contest?

The initial feeling that not beating Nadal at the French Open somehow diminishes the significance of Federer’s victory here has now subsided. Poetically, it would resonate well – if you were scripting a screenplay it would be essential – but the 23 year-old plays a game which asks such a fearsome amount of his knees that he was unable to compete effectively after the clay court season and missed Wimbledon. Perhaps in itself that is a measure of the overdrive needed to compete with Federer, whose body copes far better with the game he plays. Besides, Nadal has proven often enough that for Federer to continue recording Grand Slam victories, he has had to find more in himself, transgress simple artistry and establish character. Amongst his opponents have been some sublimely skilled men, each trying to script their own story, each taking Federer to his limits. And despite those challenges, those questions, those serves and passes, Federer has found a way to achieve more than anyone in the history of his sport.

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04 July 2009

Maaadrid

Time for a guest post. Today's author is Elliott, head honcho at the excellent Futfanatico, with his thoughts on that great big footballer magnet in the centre of Spain.



Kaka. Cristiano Ronaldo. Benzema. Raul Albiol. The sums have been gi-normous. The names make the mouth water. Well, maybe not Albiol. Still, the mood at the Bernabeu for Kaka’s unveiling spoke wonders about the general feeling in Madrid – the joys and exuberance of childhood. But across the country, and the channel, a different mood reigned.


Just last summer, Sir Alex bullishly refused to sell his Portuguese plaything. So what happened? Bear Stearns collapsed. American owners at both United and Liverpool have struggled to re-finance their debts, or find interested sheiks, and Setanta went belly-up. In a tumultuous market, business considerations overcame sporting interests.


The reaction among United fans has been positive – few will miss the sullen and moody Ronaldo. His accomplishments have immediately been forgotten – 40 plus goals? That was so last year. Yet, despite making a handsome profit on the Portuguese investment, resentment lingers. Anger flashes in the eyes and words of columnists. Why?


United, the reigning champion of England, is not a selling club. The Red Devils poach talent from all over the world – they are not a two-bit pawnshop five miles from a military base. Calderon played a weak-bluff last summer, tossing a line and hoping Ronaldo would bite. He did not. Perez, on the other hand, cashed in all his chips, the keys to his car, and his rolex. He went all-in beyond United’s comprehension. And the Red Devils folded.


Florentino Perez knows the value of money to others but has little regard for it himself. He loves zeroes and signing checks, two troubling habits in times of depression. Still, the concerns about “Madrid accumulating debt” are disingenuous. These are the folded arms and grunts of the doctors at their child’s school auction – winning the prize until the banker showed up.


But how should you, the neutral, react? Should you wish a plague on the house of Perez? Too late. The last edition of the Galacticos played pitiful football – only the individual brilliance of Zidane and, later, Ronaldo brought home any trophies. And do not expect trophies to rain down from the heavens - egos will derail any sustained success.


I, as a Madrid fan, am self-medicating on Wimbledon to repress the cognitive dissonance. Last season, the current roster came within 6 points of Barcelona until a late slide. But now Perez has mortgaged the future for immediate returns. And if a phantom goal derails a return leg, then the heads will fly. Not the players of course, but I hope Pellegrini kept his return ticket open. And of course not Perez.
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21 May 2009

Forever Is Forgettable

Unlike previous guest contributors to Sport Is A TV Show, Brian Phillips is neither a superhero nor a dubiously-credentialled academic nor an absinthe-soaked absurdist. Or is he? Hmmm. Anyway, you probably know him as the man responsible for the wonderful Run of Play, and the following is all his.



"Everything's the worst."
— Liz Lemon

These magnificent palaces of justice, these incontestable equations, these airless vaults of truth. I'm tired of the league season, with its Wagnerian storylines and its glacial, accumulating march. I'm tired of being told that what happens in the fifth minute in October is as important as what happens in the ninety-sixth minute in May. I want a moment of lyric intensity, where the stakes are known and where the outcome is undeferrable. I don't just want a knockout game. I want a penalty shootout.



Of course, everyone hates a penalty shootout. Football purists look at a penalty shootout the way leered-at señoritas and barrel-dunked preachers look at a gang of Old West outlaws: as the kind of disruption they'd rather not see on Main Street. Penalty shootouts are unfair ("a lottery"), they emphasize the individual rather than the group (even Sepp Blatter dislikes them), and as a result, they're a terrible way to judge the footballing abilities of two football teams. (You could counter that judging the footballing abilities of two football teams is so difficult that football itself is often a bad way to do it, which is why penalty shootouts are necessary. But that's beside the point.)

To see the appeal of the penalty shootout, all you have to do is consider the last few weeks in league football, which, bless their scabbed souls, have given us essentially the opposite of a penalty shootout. We've seen teams in two major European leagues win titles on days when they weren't playing. We've seen a third team, Manchester United, win a title in the style of a progress bar indicating that a large file is inexorably being downloaded. We should have watched the Bundesliga, but we didn't.

The season has been thorough, fair, unsentimental, and accurate. Its coal-powered machinery was asked to identify the best team over nine months, and, screeching like an iron Brian Johnson and emitting frequent globes of steam, it's done so. The process worked. It's just that process was so grueling and eventually so anticlimactic that it's left me longing for the climactic anti-process of a penalty shootout.



A penalty shootout never calls to mind the slow tick of sand through the neck of a strangled hourglass. A penalty shootout works by the law of catharsis rather than by the rule of analytic scrutiny. In a penalty shootout, the players stand across from the goalkeeper, one by one, and try to force an ending. The stakes are immediate and clear. Where a league season is decided by divergent strands of effort and consequence that collectively add up to something in a way that's hard to grasp, in the moment of the penalty kick, everything is present at once. It involves guesswork. It's insanely dramatic. It may be arbitrary from a footballing standpoint, but as a human situation, it's riveting.



Now, I realize that if you were carried to a temple on a mountain and given the power to legislate all of football, you would have to side with justice, would have to love the league season in its massive impartiality. And most of the time, I do love it, or at least regard it with an appreciative terror. But at the moment, encased in prose, I care less about justice than about the prospect of escape. I like Paul Doyle's argument that when 120 minutes of team play have failed to produce a winner, it makes sense to break the teams down and test their component parts; but my feeling isn't anywhere near that sagacious. I just want a moment when the context and the act, the event and the meaning of the event, are simultaneously apparent.



Barcelona scored dozens of beautiful goals in La Liga this season, but apart from maybe Messi's penalty against Espanyol in September, the only moment they've given us with that kind of significance was Iniesta's equalizer at Stamford Bridge, and that came out of nowhere and produced a feeling that was more surprise than anything. In a few years, I'll remember that Man Utd won the Premier League this season, but ask me how they won it and all I'll have is a hazy sense of defensive consistency. Whereas penalty shootouts — Italy-Spain in Euro 2008; Chelsea-Man Utd last year, with Terry's slip and Ronaldo weeping in the mud — occupy a disproportionately large place among moments I look back to with awe.

So before the machinery resets, before the engineer goes back to the clockwork mountain and starts pounding out more periodic tables, let's have one moment where we believe that anything could happen. This isn't a plea for a draw in the Champions League final, though I guess in some sense it has to be. All I know is that I've spent two months learning a lesson, and I'm ready to feel like the top of my head has been physically taken off.
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17 April 2009

'Pataphysical Football: The potential banana skin

Ed.: I was recently talking to Prof. Avril Fish-Wink-Wink, Jerome Sapir-Whorf's fellow footballolinguist, and she put me in contact with an interesting chap called Anastasios Pépin, a 'pataphysicist. Said Avril: "This man could completely change the way we think about sport, if he can lay off the absinthe. Or maybe if he can stay on the absinthe, I'm not sure." She suggested that we could perhaps host one of his articles: "He's pissed off a lot of people and there aren't many places left for him to go. His voice needs to be heard."

Hmmm. You'll be the judge of that, I suppose. Here it is, anyway. And just so we're clear: this dude is, like, totally non-fictional, yeah?

*


With the FA Cup semi-finals but hours away, it would be instructive, I think, to consider the true nature of this fabled competition: the oldest competitive mass-walk-on-a-financial-district-pavement in history.

The FA Cup is a fine representation of the comedy and tragedy of the English class system. It began life as the main competition of an association founded for the benefit of ex-public schoolboys. But it soon became a vehicle for the symbolic subversion of the hierarchical structures of British society: first, as provincial working-class upstarts took over; then, as the professional game formally stratified into leagues and divisions. It is this feature of the tournament that defines it most strongly to this day; hark! the cries of that's what the Cup is all about when the second best team in League One scores early against the worst team in the Championship.

The metaphor of choice for the possibility of a team defeating a higher-ranking club in the FA Cup is the banana skin. The Cup can be considered as the efforts of a group of city gents — wearing bowler hats and carrying black umbrellas — to negotiate the distance between their final Tube stop and the large, faceless financial institution at which they work. However, the footpath along which they must travel becomes narrower and narrower as their journey progresses. Only one can finally reach the headquarters of Power and All Her Evil Accessories. The gents jostle for the ever-decreasing space on offer, and inevitably, some are nudged over the kerb and into oncoming traffic.

We take little pleasure from such an incidence because, even though one upper-class person has met his demise, said demise also represents the survival of the upper-class person who pushed him. Where the fulfillment, such as it is, lies is in the extra obstacles the poshos must dodge: the banana skins. These have been left on the pavement the previous night by merry class pranksters. When a gent encounters a banana skin, there are two possibilities: (a) the gent avoids stepping on it, by chance or by spotting it in time and stepping around it; or (b) the gent fails to spot it, or spots it too late, and treads on it, slips and falls.


In the event of (b) occurring, there is much rejoicing and hilarity to be had. The stiff, pompous snob who is trying to reach the house of oppression has been rendered buffoonish by his pratfall, and horrifically injured by both the fall and the subsequent trampling he receives. The banana skin is propelled forwards ahead of the throng, where it awaits the next potential victim.

In the meantime it is hailed as a heroic emblem, much like the carbon rod that saved the crew of the space shuttle in that episode of the Simpsons. However, the banana skin's very inanimatedness is the first component of its innate tragedy. Its function is simply to cause city gents to slip, and thus be propelled forwards. Without the gents to slip on them, they become no more than detritus to be swept up and binned by noon. This raises issues about the banana skin's sense of identity: It will only be given true meaning when it is trampled on by the upper classes, or it will be ignored and left to rot in a dump.

The second component of the banana skin's tragedy is that it will never succeed in reaching the financial institution and gaining control of a key societal apparatus. The chances of the peel being propelled forward diminish as the journey continues, as there are fewer and fewer gents on the pavement, thus providing them with an unobstructed view of any potential hazards ahead.

You can see how all this symbolises the working class anxiety about the barricades which separate them from true power and influence.


A very interesting thing has happened to the way we understand the FA Cup. Some time in the mid-to-late 'nineties, the metaphor of choice began to shift from banana skin to potential banana skin. This may appear to be a simple linguistic quirk, a mutation of a cliché. But language is never just language. The small club may be a banana skin, but equally, it may not be. The peel is no longer sitting there on the footpath — it is in a state of intermediate existence, between existence and non-existence. Much as Schrödinger's cat is both alive and dead until we observe it, the banana skin both exists and does not exist until the gent approaches it.

What we have here is an additional layer of potentiality. Two things now determine whether the skin gets trodden on: the very existence of the skin and the gent's ability to manoeuvre around it. Thus is the skin even further removed from the great prize at the end of the race, and more gents prevail than before. The connection between this and the growing chasm between the haves and have-nots in football need not be pointed out, I'm sure.

The recurring angst over the FA Cup's relevance is also tied into all of this. The potentialising of the banana skin's existence is both an anxiety dream and a mild guilt trip caused by the well-testified embourgeoisiement of Britain's working class. How the ongoing recession, and the de-embourgeoisiement of the working class, will affect the perception of the FA Cup is uncertain. The anger at those who control the nation's financial health and the desire to see them topple are greater than ever. Will the hanging of effigies of bankers be a substitute for the FA Cup or a spur for greater interest? We must wait for next season to see.

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01 April 2009

Guest Post: How language explains football


Happy cruellest month! We have a special guest post for you today from a good friend, Jerome Sapir-Whorf. Jerome is Professor of Patalinguistics at Trinity College, Dublin, and here gives a fascinating insight into his research of a rarely-studied part of football history.



Much exciting literature has been produced in recent years on the relationship between a nation's culture and its style of football. Writers such as Simon Kuper, David Winner and David Goldblatt have tried to determine whether factors such as art, politics and sociology can explain the differences in how soccer is played from country to country. While these works have enhanced the popular understanding of soccer, this is a sadly neglected field in academia. Furthermore, the impact of language on the game has hitherto been completely overlooked. Such a gap in knowledge has prompted Prof. Avril Fish-Wink-Wink of the École Normale Supérieure de Cachan, Paris and myself to examine the issue.

It is a fact that language shapes thought. Readers of George Orwell's fictional Nineteen Eighty-Four, for instance, will be familiar with Newspeak, by which the Party aimed to systematically reduce the vocabulary of English, eliminating words which corresponded with concepts deemed by them to be undesirable, thus making the imagining of those concepts impossible. Extending this, it seems logical that the language of a group of people could determine how they conceived of a game, such as soccer.

One obvious example is in the area of vocabulary. We are all familiar with the idea of the Eskimos having fifty different words for "snow". This preponderance of words for something for which English, say, has but a handful is a reflection of the importance of snow in Eskimo culture. Similarly, if you examine other languages, you see the effect this idea has on football. Italian has 33 words pertaining to cynicism, expressing such nuanced connotations as "the cynicism with which one regards the mandated speed limit" and "the cynicism which leads one to take a piece of fruit from a shopfront display without paying". German has 28 words for different types of efficiency. Most Romance languages have a higher than average number of terms for various kinds of simulation. Dutch has a truly incredible 84 words to do with selfishness. Whereas European Portuguese has a standard number of ways to describe beauty, Brazilian Portuguese has twelve times the average. It is clear, I trust, how this has influenced the style of play in these countries.

One of the most significant linguistic factors in determining style is in the matter of morphology. There is a clear causality between the German case system and the success of the West German national team and Bayern Munich in the 1970s. German is a heavily inflected language, with nouns, pronouns and adjectives inflecting for case. Whereas English has lost most of its inflection, meaning that word order bears much meaning in a sentence, German word order is freer as a result of each word's function being made clear by how it is declined. This mindset paved the way for the development of Germany's form of "Total Football", in which Franz Beckenbauer's role as an attacking sweeper - subverting the normal order of things - played an essential role. It is inconceivable that a Franz Beckenbauer could have emerged from a culture which was not supported by a heavily inflected language.

The prime exemplars of "Total Football" were, of course, the Dutch. While much of the inflection in Dutch has been lost over the centuries, some is retained in a range of idiomatic expressions. Thus a sort of folk memory has been retained of the old case system, much as a homeopathic medicine will retain a "memory" of the substance which has been diluted many times over in order to create it. The freedom offered by an extensive case system had an obvious relation to the fluid position-switching of Ajax and Holland in the 1970s.

Latin's case system also devolved into a reliance on word order in the Romance languages. While the consequent rigidity of word order in the Romance languages may seem incompatible with the beautiful flowing football of the Latin countries, this is not so. This rigidity is offset by the mellifluous sonics of the languages, with their monophthong-centricism and heavy use of elision to aid the smoothness of speech. In Brazilian Portuguese, the nasalisation of vowels and the softening of word-final /d/ and /t/ indicate a playful, even daring character, with obvious consequences on their football.


English is full of telltale signs as to what effected the peculiarly English approach to football. Old English morphology was highly inflectional. This system gradually broke down into the word order dependent system we know today. This was uncannily mirrored in the development of soccer. The chaotic, free-for-all mob football games (flexible word order) became more organised, with positions becoming important, but still relatively loose (case system breaking down, word order beginning to set) until the 2-3-5 system became the all-conquering default, with players' roles strictly determined by their position (position of a word in a sentence denotes its function in the sentence). Small wonder that England were baffled by Hungary's withdrawn centre-forward in 1953; Hungarian's more creative sentence structure allowed the Magyars to view the game more laterally than the English could, with the latter's more constrained linguistic approach leaving them woefully unprepared.

The issue of rhoticity has gone criminally under-acknowledged in the history of football. The accent of most English people is non-rhotic; that is, word-final /r/ disappears, "colouring" the preceding vowel. Scottish accents, however, are rhotic, giving full value to /r/. The English propensity for short-cuts unsurprisingly led to the dominant "kick-and-rush", long-ball style of football. The Scots, however, were naturally given to exploring possibilities to their fullest extent, which led to their invention of the passing game. It's obvious why the latter style took hold in Latin countries and Eastern Europe -- places with rhotic langauges.

Rhoticity also plays a part in explaining the radical developments which occurred in football in rural Somerset, a part of England where a rhotic accent dominates. Here, simultaneously with and independently from Scotland, a passing game developed, only to be swamped by the long-ball game of surrounding areas. That so little is known of this today is due to the scandalous refusal of the metropolitan elites to acknowledge it. (That's an issue for another day!)

One of the most fascinating developments in footballolinguistics is happening right now. It doesn't take a linguist to notice that the English language has been in decline for quite some time. Corrupt governments, inadequate educational systems, stupid young people and illiterate greengrocer's have turned English into gibberish. The misuse of apostrophes, the neglect of whom and the cherished subjunctive mood and the degenerate barbarisms of text messaging, chatroom conversations and Americanisms have dealt an almost fatal blow to this most noble of tongues. Such was the depth of the outrage generated by this horrific spectacle that the long overdue backlash eventually began. Lynne Truss heroically stepped into the breach with her marvellous 2003 book Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, which alerted the world to the butchery of English and fuelled people with the righteous anger of the personally scorned. Finally, the grave, grave problem was recognised, and the brave warriors self-appointed to protect our very decency gained their due legitimacy.

Similarly, English football has fallen sharply in the years since she ruled the world in 1966. Just like it took a Truss to stem the decline of the language, now England have Fabio Capello to rescue the national team and banish the memories of past failure and the general degradation of the English game. It is clear that Truss' work has had a ripple effect throughout English society, including in football. Will Capello rescue English football? Well, we don't yet know whether Truss has saved the English language, so it remains to be seen. One thing is for sure: in football, as in everything, you are what you speak.

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15 September 2008

The superheroes' superhero

Time for a Sport Is A TV Show first - a guest post. Superman - yep, that Superman - takes time from his busy schedule to reveal the inspiration behind his glittering career as a superheroing do-gooder-about-town.



Hey, Supe here. You no doubt know me as the Man of Steel, using his superpowers to rescue chihuahuas trapped in abandoned industrial buildings and foil evil plots designed to kill many innocent people and that sort of thing. What you may not know about me is that in my spare time, while I'm not single-handedly maintaining the delicate balance between Good and Evil on Planet Earth or generally using my special abilities in an array of non-perverted ways, I love to watch soccer - something which the chroniclers of my story have failed to pick up on.

Not many people in Metropolis are really into it, and anyway, it would be difficult for me to 'come out' as a soccer fan at this juncture - it would kind of ring false with this whole Clark Kent image I've had to portray for so long. I was an ace quarterback in high school, and I used to go around with that stupid jacket with the letter on it all the time back then. There were college scouts swarming all over me back then, but I actually hated football; soccer was my true love. I don't know why I kept up the pretense; I guess it would have been seen as kind of weird to admit to loving soccer in the rural Midwest back then. Whatever, it's too late to change my persona now.

I have so many issues I would like to discuss about the 'Beautiful Game', such as the MLS' single entity structure, the forthcoming purchase of Tottenham by Lex Luthor and the time that lovable scamp Stephen Ireland asked for a pair of my underpants in the mail. But I'd like to take this opportunity to get a couple of things off my extraordinarily sculpted chest. In order to do this yet maintain a degree of secrecy and keep this whole soccer-loving thing quiet, I wanted a sports blog with as pitifully low a hit-rate as I could find. So here I am.

First of all: Shay Given is the best goalkeeper in the Premier League. There's no disputing this. To be honest, it's been a bit embarrassing to see so many relative no-marks being elevated to this status in recent years. I mean, COME ON!: Cudicini, Friedel, Niemi, Robinson...Then Petr "Peter" Cech comes along and everyone decides that he must the greatest, because JOSÉ SAYS SO. Listen, you could have put a scarecrow in a scrum cap behind that Chelsea defense between 2004 and 2006 and they would still only have conceded the odd goal every twenty games or so. It makes me sick the way he has to do nothing for an hour, then when a shot somehow finds its way on target and he tips it over the bar, the commentator gushes: "What a save! That's why he's the best goalkeeper in the world!" And when he makes a mistake it's treated as some huge shock, even though he does it all the goddamn time these days.


Shay Given, meanwhile, has been stood behind various attempts at a back line at Newcastle for over a decade. He actually has to do things like MAKE SAVES and CATCH CROSSES, constantly for ninety minutes. What's more, he does it, and without the aid of being so freakishly tall. What's more than more, he's had to contend with playing at a club with a seemingly institutionalized aversion to defensive organisation. And he's being doing it consistently, even finding the time to recover from almost literally being gutted. Even I would have had trouble trying to do that. That's not true, actually.

Oh, hold on: there's another frickin' hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico for me to divert. I'll be a couple of minutes. Acquaint yourselves with genius:






Okay, I'm back. So we've established something: Shay Given is fabulous. But what I really wanted to talk about is something far more shocking - something very personal, and the main reason why I chose this darkest and dottiest of virtual corners for this piece. It is a revelation so unbelievable that you'll probably have a hard time believing it, for all sorts of reasons. Here goes:

My whole life is an effort to emulate Shay Given.

Now, I quite literally know what you're thinking: "This is highly improbable and, on the briefest of investigations, a chronological impossibility - in fact, I'm beginning to doubt whether you are the real S-Man at all." Just hear me out. It's the least you could do, considering that you would all be speaking Apokolipsian if it wasn't for me.

Part of my superhuman powers is the ability to see into the future in my dreams. (For example, I can exclusively reveal that Liverpool will never win the league again, and that the biggest Broadway show of 2017 will be a musical revival of the oeuvre of Captain Beefheart called Attack of the Trout Mask Replicants.) In one such instance, I dreamt of something called a 'goalkeeper' in something called 'soccer', with a name beginning with 'S', flying through air saving something or other. (For reasons I didn't understand at the time, the dream was set in Nicosia, Cyprus.)

I didn't quite grasp my extraordinary capabilities at that age; I figured I was was just prone to some pretty funky nocturnal brain activity. In any case, I became obsessed with this mysterious figure. It touched me deeply how he used his incredible physical attributes to ward off what I assumed was a metaphorical representation of the bombardment of the world by the forces of Evil.


I took to insisting that everyone call me 'Shay', which really confused people and even led Mom and Dad to take me to a shrink (don't tell me - that's not in the comics either?). When I became a superhero, I got my Mom to put a big 'S' on the front of my costume. She thought a thunderbolt or a nice kitten would be better, but I stuck to my magnificent guns. Actually, my costume inadvertently led to the adoption of my nom de superhéro. In one of my first acts of selfless charity, I rescued a woman from a burning barn in the middle of Wyoming. As I flew her to safety, she asked me what the 'S' on my chest stood for. I couldn't exactly tell her it was a tribute to a soccer player who hadn't been born yet, so I had to think quickly: "It stands for...uh...Super...uh...Superman?" She thought it was a great name, so I stuck with it. Bottom line: if it wasn't for Shay Given, I wouldn't be a superhero, and you would probably be dead.

It's been a real pleasure to have lived long enough, through the exposures to Kryptonite and the bipolar episodes, to see this vision fulfilled. The inside of the Fortress of Solitude is covered with Shay Given posters, and I even made a life-sized bobblehead figure of the great man. I hope to be able to pluck up the courage to meet him some day. He is a symbol of security in a fraught universe. I just long for him to wrap me up in those big arms and whisper to me in that soft Donegal accent: "There there, Supe, everything's going to be alright. Everything's going to be aaaaalright..."

God, I'm so lonely. Oh Krypton, why did you have to die? WHYYYYY?

Anyway, my Supey-sense is tingling again. That's right - Supey-sense. That arachnid bastard stole my catchy little phrase. If you hear differently, don't believe it. Oh yeah - I called up Ol' Fly-breath before I started on this and asked him who his favorite keeper was: "Uh, does that Zenga guy still play?" Idiot.

So, I'm off. Stay safe, yadda yadda.

Yours,
The Supe.

Flickr photos (1, 2, 3, 4) by Dunechaser, grewlike, österreich_ungern, A.Currell.

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