Zlat and Leo

Why didn't it work out for Zlatan Ibrahimovic at Barcelona? He is apparently a player that could shine at any club in the world, so how come the best club in the world didn't accommodate him? The simple truth is an answer best announced by a Spanish commentator: Messii!! Gol! Gol! Gol! Gol! Gol! Gol!

Look up any superlative in the dictionary, type it into a thesaurus, and I guarantee that every word that is synonymous will have been used to describe Lionel Messi. Not just that, the word will have been overused on him, to the point where any appraisal becomes clichéd when talking about the Argentinian. My personal favourite is 'insane', because to me, a man who's technical ability ranges from Lee Bowyer to Peter Enckelman, that kind of intelligence, technicality, and sheer impossibility must class as a mental disorder. It is near superhuman, and I bet that superguy and spiderboy would bow down to his abilities.

Zlatan Ibrahimovic was overwhelmingly aware of one thing during his time at Barcelona; He was not the best player on the pitch. Bear in mind where Zlatan has come from. He played for Malmo in Sweden, Ajax, Juventus (just before the Calciopoli scandal) and Inter Milan, all of whom are giants in their home countries, but all teams where a player with Ibrahimovic's flamboyancy and craft would be a stand-alone talent. Not to mention that he plays for a country where few player's of Ibra's quality originate from, and who certainly won't have any sort of tournament success for the next ten years. Suddenly, having chosen samfaina over spaghetti for a deal which completely benefited Inter, he was on a team-sheet with the best players around. An ego like Zlat's couldn't take that. His arrogance and complacency was his undoing at Barcelona, and a fault which has seen him go from samfaina back to spaghetti in Milan, and then to coq au vin with PSG, and mainly as a marketing strategy by both.

It was a mistake that hurt Barcelona more than anyone. Forty million euros plus an arguably better striker in Samuel Eto'o was a huge price to pay, even for a player who would turn out to be a success. But for a flop, Zlatan was big'un, and a gentle reminder that Barcelona should stick to producing their own talent than paying over-the-odds for an 'outsider'. La Masia is your treasure chest Barcelona. Spend wisely.

From way up here in Row Z, thanks for reading.

The Art of Fanfare

The Fan is not a difficult creature to find in the wild, if you know where to look. They gather on a weekly basis, in herds of many thousand, depending on the species, on cold, barren stone which flanks large grassy areas. Though the Fan comes to these areas in order to get away from the monotony of day-to-day life, these occasion can often turn to verbal barrages, to determine the better species. It is not clear whether these duels are carried out to attract a mate, or simply the result of heavy intoxication, but one thing is for sure; the life of a Fan can be an arduous ordeal at times.

I struggle with loyalty. Growing up, I found it difficult to affiliate myself with one particular club for the long haul, and went through stages of supporting teams, some for a few years, some for around a week. I have a friend, a Liverpool supporter, who will not listen to anyone who cannot sing 'You'll Never Walk Alone' from its first syllable through to it's last. I could never be that biased, and as a Sports Journalist, I hope it serves me well.

I'll admit, in my youth I was something of a glory hunter in terms of the teams I supported. First there was Liverpool, then Manchester United, then for a short time, Real Madrid. I often went to see Colchester United play at the old Layer Road ground, but I never struck up a connection in the same way that I had with teams I would probably never see grace the field in person. More recently, I had an affinity towards Arsenal, before turning my back on glory for good to avidly support nearby Ipswich Town... For about a year. Nowadays, I live a nomadic life, not pledging my allegiances to any one team, more enjoying the beauty of the game, the technicalities of its participants, and the excitement of any given Saturday. Although secretly, I'm a bit of a Barcelona fan.

Oh, I can't help it. For me, supporting a team is boring. I won't deny that when a team is winning, they become more attractive to me, but its more than that. It is the way the game is played. I only became interested in Barca after Pep Guardiola transformed them into the passing powerhouse that they are today. Arsenal were, and still are to a lesser extent, the best passing team in England when I glued my eyes to the TV screen to watch them play. Real Madrid had Zidane, Figo, Ronaldo, Roberto Carlos, Guti and for some strange reason, Steve McManaman when they caught my eye. Every team that I concluded would be my new club had a certain X Factor, a je ne sais quoi if you will. But now, I roam the world detached. I pledge my allegiance to football, not a football club.

From way up here in Row Z, thanks for reading

JT's G2G

John Terry is a player I have never truly respected.

It's true, he is a commanding presence on the pitch for both club and country, and is one of the best centre-backs England have ever produced. However, a string, or perhaps a rope may be a more appropriate choice of words, of incidents off and on the field have signalled his demise, culminating in his recent decision to retire from international football.

For me, the decision is an act of cowardice. John Terry knows better than anyone that his remarks towards Anton Ferdinand last season were racist to an extreme that even Luis Suarez appears angelic next to him. He also knows that whilst he survived the personal law-suit, he was never going to escape the FA's sniper rifle. Deciding to regretfully renounce his English availability on the eve of the FA's sanction is tantamount to running away on the eve of battle, an act which many have been executed for in past wars, I hasten to add. I bet Terry would be even more regretful if he was blindfolded and made to face the guns, and the FA must still impose some sort of punishment, perhaps even more severe given that Terry has turned away from his country and blamed the footballing powers that be, in the hope that he can receive some sort of sympathy.

Terry has one person to blame; himself. Here's a thought John, maybe concentrate on the football next time rather than the right/wrong words to say to those who share the pitch with you. If you had done that before, this blog entry would have focused on your immense defensive capabilities instead of World War 1 desertion.

From way up here in Row Z, thanks for reading.

Leave the poor guy alone...

So I'm watching the Italians versus the Spanish in the opening match of Group C at Euro 2012. It's 1-1 with the reigning European and World Champions having just equalized, before Fernando Torres is brought on. After that, I feel suffocated. Not by Torres' clear loss of heart with every failed attempt at a pass, or his loss of hope with every shot that narrowly misses me up here in Row Z. It is by the blatant patronising manner in which everything to do with Fernando Torres is voiced by the commentators. Let's face it, Torres' lack of goals, confidence and mental well-being is no longer a surprise. In fact, its a shock when he scores. It's a shock when he puts a defender on his backside, whilst in my mind I'm always trying to send him a message through wincing eyes: Pass it Torres, before you trip over your self-esteem. He has almost become the loveable screw-up best friend of the main characters that have graced the screens far too many times, with every touch of a football greeted with the inevitable shielding of eyes for fear of oblivion.
However, in this match, the commentators overdid it. Even at the end of the match, when the ever-entertaining Adrian Chiles bubbled up his post-match summary before the dreaded ITV ad-break, his words made my heart sink:

'What is wrong with Fernando Torres?'

That is what is wrong. Torres was on the pitch for 15 minutes at most, hardly enough time to fully get into the swing of things, and had two chances, both of which admittedly could have been tucked away with ease if the likes of Llorente or Soldado were in his position, but both of which left him with quite a bit to do. The first, a through ball which he took in his stride only to find that Gianluigi Buffon was hurtling out and about to send him about ten foot in the air. But Fernando the Brave took him on, with the heart and courage of a lion, ready to slot home the goal that would give his country a priceless opening win. Granted, he failed to do all of the above, and instead made a feeble attempt to circumnavigate the most expensive 'keeper in the world, who, for £32 million, you would expect to get a stopper with at least some foot-eye co-ordination. Did Torres shy away from his next opportunity? No. Finding himself on the edge of the box, with a defender 5 yards either side of him, and an over-committed Buffon almost in the center-circle, Torres sized up his options. He went for the chip. Remember, this is a man who lacks confidence apparently. It was a difficult opportunity, which once again he was unable to capitalize upon, but he is a man showing more intent and desire than the nomad who was chasing his tail at Chelsea some time ago.

I realise that I could have got to my point a lot sooner, but hey, there are too many hours in the day to be precise and too the point.

From way up here in Row Z, thanks for reading.

Twenty Q

An extraordinary end to an extraordinary season. Whilst I personally had my heart set against Manchester City winning the title (I'm a big believer of success through hard work and self-improvement rather than... an Arabian's pocket money), it has to be said that they deserve it after today's efforts.
And let's all give a fleeting, half-hearted wave to Bolton, Blackburn and Wolves. Easily the three worst teams in the Premier League this year, with the possible exception of Aston Villa, I for one will not miss them in the slightest.

Time to reflect, re-group and restart, as well as renew, readjust and reconsider. I could go on all night. It's a summer to look forward to with the Euro's, the long, lingering promise of big-name signings, and the delight, oh the sweet delight that every new Premiership season brings.

So what is Twenty Q? No, I'm not on about the children's game involving a red electronic ball that can apparently read your mind, this is much more fun. Essentially, I'll pose a question for every Premiership team, and as you know, there are... 20 teams in the Premiership. Told you it was much more fun.

England Expects (46 years and counting)

England Expects

So here we are... again.

Another summer of build-up, build-up and more build-up, with vastly over-the-top expectations thrown in, and for what? For the inevitable disappointment that has become synonymous with the England Football team. We all know the story so well, we've experienced it so many times and we've come to learn that expecting more from our 'great footballing nation' is just needless fretting and finger-nail biting that helps no-one. I used to find fishing the England flag out from behind several large and cobweb-clad boxes in the loft and hanging it from window frame to window frame a momentous occasion, as though I was helping the cause. But when the obvious happened and we crashed out of whatever tournament we were participating in, the flag would be left, drooping slightly in the middle, symbolic of England's woeful performance. Why would I leave it hanging in the window I hear you ask? Well, curtains are expensive nowadays (I'm guessing here, I have no idea if there has been a sharp incline in curtain retail prices), so why pay when an England flag does a slap-dash job of blocking the sun from my eyes in the morning? It's simple thinking, but it's effective thinking. 

Before you start thinking that this entry is all stating the obvious about English national football, I am merely leading on to better things. In Burton on Trent, things are happening. There is a new excitement in the air for all those who don the English war-paint at every international tournament. As you read it's name, try to imagine an angelic chorus and a cacophony of noise, as the sun peaks over the distant hills to reveal a new dawn, a new day, a new excitement. Here it is.

St. George's Park

Firstly, notice the amazing graphics on the car at 1:31. Whilst the movement of the people could be improved vastly (For one, why do the sportsmen who run onto the indoor pitch at 2:52 just run to the other side of the hall?), the video itself instilled a belief in English football within me, something that has been hard to come by with the likes of Capello, Eriksson and McLaren in the fray. I don't really need to say anything more about the video, only that in my view, English football will significantly improve. 
But for this summer at least, we will have to be patient, and hold back our anger and tears, with the promise that things are changing.


From way up here in Row Z, thanks for reading.

Mancs Monday

Mancs Monday

In local news... Well, reasonably local, I know a guy from Manchester. Next Monday, usually the symbol of gloom for us working types who forget that it's just a day like any other, will provide excitement and exhilaration as much as a new single from Rihanna or whoever is poisoning the music charts at the moment. Its the Manchester derby, and not just any derby. Its the derby to rule them all, the chosen derby, the one derby. They can take our lives, but they can never take our derby! Okay, that one went too far in terms of movie quotes, but I think it served to elevate the magnitude of Monday's game. Manchester City face Manchester United, who are three points ahead at the top of the league, at City's Etihad stadium. With just three games to go for both sides, the victor of this gargantuan clash will be in the driving seat for the remainder of the season. But you know all this...

There is vast indecision amongst my University mates about which way this tie will go. The Manchester based guy that I mentioned earlier is a strong Christian, and so believes that the Red Devils of United will succumb to defeat against the angelic Blues of Manchester City. That isn't true, he is just a City fan. Another believes that United's will have a ferocious blood lust after City's 6-2 hammering at Old Trafford earlier this season, and that the score could be somewhere in that region. That may be slightly sensationalist, but I am in a pragmatic mood. I can also see the future, and my crystal ball says that the score will be 3-2 to United. Prove that I'm wrong. Well, we'll see who can't tell the future on Monday.
Although I just had an argument with an imaginary reader, I want to think about this game logically. Manchester United's strength is that they have been there, done that and have a wardrobe full of the t-shirts. I'm sure Alex Ferguson has sold you one at one of his legendary boot sales. But whilst they have the undeniable experience, their squad is still a problem. I'm not going to talk about the same old central midfield position because I think Paul Scholes has rolled back the years recently. I'm not going to mention the goalkeeper, because despite early season critics, David De Gea has become the brick wall every team needs between the sticks. However, his defence may as well be the dynamite which brings down that barracade. In short, Rafael is promising but has more lapses in concentration than a twelve year old in maths class, Ferdinand would be more mobile with a zimmer-frame, and Evra is often in the opposition's penalty box when danger occurs. All three were displayed against Everton at the weekend, hence why 4 goals were conceded. Against City, I can see a struggle for the defence.
City, on the other hand, have too many ticking time-bombs in their squad. Whilst this is more of a long-term issue as Balotelli won't play for the rest of the season, and the Tevez saga has come to a conclusion, the squad never seems to be completely at ease or at peace with each other. But they do have six key players, who, if selected for the match, will be too much for United: Joe Hart, Yaya Toure, Vincent Kompany, Carlos Tevez, Sergio Aguero and David Silva. It's the rest of the team that could let them down. I've never been impressed with Pablo Zabaleta, Nigel De Jong is essentially Mike Tyson with football boots on, and Gareth Barry represents the best of British, which is, in all honesty, rather unfortunate for us here in Albion.

Now I know what the score will be because I'm psychic and all that (I would display an squiggly-mouthed face, but I can't bring myself to insert an emoticon). 3-2 United and the title will stay with the red half of Manchester.

Sorry for such a long post. I will try and condense them down in future.

From way up here in Row Z, thanks for reading.