Man and Ball Issue One

MAN AND BALLLet Sleeping Gods Lie

ISSUE ONE - JULY 2011

Waking Up Is Hard To Do >

And Down Will Come Wire, Tower And Wall >

Verily, Verily, Life Is But A Dream >

KLM Flies From The Old Gum Tree >

Smoke Two Johns In The Afternoon >

Devil In Disguise >

Swear She’d Be A Better Man >

Follow The Bouncing Ball >

Nancy, With His Laughing Face >

Let The Game Pour Down From Gods Above >

< The Chairman Diaries

David Hartrick with some deep, dark fiction

< No Club Left Behind

Jonathan Lines on Germany since reunification

< Left Turn At Albuquerque

Tomasz Mortimer presents a ‘what if?’ story

< Rudolf Jozef Krol

Mohamed Moallim remembers a forgotten great

< When The Drugs Don’t Work >

Stefan Bienkowski tell us a real life gangster story

< Size Matters

Martin Palazzotto examines a worrying trend

< FIFA And The World

Samuel Garuda scrutinises Sepp Blatter and co.

< Arsenal’s African Attraction

Gary Al-Smith on the Gunners

< On The Pleasure Of Hating Jack Wilshere

Andrew Thomas with a lesson in hate-loving

< Englishman’s Guide To The Copa America

Emelie Okeke previews Argentina’s party

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< CONTRIBUTORS CONTACT >

Nigel came half awake and felt un-

comfortably stiff. He tried to roll

over but couldn't manage. Groaning,

he attempted to stretch the kinks out.

It felt like he'd overslept. He could-

n't seem to do more than wiggle his

toes a bit. Something was definitely

wrong. When he tried opening his

eyes, everything was still dark.

Where in bleedin' hell was he?

He tried to remember what he'd been

doing last night. Strangely, he

couldn't get a single recollection in

his head. He couldn't even recall

which was last night. Or yesterday.

Or the day before. Frowning, he cast

his mind further back, trying to grab

a memory, any memory at all.

Something niggled at the back of his

mind. It wasn't a thought, though.

Light! It was a bloody worm! He

Waking Up Is Hard To Do

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was buried alive!

Thoughts became panic and panic

frenzied action. He clawed at the

soil around him and thrashed his feet

madly. After a couple of nervous

moments a hand broke through to

the surface. Thank the Lord and

Lady that he was only a few feet

down. He hadn't been dead, then.

He'd have been buried deeper for

that.

Relieved, he scrabbled his way

through the top layer of soil and turf

and tried to stand. It took some ef-

fort. Joints creaked and back discs

popped but finally he was upright. A

couple of stretches and and his limbs

began to remember their assigned

tasks. He blinked at the bright morn-

ing sun and felt gladdened to feel the

cool English breeze on his face. The

sun ducked behind a cloud and, as

his eyes adjusted, he tried to compre-

hend the massive edifice which rose

just a few yards in front of him.

It was a low wall with a railing,

guarding the front of a cascade of

brightly coloured chairs. There were

row upon row of them, climbing

steeply as they receded, divided into

even sections by a series of smooth

stairs. Amazing workmanship and

materials. He'd never seen the like.

He noticed that they seemed to be

painted, red, white, and black, form-

ing a sort of giant banner. He tried

to make out the strangely shaped let-

ters: S - T - R - E - T ...

Something niggled at the back of his

mind again and his hand half-raised

before he realised it wasn't a worm

this time, but the beginnings of a

memory. Still feeling tender in his

bones, he gingerly turned around to

get a better look at his surroundings.

The wall of chairs encompassed him

in all directions, although he was

standing at one end – his mind tick-

led him again – and the opposite wall

was over a hundred yards off. Di-

rectly in front of him was a large

goal and, on the other side of it, a

bunch of young men were kicking

around a ball on some very neatly

mowed sod, while one old codger

barked out orders.

Memories came flooding back. The

Game! The Ball!

Ages ago, he had become restless in

the ether. All the heroes and dragons


WAKING UP IS HARD TO DO


had been slain and humans were be-

coming organised. Perish the

thought! Organisation was boring.

It'd be the death of all the gods. His

nostalgia drifted to fond remem-

brances of kicking the Sheriff of

Nottingham's head from one end of

Albion to the other, after that Robin

fellow had dispatched him. Inspired,

he had conjured up a ball of air cov-

ered in stretched leather to re-live the

experience. Skulls never bounce

true and they could damage your

toes if you weren't careful.

It had been quite fun for a while but

kicking a ball on your own can get

dreary. He tried to interest some of

the neighbouring gods in coming out

but they were all busy with their own

projects. Old Hamish in the High-

lands was trying to hit pebbles into

rabbit holes with a stick, Cwm was

still sore at him for having stolen all

his vowels and Padraig, over in Eyre,

was all consumed in trying to perfect

some new potion he called whiskey.

He could have crossed the Channel

but that group of Euro-trash were all

pussy-farts on whom he wouldn't

waste the time of day.

So, he decided to head down to the

firmament and give the game to

Man. Man and Ball. He'd liked the

sound of that.

Only it took the buggers a century or

two to get their heads together and

decide on the rules - although, if he

had to be honest, that was as much

his own fault. He hadn't been ex-

actly firm on codes and regulations

when he'd invaded Man's dreams.

Musing wasn't his strong suit, nor

governing. He could never make up

his mind whether it was more fun

kicking the ball about or picking it

up and trying to bowl everyone over

while carrying it tucked under one

arm.

Finally, the idiot humans had got

their heads together and come up

with not one, but two sets of rules:

one for kicking and one for carrying.

Compromise wasn't one of his tal-

ents either, but he had to admit that

this one wasn't too bad. Once the

mortals had things going, he decided

to take on corporeal form and head

down to Earth for a kick-about.

Kicking appealed to him more than

what Man was calling rugby now.

He was a bit out of shape from a




half-millenium of inaction and all

that jostling looked a bit dangerous.

Besides, Man had changed the rugby

ball, giving it two pointy ends for

some unfathomable reason. That

was suspect, that was.

He didn't like change. It crept up on

you like a mouse and was full of

nasty surprises. Status quo was

much more comfortable.

He took in the young lads playing in

front of him now. This felt like the

same place he'd come to play but

everything had – there was that word

again – changed. Outside the edifice

he could sense great amounts of peo-

ple. The place was just teeming with

them! That didn’t seem right. How

long had he slept? This bunch was

dressed in red and white with black

short pants, the same colours as the

chairs. The long bank of stands to

his right was painted 'Manchester

United'.

He began to remember now. It was

that fellow everyone was calling

‘Moneybags’ – what was his real

name? John something... yes, John

Henry Davies! He had taken over a

bankrupt railroad club named New-

ton Heath and was dreaming big

things for it. Just the type of man

Nigel liked, that. Was buying up the

best players and had plans for a spec-

tacular ground to attract paying fans.

Not afraid to take a risk, this one, or

to stare down those who found fault

with him for achieving more than

they had.

So, once Nigel had decided to get in

a game, this United lot had seemed

the best bet. The ground was going

to go up in an abandoned area out-

side of the city proper, one with a

strange name... blast! What was it

now? He looked at the façade above

the long stand and there it was! Old

Trafford! This was the place, then.

Apparently, Manchester had grown,

much like London Town had been

doing, and sucked in everything

around it. Manchester United had

been fortunate, then, to have their

dreamer, giving a dying club the

chance to grow along with the

nearby city. Men like John Henry

wouldn’t just pop up whenever a

club needed them, would they now?

Yet, his dream had seemingly out-

stripped even the dreamer’s




grandiose plans. Even here in the

ground, Nigel could feel all the peo-

ple pressing in on him. It was almost

as if they were pushing into his

mind. There were so many! Man

called that Progress. Nigel called it

overcrowded.

Grumbling to himself, he began to

watch the game to ease his mind.

These lads weren't too bad. They

moved the ball around as slick as a

cat dunked in a barrel and they

weren't afraid to get their feet in and

break things up either.

Nigel recognised the brogue coming

from the old codger. So, some of

Hamish's lads had taken the Game

up while he was napping, then, had

they? That would surely make it in-

teresting. They were a rough and

tumble lot. Always good to get a

few kilties involved when his lads

got too 'organised'. Hamish's boys

always lit a fire under his crew!

Suddenly, the old Scot glanced in his

direction. Nigel quickly willed him-

self invisible but the fellow still

headed straight for him, jabbing his

finger and mouthing something in-

audible. Steam whistled out of his

ears, and his nose and cheeks were

as red as a horseshoe just out of a

smithy fire. Still not sure of himself,

Nigel backed up a few steps as the

fellow approached. Oblivious to

him, the white-haired old man

stopped where Nigel had surfaced

and pointed at the torn up turf. He

was screaming now, waving his arms

about like a man possessed. Nigel

couldn't make out a word of the

thickly accented rant but it sounded

just like Hamish when he had a wee

bee in his bonnet. That brought a

smile – after all, it had usually been

Nigel who had put the little buzzer

in there.

All the lads in red were shrugging

their shoulders, shuffling their feet

and doing their best to avoid looking

at the hole, while making sure to

keep a healthy distance from the old

gaffer. Smart group, there. Or well

experienced.

The elderly bloke's tirade subsided

to a dull rumbling, as he plucked a

shiny piece of metal from his pocket,

poked it a few times and began

yelling into it. There was a sudden

buzzing in Nigel's ears. It was irri-

tating, but he could somehow better






understand what the man was saying

and what some poor fellow stuck in

the tiny metal box was answering

back. Then the old man slammed

the metal box shut and Nigel winced

for the poor bloke inside. That had

to have hurt, did that. The buzzing

had ceased, however.

The codger stood there for a few

minutes, tapping his foot impatiently

while rotating his glare between the

hole, the other end of the pitch and

the heavens, all the while cursing up

a storm under his breath. Another

fellow, all in grey, emerged from an

opening in the seats down the far end

of the turf. He hurried over to exam-

ine the hole in the ground and began

having a conniption of his own.

Then, he too pulled out a little metal

box and began yelling into it.

The buzzing started again. Nigel

suddenly realised that the boxes en-

abled these men to talk to each other

when they weren't together. It was

like two-way prayer and Nigel was

tuned in to it. Now that he under-

stood, he became aware of a tremen-

dous hum which seemed to hover in

the air, on the edge of his senses. It

was as though the whole world was

hooked into this prayer network.

Startled, he realised that, in fact, it

was.

Grudgingly, he admitted to himself

that there might be some benefits to

Progress, after all. Still, he couldn't

imagine why anyone would want to

talk to people far away when so

many were crowded right on top of

you. Man was a funny beast.

A bunch of new fellows, with

spades, hoes and all manner of

equipment came running onto the

scene and Nigel's eyes goggled. Be-

hind them, a small wagon was

trundling along with a fellow riding

up front and squares of green sod

piled up in the bed. It was a wagon

all right, but where were the horses?

Oh, right. That must be the evolu-


tion of those rickety German auto-

mobiles. Daimler, wasn’t it? Noisy

smelly things, they’d been. Couldn’t

outrun a horse but could scare the in-

nards out of one! If he'd said it once,

he'd said it a thousand times: change

can really sneak up on you. How

bleedin' long had he been asleep?

He raked his hand through his tan-

gled, soil-ridden hair and the rem-

nants of a bandage came loose.

Finally, it all came back. The

bleedin' game! He'd been having so

much fun and one of the Newton

Heath lads had brought a flask of

some of Padraig's whiskey. Good

stuff, really loosened you up. He'd

heard a shout and when he turned

around, the heavy ball was heading

right for him – and so was some

punter's elbow.

He looked at his shallow grave

again. No, he definitely hadn't been

buried alive. The Newton Heath

lads must have tried to revive him

and, failing, had laid him out behind

the goal and gone back to the game.

They didn't know he was a god or

that 'out of sight, out of mind'

worked both ways for him. Over the

years, he must have just settled into

the turf as he slumbered. Now, he'd

finally woken up to find these Man-

chester United fellows still at it, after

the gods knew how long. Well, he

didn't know, actually, but he was

going to find out.

Nigel’s reverie was interrupted by

sudden sound and movement.

Glancing up, he saw the old Scot

yelling and waving between the grey

man and his former resting place.

The grey man then turned to his men

and mirrored the dance with his

crew. They quickly sprang into ac-

tion. Dirt was shoved into the hole,

sod was laid, stamped down, and

quick as you could say, 'Two mugs

of mead, fair maiden', all trace of

Nigel’s return to the land of the liv-

ing from his internment behind the

goal in the Stretford End had van-

ished.

As the white-haired gaffer, finally

smiling, shook the grey fellow's

hand, Nigel walked behind them and

casually lifted the little metal box

from the gaffer's jacket. Such a thing

would surely come in handy. He fid-

dled with it as he ambled off and

soon had the knack of it. It had

something in it called Internet Con-

nection.




What a wonder! It brought him the

news from all over. He settled into

a seat in the stands, pouring through

this Internet Connection, while the

United lads went back to their prac-

tice. He discovered a magic scribe

named Wiki, who freely revealed

news of strange lands, a new Queen

in England, a Royal Wedding that

he'd just missed – the bride was a

commoner but a real looker - and

some people in other countries called

Presidents and Prime Ministers.

Bloody Hell! Man had become so

full of himself and his Progress that

he'd gone and organised Religion it-

self. What a catastrophe!

The thought put him off the affairs

of Man altogether. Searching for

some sign of hope and tradition, he

switched to the football, as it was

now called, sensibly enough. Natu-

rally, he preferred to catch up first

with the English game. That they

were also calling this Old Trafford

place the Theatre of Dreams gave

him a laugh, given his long repose

under its hallowed turf.

When he was through with England,

he began reading about some to-do

called the World Cup. He snorted.

Hand of God, indeed! If he'd been

awake he'd have shown that arrogant

little dwarf a real hand of god! Then

he came to the final entry and the

date truly sank in.

2011.

By the Lady in the Lake! He'd been

dozing for a century. Worse, while

he'd been gone the whole place had

gone to hell in a hand basket. Most

of the Empire was gone, the New

World had revolted, the convicts

Down Under were beating their bet-

ters regularly at cricket, and what

was left of Brittania had joined some

god-awful thing called the European

Union. Had to be full of pussy-farts,

that did.

There wasn't much he could do

about that but they'd gone too far

when they had taken and corrupted

his beloved Game. It had become so

bad that his lads couldn’t even beat

those uptight Germans. That he was

going to fix, if it took him an eter-

nity. It might take that long, too, but

he knew right where to start.

Nigel rose from his bright red seat.

He shook the remaining dirt out of




his hair, bathed himself in a godlight,

trimmed out his scraggly beard with

a thought, and fashioned himself a

nice English suit, not unlike the one

the old Scot was wearing. Ready to

set off on his crusade, he took one

last look at the practice and a merry

grin came to his face.

Over behind the goal, the gaffer, his

customary scowl deepening, was

frantically patting down his jacket

and turning widdershins as he

searched for something he had obvi-

ously misplaced. Nigel slid the

metal box – a mobile phone, accord-

ing to Wiki – into his breast pocket,

tugged firmly on his lapels, and

hitched his belt. With a look of grim

determination he faded from the

Earthly plane. ■




David Hartrick >

EPISODE ONE

Day One – Welcome to Hell

What a shit hole.

Alright, so I might have told the ac-

countant I wanted to buy a football

club, but this? I'm not sure if the car

park's even fit for dogging. It’s no

wonder that prick's not answering

his mobile – I'm going to stick it up

his arse when I see him and he

knows it.

Why didn't I at least Wiki this lot be-

fore I signed the paperwork? I built

an Internet Empire without having


THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES


to resort to pornography, yet got too

excited at the prospect of owning a

football club to do the homework.

Jesus, leaping in with both feet like

that – I’m Nigel de Jong.

I might not have Premier League or

even Championship money but I

thought the budget stretched fur-

ther than this – bloody Vauxhall

Conference football. Saying that, I

may as well try to get into the spirit

of things for as long as it takes for

me to work out an exit strategy –

bloody Blue Square Bet Premier

football. I've at least heard of this

lot but that's mainly down to an FA

Cup third round appearance in the

‘80s.

Memo to self: research business de-

cisions beyond the 1984 Grandstand

vidiprinter in future.

I thought an established club at non-

League level wouldn't be this run

down – and this is just staring

through the 50% tint on the car win-

dow. Looking up I can see a painted

name on a once-famous sign, now

reduced to a faded shadow. Looking

down, the word 'pothole' barely

seems adequate for the innumer-

able hippo's yawns littering the car

park. This isn't even disappointing –

this is frightening.

I had visions of at least being able to

park my car in a neatly white-lined

space marked 'Chairman'. As it

stands I’ve been forced to abandon

the Range Rover in something re-

sembling the 26th minute of Slum-

dog Millionaire. Thank God I didn't

bring the Aston.

As I open the car door I notice the

air is thick with fried onions and

burgers, apparently made of roughly

half meat, half carpet. Prada shoes

meet B&Q gravel as I step out to

gaze upon my new empire.

To repeat: what a shit hole.

To the left of the car park a steady

stream of bobble-hats are parting

with their hard earned fivers to

enter a structure rather hopefully

entitled the 'Grand Stand'. A Range

Rover with private plates is being

viewed as something akin to witch-

craft by a queue of people with

whom I have nothing in common.

I've seen the odd eyebrow cocked in


THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES DAVID HARTRICK


my direction so I assume word's got

around the new chairman's in town.

To my right I see a door marked

'Staff Only' which I guess is my en-

trance. With a deep breath of icy air

I make my way towards it, lighting a

Benson for comfort as I go. The

smoky filter just beyond my nose

does nothing to improve the view as

the Rice Krispies snap, crackle and

pop beneath my feet.

As I reach the door a man appears,

opening it wide as if expecting me.

He looks about early 30s. The suit

that hangs about his body would

disgrace a charity shop sale rail. If I

combine his attire with his body lan-

guage, general demeanour and

what looks suspiciously like a wig,

I’m guessing whoever he is, he’s yet

to marry.

“You the new Chairman?”

I nod a response and flick the barely-

smoked cigarette away to my right.

He thrusts out a hand covered in a

mixture of dirt and white paint to

clasp mine and introduces himself

as Richard, Club Secretary. He turns

and leads me into a corridor that

runs beneath the small stand; I fol-

low without a clue where we're

going, observing a discomfiting lack

of windows. It feels like the journey

to the centre of the earth. A door

appears from the midst of the cave

with a sign marked 'Manager' on it.

Shit. I've just realised I don't even

know who the manager is.

Richard half trips as he opens the

door and I'm thankful the wig stays

in place. As he crosses the threshold

I catch him mouthing the words

‘He's here’. Entering the small office

I find two middle-aged men, one

slumped in a tracksuit behind a

dusty, paper-strewn desk, another

standing over him with a face like

he's been chewing pine cones.

“Thank you, Richard. Now take that

awful wig of yours and fuck off.”

Richard complies with standing

angry man’s order and shuffles out

somewhere behind me. Even

though I now own this little corner

of Mordor, I get the feeling I'm being

told who really has the power.

“You've met Richard then. I've no

doubt he told you he had some fuck-

ing job here but he's just a fan we




use for the shit I can't be bothered

with. I'm Bryan Ramsden-Smith,

club director for life due to the fact

my family founded this place, and

no doubt the person putting out the

fires once you've pissed off back to

your ivory tower.”

What the…?

“This is Terry Maclean, he's your

manager and resident club alcoholic

– you'll be pleased to know if we

paid him more he'd have a raging

drug problem, as well. Now you're

here he’s your problem.”

I look at the tracksuited man. His

outfit is stained with that I really

hope is beer, and as he melts further

into his lopsided chair I realise he's

not just drunk, he's wasted.

“Now do you want some boots and

a ball so you can piss around on the

pitch like a dancing fucking bear be-

fore kick-off? Show the fans how

much of a football man you are?”

When I answer it'll be the first words

out of my mouth since leaving an ex-

tremely abusive message on the ac-

countant's phone. He’s going to get

another in about five minutes. I

stumble and fumble out the words

“No, I'm not Michael Knighton.”

“Michael Knighton? Why you *hic*

talking… talking 'bout Knight Rider?”

With that comment Maclean finally

slips all the way from the chair that

had been clutching desperately to

his last shreds of dignity. As a body

disappears under the desk in front

of me Bryan Ramsden-Smith bumps

past and leaves me one last out-

pouring of bile.

“Welcome to the club Mr Chair-

man.”

Sarcasm drips from the words ‘Mr

Chairman’ like a dew drop hanging

from a snotty kid’s nose.

“We're bottom of the league, the

grounds fucked, your manager's a

disgrace – and they're all your prob-

lems now.”

I can’t say it enough. What a shit

hole.




Day Three – Gym Weeks & Happy

Endings

Terry sits in front of me with blood-

shot eyes that tell me all I need to

know about his ‘quiet night in’. As

an ex-pro his name still carries

weight in certain pubs and clubs in

town, something I hear he’s become

very adept at exploiting. If the eyes

hadn’t given it away, the abundance

of some shit aftershave he’s lath-

ered over the smell of stale beer

would have.

“So, Terry, losing 5-1 at home is

probably not where we want this

club to be, is it?”

When I see ‘we’ I now have to mean

it. After finally tracking the account-

ant down to a 24-hour casino not far

from his office, he explained that

the deal’s already been completed.

I now own this place, lock, stock and

two subsiding changing rooms. Any

room I had to wriggle away from this

heap has gone – and believe me, I’ve

checked every bastard angle. Selling

this place as quickly as possible now

depends on my finding someone as

stupid as me, or turning things

around and making it a viable

proposition for a buyer. Having

thought long and hard about it yes-

terday, I came to the conclusion that

I just can’t rely on finding as big a

prick as me out there. I’m going to

have to do this the hard way.

“Thing is, Chairman, had my hands

tied haven’t I? No money you see,

work with shit you get brown hands

eventually.”

I don’t really understand the

metaphor but I’ve decided not to

shake Maclean’s hand again. He’s

talking in bullet points – a classic

sign of a hungover mind struggling

to fill in the crossword clues that

make up a full conversation.

“Regardless of that, Terry, what con-

cerns me more is that your ‘illness’

meant your assistant had to take

charge of team affairs on Saturday.”

A moment’s silence draws its awk-

ward fingers down a chalkboard as

Terry considers the statement.

“Have I got an assistant?”

“No.”

Almost unbelievably the question




was asked without a hint of shame.

Taking up a position in the home

dugout come 3pm on Saturday af-

ternoon were me (perfect excuse

not to have to mix with Ramsden-

Smith or the bobble-hats), Richard

(in a tracksuit top that I dug out of

the team’s kit bag that, judging by

the smell, had been there a long

time) and our physio, who couldn’t

move as he’d pulled his hamstring

putting up the massage table (and

whose name I didn’t find out, nor

care to, either).

I fill Terry in and he feigns astonish-

ment.

“Richard? He’s thick as pig shit.”

Hardly the point, but he’s bang on

the money.

“I know, Terry. I discovered that

when one of the lads went down

with an ankle knock in the first

minute and he ran on and rubbed

Lucozade into it.”

Time to up the ante a little. Maclean

needs to understand that he’s only

got three choices left at this club:

lead, follow, or get the fuck out the

way.

“Terry, when are the lads training

this week?”

“Gym week, Chairman, told them all

to go and work on their stamina, at

the gym and that.”

“What did they do last week?”

“Err… gym week.”

“When was the last time there was-

n’t a gym week, Terry?”

“Ah, well, see what you’re getting at,

but as an ex-professional, I’ve iden-

tified a lack of err, conditioning, as

one of our biggest problems.”

I compose myself, even though the

room is now thick with bullshit as

well as Brut. I want to drag ‘ex-pro-

fessional footballer Terry Maclean’

over this desk and backhand him.

Professionalism dictates we do this

through discussion first though, and

I’ve got a couple of lines of attack

planned.

“You may believe conditioning is

partly to blame for the team’s cur-

rent league position but I have my

own theories. Do you want to hear




one?”

Instantly I see Terry prickle at the di-

rection he thinks this is going to

take.

“Listen, Chairman, I run the team, I

decide what’s right, and what’s

going wrong. If you’re coming here

to get involved with on field matters,

then…”

“…Terry, Terry, Terry. Let me speak.

I agree the lads’ conditioning isn’t

great, but I think there are one or

two other problems to consider. For

example, due to your various ab-

sences with ‘illness’, our captain,

Paul, has come to the fore and is

picking the team, deciding on the

formation, telling the bench when

to substitute players and doing all

this while trying to do a job as a

striker himself.”

I pause and wait for any sign of

recognition.

“Now Paul’s a fine player and an ex-

cellent captain, but maybe not the

best centre-forward in the world.

Any idea why, Terry?”

He’s beginning to realise there are

only two ways this can end: shape

up or piss off. He shakes his head in

mock bewilderment.

“I think he’s struggling up front as he

spent the first 21 years of his career

as a fucking goalkeeper, Terry.”

With no visible response I take the

opportunity to continue.

“Since you’ve been here you’ve

managed to personally see off an as-

sistant manager, a fitness coach, and

an entire reserve team. Your anti-

Midas touch has managed to make

every area of the club worse for

your involvement. The team are

dogshit, the crowd knows it, the

club’s fucked, and you’re an addict.”

I’ve got his back up now. He’s beaten

but I know he’s not going to go qui-

etly.

“Now listen here, Mr Chairman, I

handle team affairs, I’m the ex-pro –

this club’s lucky to have me. If

you’re saying we can’t work to-

gether, you better start thinking

about a pay-off, I won’t resign.”

“I thought you’d say that Terry, that’s




why I’ve decided to give you a

chance. If you make a commitment

to knuckle down and manage the

team properly, use your contacts to

bring in some decent players, hit

some performance targets that I set,

stop drinking, and cease using what

is now my office as a place to hide

your cocaine, we might be able to

work together.”

He turns his shoulder like a petulant

child. Taking a few seconds to think

about it he composes a predictable,

laboured response.

“I can’t work with these, baseless

accusations, so I’m afraid you’ll have

to offer me, a suitable severance

package.”

I smile. It doesn’t feel great to do

this but he’s left me no choice.

“Well I tell you what we’ll do, Terry.

We’ll part ways and as a severance

package I’m offering you the chance

to stop me ringing your wife. You

see, I think she might be able to ex-

plain something in the club accounts

that’s come to my attention.”

There’s an uneasy sense of recogni-

tion creeping across his face.

“It started with a phone call that led

me to an outstanding bill from

‘Delilah’s Massage & Sauna Centre’.

They rang us this morning chasing

their money, claiming you told them

to charge the club for ‘two girls, a

full service and a happy ending’.

They know it was you because you

were so pissed and coked-up you’d

managed to leave, among other

things, your club jacket with your

name and fucking initials embroi-

dered in it, you dickhead.”

Five minutes later I’m all alone in the

office and looking for a new man-

ager. I’ll ring the local paper and

give the sports guy an exclusive. I’ll

have to tell them we’ve parted for

football reasons but I don’t care,

he’s someone else’s problem now.

Better ring Delilah’s and ask them to

return that jacket too.




Day Seven – Mascots & Misunder-

standings

“Do you think we need a mascot,

Richard?”

My second match day and it strikes

just how grim this place really is.

The ground’s got more in common

with Colditz than Old Trafford. Now

it’s raining I honestly can’t think of

anywhere I’d want to be less.

Adding to the picture perfect view is

the fact the team are still playing

some absolutely dogshit. After Sat-

urday’s 5-1 mauling any hope of a

rousing midweek response was put

to bed by a 6-0 away defeat which,

mercifully, I had to miss due to a

‘prior commitment’. That commit-

ment was actually half a bottle of

scotch, Come Dine With Me repeats

and attempting (unsuccessfully) to

have a little roll around with the wife

– but they don’t need to know that.

Dragged here again kicking and

screaming by the fact I now own this

white elephant, getting rid of Terry

has done nothing to make it feel less

like a chore.

With no manager and the chairman,

the village idiot and an injured

physio in the dugout again, any dis-

traction from the steady abuse com-

ing from behind us is welcomed. I

turn to the oblivious Richard and ask

him the mascot question a little

louder.

“How do you mean, Chairman?”

“A character. A man in a big foam

costume.”


“A man doing a bit of a dance and

celebrating if we score, geeing the

crowd up, getting the kids involved

a bit, try and get a few more people

down here.”


For fuck’s sake.

“What I mean, Richard, is a bloke in

a big silly outfit promoting and sell-

ing the club on match day, and at

the local schools, trying to return us

to the community if you will, making

this place look a little less like Cher-

nobyl and more like somewhere

you’d actually want to spend your




Saturday afternoons.”

Richard pauses and I can almost

hear cogs turn.

“I do want to spend my Saturday af-

ternoons here.”

Before I can go any further we’ve

conceded, and with twenty-five

minutes of the first half gone I know

the game’s over.

“Oi! Chairman!”

I’ve quickly realised that although

the dugout lets me hide from cer-

tain situations, there’s no escaping

the dissenting voices behind me.

Every. Single. One.

“Chairman!”

The voice is deep and definitely

comes from one of the older bob-

ble-hats. I don’t want to stick my

head out and glance back but it

keeps calling me out. Tentatively I

step forward and turn my head over

the dugout’s plastic roof to look at

the terrace behind me. While one

side of the ground boasts the

‘Grand’ Stand, this side has a long,

raised paved area with a wooden

roof that leaks like a tramp’s shoes.

Even through the drumming of the

rain I can instantly pick out the

source of the shout.

Standing about twelve feet behind

us are two men who were stood in

exactly the same place last week. I

get the feeling they’ve stood in that

same space for a long time. On the

left is the one I’ve nicknamed Jimmy

Saville, solely on the strength that

the two times I’ve seen him, he’s

had the same shitty Adidas shell suit

top on. The one on the right I call FA

Cup because he has the biggest pair

of ears I’ve ever seen on the side of

a human head.

“Fucking Alex Ferguson couldn’t lift

this shower of shit so you best get

Jesus on the phone - we need a mir-

acle.”

I nod and roll my eyes mockingly. Sir

Jimmy made the comment, and it

appears now he has the Chairman’s

attention he isn’t willing to let it go

just like that.

“Have you got someone lined up?”

No. Since sacking Maclean I’ve had




the sum total of zero phone calls en-

quiring after the job. It may have

only been four days but I thought

someone would have at least sent in

a shitty CV.

“Few irons in the fire, you know how

it is.”

Please don’t ask who, please don’t

ask who, please don’t ask who,

please don…

“Who?”

Saville won’t leave it. Embrace,

avoid or lie? Avoid.

“Couldn’t possibly say at this point,

it’s very early to be giving you

names.”

A tactful lie on which to lower my-

self back into the dugout.

“It’s just that I spoke to Richard and

he says he overheard you on the

phone saying it’d be easier to get

someone to throw themselves off a

bridge than find a manager for this

shit hole.”

I look across at Richard and he

smiles at me.

“That’s my Uncle Tommy, Mr Chair-

man, he’s been coming here years.”

For fuck’s sake. Need to keep that

office door shut from now on. I

smile the smile of a man caught

naked, climbing out his neighbour’s

bedroom window by an irate hus-

band, and slink back into my plastic

seat with a squeak. From behind my

shelter I can still hear the muffled

tones of Uncle Tommy.

“Richard also said you’d told them

that you just wanted to get this

place stable enough to flog on for as

little a loss as possible...”

Running true to form, Richard is

grinning at me without a care in the

world.

“…which in our eyes makes you a

full-weight prick.”

And on cue it begins. The inevitable,

pre-planned song.

“The Chairman is a wanker, the

Chairman is a wanker…”




Two voices become ten within the

first line, ten become thirty by the

second. I reckon all told we have

about 500 in today and within sec-

onds the fifty odd who chose to

stand behind the dugouts are in uni-

son.

I’ve only been here a week.

The place is a shit hole and the

crowd already hate me.

I fish around in my pocket for my

Blackberry and cigarettes. Time to

leave my fucking accountant yet an-

other abusive message.

To be continued... ■





Otto’s lot had always been a hostile

bunch. Nigel didn’t mind a bit of ag-

gression, now and then. In fact, he

respected it. His lads had done

pretty well in carving up the world,

even if they’d let it slip from their

grasp during his nap. Otto used to

drone on about how his Wunders in

Prussia and Bavaria were bullying

the rest of Europe – as if that was

hard. Africa, America, The East and

West Indies – now that was impres-

sive.

And when Otto’s bunch had the

nerve to try and poach it all in one

go, his lads had shown the Jerrys just

how impressive by kicking them all

the way back into their own patch.

Of course, the Yanks and Tavar’s

cutthroats had done their part. He

wished he’d been around to watch

And Down Will Come Tower,Wire And Wall


Winston do his thing, though. “We

shall never surrender” indeed.

How soon people forget, if you let

them. Well, he was awake now. If

it was the last thing he ever did, he

was going to remind this generation

of hand-holding, ask questions first,

shoot later pussy-farts the meaning

of resolve.

It shamed him to call his own chil-

dren such a name but you never got

anywhere without facing up to the

truth of things. Half of them so

wanted to be part of the modern

world that they were afraid to do

anything which might offend the

bloody ‘community’. He hated that

word. Worse, the other half, who

weren’t afraid to speak up, thought

that everything was theirs by right.

Fools. Taking something was only a

tenth of the job. Holding on to it and

crafting it into something of which

you can be proud... ah, that was the

real test.

Couldn’t beat Germany, couldn’t

they? Well, he was going to make

them understand why there were

Three Lions on their shirts. First

things first, though. He wasn’t the

sort to sneak up from behind. There

was no honour in that. Besides, it al-

ways helped to know the lay of the

land and he’d been gone for quite a

while.

He wasn’t exactly looking forward

to seeing Otto though. While his

own lot had been serving up con-

quered lands like mulled wine at a

banquet, Otto’s crew had quietly

been building up their strength. You

had to admit, they were a patient

bunch and knew when to strike. The

Frogs may have cooked up this Eu-

ropean Union ragout but the Jerrys

were the muscle behind it, even if it

was in trade, rather than more

straightforward strength at arms. He

was going to have to be careful until

he knew exactly what he was about.

Unfortunately, his temper didn’t al-

ways take that into account.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped out

of the Ether and back into the earthly

plane. He hadn’t lost his touch. This

was Berlin, even if there was an ugly

scar cut right through the middle of

it. A large broken wall, surrounded

on either side by a wide swath of

weed and rubble-strewn emptiness,

stretched into the distance in either


AND DOWN WILL COME TOWER, WIRE AND WALL


direction. The air was fairly crack-

ling with the buzz of this new

alchemy called communications.

The Jerrys always did know how to

get the best use out of any tool.

Underneath the surface noise he

could sense a more subdued – no –

stealthy humming. He focused on it

until he could penetrate the interfer-

ence around it. These were obvi-

ously important people, if they were

going to such troubles for privacy.

Some bloke named Guido was

speaking in urgent tones to a frau

named Angela. Did he really just

refer to her as Madame Chancellor?

Oh, that’s right, they did have a bird

running things here now. It was hap-

pening everywhere wasn’t it?

It had all started with that Bathsheba

tart and then Cleopatra. The worst

was that Joan of Arc twit. Trust the

Frogs to really stir things up. Ever

since her, the fairer sex had been get-

ting really pushy. The Lord and

Lady knew he had nothing against a

pretty maiden but life became very

complicated when you let them get

the upper hand.

Realising that he needed a refresher

course, he invoked Wiki again while

waiting for Otto to cotton on to his

arrival. A lost war. Another lost war.

A Great War indeed! How humiliat-

ing for poor, proud Otto. He had

turned things around, though, when

war had gone out of fashion. Otto’s

boys had outstripped his lads with

World Cup wins – although he still

wasn’t sure about that idea – they

had named the goblet after a Frog,

hadn’t they?

That led to a disturbing thought.

Sooner or later, those meddlers

Pierre and Gaston would poke their

greasy little oars in, sure as Guine-

vere had a wandering eye. One thing

at a time, though. He’d cross that

Channel when he came to it.

His bunch had really cocked up this

FIFA thing. He’d given them the

game in the first place because he

didn’t have anyone to play with.

Then they’d decided to keep it to

themselves. Boneheads! A godly

gift wasn’t something to waste. It

was inevitable that others would see

them playing and, soon enough, try

it for themselves. They’d get good,

too. Anyone could. That was the ge-

nius of the game, after all.






When the Frogs had organised

everyone his lot were too put out and

kept to themselves rather than taking

the lead, as he’d intended. In truth,

they’d deserved all the misery that

had come as a result, but punishment

had been meted out in proper meas-

ure. He was back now, however. It

was time to set things right.

There was a shimmer of light off to

his left. Ready for the worst, Nigel

turned as, announced by a thunder-

ous symphony, Otto arrived. He was

dressed in a tailored suit, much like

Nigel wore, although the pinstripes

did nothing to straighten out Otto’s

exceptionally rotund form. What

had happened to his hair, though?

He used to have shoulder length

locks, trimmed to frame his rosy

cheeks and full lips. Now he was as

bald as a friar, with a treble chin

forcing its way out from under a

tight collar, to boot. There was more

than a hint of a flab around his mid-

dle. That used to be all muscle. Talk

about letting yourself go.

He looked to be enjoying life, how-

ever. There was a ring of blazing

gold with an enormous diamond on

his right pinky and a shining chain,

also of gold, hung from his jacket

pocket. On his left arm was an un-

derstatedly large woman, dressed in

a long red gown. Her exceedingly

ample breasts were covered by ar-

mour plates polished to a sheen, and

her cascading blonde hair was cov-

ered by a helm with curled horns

protruding from either side. Even in

her vastness, Nigel might have

called her fair if only she was a bit

more judicious with the facial paint.

Yet she was perfect for Otto. He was

nothing if not ostentatious.

“Nigel?” the Teutonic god intoned,

his crisp syllables sounding less than

pleased. “What a surprise. Where

have you been keeping yourself?”

Nigel shrugged. “Been on a bit of a

sabbatical, you might say.”

They sized each other up for a mo-

ment more, until Nigel’s eyes flick-

ered over to Otto’s female

companion. Otto’s lips curled into a

half-smile and he nodded to the

woman.

“This is Ramona,” he said in intro-

duction. “She is my good compan-


ion. Ramona, this is Nigel, a...

friend from England.”

Ramona separated herself from

Otto’s arm and extended her hand as

she performed a half curtsy. Nigel

took the proffered hand, fingers cov-

ered in rings and a heavy tangle of

bracelets jangling from the wrist. He

gently brushed his lips across its

back.

“Enchanted,” he murmured. “Ra-

mona, is it?

“Yes,” she replied, batting her eye-

lashes at him as she settled back onto

Otto’s arm. Her voice had a high but

powerful trill to it. “But it’s just a

stage name.”

Otto gestured to a nearby section of

the ruined wall, little less than waist-

high. A platter appeared on a stand

with an array of delicious-looking

repasts and two large flagons of fine

German ale.

“Shall we?” Otto invited.

Nigel helped himself to some well-

cooked bratwurst with just a spoon-

ful of sauerkraut, hefted his huge

mug and took a seat on the wall.

Otto did likewise. Ramona took a

rather generous sampling of meats

but seemed pouty about something.

Suddenly, a silver goblet filled with

chilled wine appeared in her other

hand. Squeaking with delight, she

gave Otto a smothering kiss on the

cheek.

Otto looked over to Nigel, a momen-

tary blush appearing on his features.

It was going to be difficult carrying

on a serious conversation, having to

stare all the while at the huge smear

of rouge implanted by Otto’s con-

sort.

In a desperate attempt to wrench his

mind from it, Nigel took in the ruins

again and nodded towards them.

“What’s all this, then?”




Otto’s light blush returned, deepen-

ing to a full crimson. He answered

Nigel’s question in pained tones.

“It is what is left of the Berlin Wall.”

Nigel’s open expression invited fur-

ther confession.

“In the last war, my people got...

shall we say... somewhat carried

away. I am sorry to say that the man

I raised up as leader had far less con-

trol over his personal demons than I

had anticipated. Your followers did

quite well in your absence, to put

him down.”

‘In your absence’ rankled a bit, as

likely intended. Otto was recovering

quickly from his embarrassment.

Ramona, meanwhile, had left them

to it while she packed away the feast,

chewing furiously and lost in the

view. Otto went on with his story.

“They were aided of course. Their

descendants on the far side of the

ocean proved very powerful and, of

course, it was a mistake to attack

Tavar before consolidating our west-

ern position. His general turned out

to be as much a butcher as mine, if

not crueller. Yet Tavar had to pay a

much heavier price, in the long run,

for the atrocities he permitted.”

Nigel nodded. According to Wiki,

the waste of life in Russia after the

War had been outrageous. It is life

which sustains a god, after all. Life

and faith. Tavar’s chosen general

had turned, taking both from his pro-

tector, through the pogroms and the

complete, merciless ban on religious

worship.

Otto was winding down his tale,

now.

“The Russians came down on us out

of the east and the Americans and

you English from the south and west.

When they had us beneath their

boots, they couldn’t agree on what to

do with us. So, they divided the

country in half and my beautiful city

in four...”

“Four?” Nigel interrupted. “Us lot,

the Yanks and Tavar make three.”

“Yes, but the French had to have

their piece, even though they had to

be liberated by the others.”




Nigel sympathised with that much,

at least. “That’s Pierre and Gaston

for you. Always trying to argue for

what they can’t take by force.”

Otto nodded in disgust and contin-

ued. “So, they chopped Berlin into

quarters and walled Tavar’s butcher

off from the rest. It was called the

Cold War, because there was no

killing. It was like a siege which

lasted a generation. In the end, we

built ourselves back up, though. We

always do and always will.” There

was pride in his voice but it was

quickly subdued.

“Of course, we have done our best to

make sincere amends for our trans-

gressions and, as much as I wish for

my Wunders to prosper, I do my best

to not let them forget their shame.

Although my younglings were long

separated, they finally became

strong enough to reunite and the wall

was taken down.”

Raising his eyebrows, Nigel looked

around. “Not your usual thorough

job, though, is it?”

Otto’s eyes flared in anger. “It is left

here as a reminder of our folly.”

“Still, it’s a bit of a mess.” Otto’s

cheeks were reddening again and a

thunderhead was forming on his

brow. Ramona was still nibbling and

failed to notice, as Nigel continued

his baiting. “In fact, it’s a veritable

eyesore, if you ask me. Especially

those watchtowers. Can see them

from miles away. A real shame, that

is!”

Plate and flagon flew in separate di-

rections as Otto came off his perch.

He could still move fast for his girth.

Before Nigel could get his feet under

him, Otto thumped him with a heavy

right hand, sending him tumbling

backwards off the wall.

With a roar, half of rage and half

glee, Nigel popped right back up,

leapt over the ruins, catching Otto

full in the chest and bowling the two

of them over. They began rolling

about in the rubble like a pair of

schoolboys. As he rabbit punched

Otto in the kidneys, receiving a fin-

ger in the eye for his trouble, Nigel

revelled in the happy thought that

some things, at least, never change.

Ramona, suddenly aware of the

commotion, squealed in distress and




danced nervously over them, trying

to break up the melee.

“Boys! Boys!” she cried. “Stop this

foolishness at once! You will hurt

yourselves. Besides, there is no

need. There is more than enough of

me for both of you!”

As the two gods happily renewed

their long rivalry, another piece of

wall cracked loudly and fell to the

ground, unnoticed. ■




NO CLUB LEFT BEHIND Jonathan Lines >

It’s been a difficult couple of

decades for the football clubs of the

former East Germany. Take FC Loko-

motive Leipzig, a successful club in

the years of the German Democratic

Republic. They reached the Cup

Winners Cup Final in 1986/87, losing

out to Dutch opponents Ajax, for

whom legendary striker Marco van

Basten scored the winner. In the

1993/94 season Lokomotive, re-

named VfB Leipzig, were competing

in the Bundesliga. By 2004 they

were bankrupt and the club was dis-

solved.

Reformed by fans, once again as

Lokomotive Leipzig, the club has



since climbed back into Germany’s

fifth tier. However, although the

new name invokes the heyday of the

GDR era and though the club has

certainly retained a loyal fan base,

these supporters cannot escape the

feeling that their team’s glory days

are not only over, but will never re-

turn. Clubs rise and fall, but any fan

of a ‘once great’ team will tell you

that 20 years is a long time for a

football club to fall, and fall this far.

It is also worth remembering that

Germany’s biggest clubs have not

traditionally come from the east.

During the swift period of industri-

alisation its urban population grew

rapidly, especially around the indus-

trial Ruhrgebiet. The country’s

biggest clubs were born out of the

Ruhr and North Rhine Westphalia of

western Germany, where the people

– and the money – could be found.

Even today, the best teams are still

from these areas, with clubs from

the single state of North Rhine

Westphalia making up a third of

teams in the top two leagues last

term.

But the plight of Lokomotive Leipzig

is symptomatic of a much wider

problem in the former East Ger-

many. After reunification in 1990

East German clubs had to be imme-

diately incorporated into an existing,

already highly competitive and suc-

cessful capitalist sports system. It

was inevitable that most clubs strug-

gled in a system with which their

owners and administrators were not

familiar and where they were at a

significant economic disadvantage.

Saddest of all was the demise of suc-

cessful GDR clubs Dynamo Dresden,

Carl Zeiss Jena and FC Magdeburg,

the Manchester United, Liverpool

and Arsenal of a country which no

longer existed.

Added to this, western clubs quickly

snapped up the best talent from

their defenceless eastern counter-

parts, with players available at low

cost and keen to play at the top

level. The German Football Associ-

ation, the DFB, was particularly keen

to see players like Jens Jeremies, Ulf

Kirsten and Carsten Jancker move to

the bigger western clubs, something

which became a feature of ‘90s Ger-

man football. One of the late

movers across the erstwhile border

was Bernd Schneider, who stayed

with hometown club Carl Zeiss Jena


NO CLUB LEFT BEHIND JONATHAN LINES


until 1998. After a year with Eintra-

cht Frankfurt he signed for Bayer

Leverkusen, and, aged 25, made his

debut for Germany. He went on to

win 81 caps.

Over the course of the ‘90s the

once-great teams of the East found

themselves falling down the leagues

one by one. There have been a few

exceptions, with Hansa Rostock and

Energie Cottbus putting up a fight

around the turn of the millennium,

but 2010/11 was the third season in

the past six years without a club

from the former GDR in the top

flight. There will be none next sea-

son either.

Not only have eastern clubs strug-

gled on the pitch, there has also

been trouble in the stands. The rise

of right-wing extremism among fans

of eastern clubs became a worrying

trend, reflective of a wider political

problem, after 1990. As these areas

continue to struggle with economic

and social woes following the reuni-

fication, eastern Germany has be-

come fertile ground for Neo-Nazism,

although both critics and club own-

ers struggle to pinpoint exactly why.

Several clubs have experienced

racist chants, political demonstra-

tions and fires at

games, particularly

during local derbies.

This peaked around

the mid-Noughties, at

a time when unem-

ployment was still

around 20% in some of the ‘new’

states, more than twice the national

average. The local derby between

Rot-Weiss Erfurt and Carl Zeiss Jena

is often marked by crowd trouble

and anti-Semitic chants from Erfurt

fans towards their rivals. Even re-

cently, the ‘passion’ of some fans,

largely, though not entirely, on the

Erfurt side, has seen opposition flags

burned.

This hooliganism is by no means the

first instance of violence among

football fans, and sadly, it won’t be

the last. Who can for-

get England’s darkest

hour, in the ‘70s and

‘80s? Fan violence be-

came characteristic of

the English game, and

was often tinged with

racial and political motivations. Ser-

bian football currently faces similar

problems. Economic and social



Who can forget

England’s darkest

hour, in the ‘70s

and ‘80s?


hardships are a common contribut-

ing factor to the rise of the far-right,

and the terraces of the local football

club can become a close community.

With football traditionally more

popular among the working class, a

club’s fans are hit hardest by unem-

ployment, particularly those from

industrial areas. Fans can share not

only a passion for their club, but also

a bond in circumstance, which can

lead to a dangerous fusion of group

mentality and social disgruntlement.

For an increasing number of clubs in

the former East Germany, efforts to

curtail the problem of extremism

has led to the banning of supporters

showing symbols and carrying flags

of far-right groups inside stadia.

While no doubt a positive and nec-

essary step for the clubs’ administra-

tors, it does not seem to have fully

curtailed the problem.

Dresden, a city known for extremist

political activity, can be studied as

an example of how to reduce fan vi-

olence at a football club. Over the

past few years both anti-fascist and

neo-Nazi demonstrators have held

mass demonstrations on 13 Febru-

ary, marking the anniversary of the

Allied bombing of the city in World

War II. The 2010 display, marking

the 65th anniversary, was a particu-

larly violent one. Dynamo Dresden

have appointed a fan liaison coordi-

nator, and the club now claims to

have had no incidents of extremism

for the past few years. Overcoming

a reputation for hooliganism and

Neo-Nazism among their fans will

be crucial if Dynamo want to again

be a large, popular football club.

But it will take much more than that

for eastern teams like Dynamo to

rise again. In both footballing and

economic terms, the most obvious

solution is investment and time. Dy-

namo have signalled their ambitions

to become important on the na-

tional stage again with a new 32,000

capacity stadium. ‘Die SG’ earned

promotion to the 2. Bundesliga for

next season – a late surge saw the

club qualify for the relegation play-

off, in which they defeated VfL Os-

nabrück after two legs and extra

time. Dynamo have the fan follow-

ing, the ambition, and even the

quality on the pitch to compete

short-term in the higher league. The

money certainly seems to be in

place, as well, when you consider




that the team was constructedpri-

marily through transfers, rather than

youth development. Still, life in a

higher league will be tough, espe-

cially given that the club will lose

their Bundesliga-bound top-scorer,

Alexander Esswein, who joins FC

Nürnberg in the summer.

A further problem they will face is

increased scrutiny of fans’ behav-

iour. Though doing well to over-

come the extremist reputation,

Dynamo’s supporters have not kept

themselves completely out of the

news this season. After clinching

promotion, the club was shrouded

in embarrassment and forced to

apologise after a group of followers

invaded the pitch, started fires and

tore chairs from the stands at Os-

nabrück after the final whistle. The

match itself had to be stopped when

a fire was started at the visiting fans’

end after Dresden’s equalising goal.

Other incidents this season have in-

cluded isolated instances of vio-

lence, and, as Dynamo seek to rise

back up the leagues, they will want

to leave behind this darker side of

their identity.

Like Leipzig, Dresden is a huge and

beautiful city. Dynamo have many

extremely dedicated fans who

largely provide excellent support

and fantastic atmospheres for their

team. With an average attendance

this season of 15,000 in a fine new

stadium, the club is potentially very

attractive to investors and new play-

ers. If Dynamo can keep on their

path of gradual improvement and

increased revenue, the tools are cer-

tainly in place for them to reach the

Bundesliga again.

But, in truth, they will find it difficult

to reach the level they once did, and

compete long-term with the big-

money, big-reputation teams of the

German league, which is itself grow-

ing in stature.

A more intriguing development can

be found in Dresden’s neighbouring

city, Leipzig – and herewith our jour-

ney into football in eastern Germany

finishes in the city in which it

started, a city which embodies the

paradoxes and difficulties – as well

as the bright future – of German re-

unification. This ‘little Paris’ is one

of the country’s biggest and best

cities, with a population of over half

a million. Its locals are deserving of




a football club in a higher league

than the fifth tier.

Unfortunately FC Sachsen Leipzig

faced similar problems to its old city

rivals, Lokomotive.

Many clubs are finally

looking to the future,

now more than 20 years

after the ‘Wende’, but

former GDR Champions

Sachsen were liquidated

on 30 June 2011, having

spent the last two years

in administration with

debts of up to €2 million. The city’s

footballing woes look to be continu-

ing.

Enter Red Bull. With the city yearn-

ing for top-class football, the com-

pany bought the licence of minnows

SSV Markranstädt, essentially

founding a brand new club for the

2009/10 season. The Austrian com-

pany cannot completely buy out the

club, given DFB regulations which

prevent investors from

outside the club from

owning more than 49%

of the club’s shares (at

least 51% of any club is

always owned by the

club’s members). So,

while Red Bull cannot

fully own the club in the

same way as it does the

New York Red Bulls or RB Salzburg,

the re-invented team, known as

Rasen-Ballsport Leipzig, use Red

Bull’s logo whenever possible. The

club’s initials also implicitly carry the

company’s name; they’re as much a

Red Bull product as the German sys-

tem can legally allow.

The added investment has had an

immediate effect. RB Leipzig have

already been promoted to the Re-

gionalliga Nord (Tier IV), and the

club have made no secret of their

ambition to reach the Bundesliga

within 10 years. They have also

moved into the Zentralstadion – of

course renamed the Red Bull Arena

– the fabulous 44,000 capacity sta-

dium which was renovated for the

2006 World Cup, and was the only

stadium from the former GDR to be

used for the tournament.

Much of RB Leipzig’s success will de-

pend not only on investment but

also on youth development. After

deciding against taking the now de-

funct FC Sachsen Leipzig’s place in



They’re as

much a Red

Bull product as

the German

system can

legally allow


the Oberliga (Tier V) for a reserve

team, the club’s chiefs stressed the

importance of continuing the recon-

struction of their under-23 squad.

German clubs across the board are

turning to youth, with a host of

fresh-faced academy players gracing

the Bundesliga last season. The

League’s top two, Borussia Dort-

mund and Bayer Leverkusen, each

boasted five nationals aged 23 and

under who were playing regular

first-team football last term. With

the Bundesliga average at more than

three such players per side, the na-

tional team certainly has an exciting

few years ahead.

That RB Leipzig are so keen to focus

on their youth, too, shows they re-

ally are thinking like a big club – a big

German club, that is – and will ide-

ally start to develop some talented

prospects themselves. It would be

wonderful for the ‘new’ states, and

for the country as a whole, to have

an eastern player, from an eastern

club, turning out for the Nationalelf

again in the near future.

It remains to be seen whether Red

Bull’s Leipzig experiment will work,

but it will surely be fascinating to

track their fate over the next few

years. Understandably they have

popular support, with 70% of those

polled in a local newspaper,

Leipziger Volkszeitung, saying they

would support the new club, some-

thing which had been a huge poten-

tial stumbling block in a city with

two traditional football clubs al-

ready present. Germany has made

some important breaks from the

past since the fall of the Berlin Wall,

and while for some fans it will never

be what it was, there are signs that

teams from the East can rise again.

What a fine occasion it would be to

see Leipzig take on Dresden in the

Bundesliga in five years’ time. ■





Verily, Verily, Life Is But ADream

The water lapped quietly up against

the side of The Serenity as it

chugged along. The sun was going

down well beyond the port side bank

of the Danube. Hues of pink, grey,

orange and yellow mixed wonder-

fully but the shore was beginning to

be swallowed up in the twilight, with

the twinkling streetlights beginning

to compete with the darkening sil-

houettes of structures along the

shoreline for the eye’s attention.

With evening upon him, Nigel re-

tired to the comfort of the bar. It was

mostly empty, which suited him per-

fectly. He touched his right cheek

gingerly. The swelling around that

eye and in the jaw had gone down

considerably, and the only remaining

sign of Otto’s massive fist was a lit-

tle yellowing around the orbital


bone. Thankfully it was washed out

in the soft lighting of the lounge.

The staff were chatting quietly be-

tween themselves, while playing a

card game that was foreign to Nigel.

Lively music drifted down from the

deck above where there was some

sort of knees-up ongoing. It was a

proper posh do, too. He’d overheard

some of the passengers discussing

the grand celebration of a recent vic-

tory, something about the European

Cup. Some Magyar side had appar-

ently won it for the tenth time. He

frowned. Now, as when the group of

revellers had first surrounded him up

on deck, tooting their ridiculously

nasal party favours, he’d felt some-

thing wrong in that.

Yet he was reluctant to mingle with

the party-goers to put his finger on

just what troubled him. They were

exactly the type he couldn’t stand,

Hooray Henries, born with silver

spoons shoved so far down their piti-

ful throats they couldn’t speak a

word of sense. He was all for a life

of luxury, but it had to be earned, had

to be grafted for. This lot were as

nasty a display of Nepotism as any-

thing Albion had ever put out.

Spend time with that lot? No, thank

you. He’d learn more from some

silent time alone with Wiki.

Settling into a large, cushioned arm-

chair, he ordered a glass of Padraig’s

Irish Malt and set up his laptop on a

coffee table. Over his shoulder was

a large, round porthole, opened to

offer a bit of a cool breeze, although

it also brought the faint sounds of the

still raucous celebration.

Looking out one last time before get-

ting down to business, he could see

the ruins of a once great castle float-

ing by on the crest of a hill. He

smiled ruefully. What would Arthur

have thought of the evolution of his

Camelot?

As he mulled over what had become

of the world during his absence, he

returned to browsing the Internet to

continue his re-education. So much

had changed in what, to him, was

such a short time. Improved, accord-

ing to many, but he was yet to be

convinced.

This war between East and West was

a peculiar matter indeed. The two

ends of the world had always had


VERILY, VERILY, LIFE IS BUT A DREAM


their differing philosophies, yet ge-

ography had usually kept people

from each other’s throats.

No longer, it seemed. Still, Otto had

told him, before their little donny-

brook, that this Cold War had been

ended with the collapse of the Berlin

Wall. Shouldn’t it all have blown

over, then?

Well, the Europeans had gone all

lovey-dovey with the advent of this

bleedin’ European Union, but the ill

feeling had not been contained to

one continent. The murder of some

fellow named Bin Laden by the

Yanks had recently stoked things up

again. Reminded him of Khartoum.

Still, he was more interested in the

local history and pulled up a file on

Hungary’s role in the Second War.

Engrossed in his studies, he almost

didn’t notice the newcomer. It was

the sound of a steel-tipped cane on

the wooden deck planks which

alerted him to a presence. He

glanced up and saw a silhouette ap-

proaching slowly from the other end

of the bar. As the shadowy figure

neared the light brought into focus a

hunched over old man with an in-

credibly bushy white moustache, a

feature that completely obscured not

only his lips but the best part of his

chin, too. His eyebrows were

equally unkempt; they sprouted from

his skin at all angles but were curi-

ously coloured in neat stripes of

white, grey and black.

The old man slowed as he neared

Nigel, who had returned his focus to

the monitor in front of him, hoping

the interloper would continue on

past. Instead, the character stopped,

then addressed the disinterested god

with a shake of the head and a mum-

bled, muffled word.

Not wanting to be interrupted by one

of the silver-spooners and hoping

this fellow might take a hint, Nigel

bent himself further over his laptop

and feigned concentration, accompa-

nied by a few token clicks.

Unperturbed, the man crumpled into

the seat opposite, exhaling loudly.

Nigel gave in and looked up to see

the man adjusting his hat – a wide-

brimmed, patched-up black cloth

specimen, of a type he’d never seen

before. What he could see of the

man’s face was more weather-beaten

than wrinkled, and Nigel estimated




he still had a few years before his

wick was at its end. Protruding from

his impressive whiskers came an

unlit clay pipe, and as this was re-

moved and placed into a breast

pocket of his long, beige overcoat,

Nigel caught a glimpse of three yel-

low, crooked teeth.

With the pipe stored away, the man

repeated his greeting, more clearly

this time. Not being a native, Nigel

didn’t understand its literal meaning

but assumed ‘hello’ would be an ad-

equate response.

“Ah. English. Long way from

home, my friend.”

Nigel wasn’t in the mood for friends;

pest was a better word for his un-

wanted companion. He was still suf-

fering from the lingering effects of

the massive headache Otto had

gifted him. This getaway was sup-

posed to be a calming experience, a

bit of quiet time to sort out his

thoughts and nurse his bruises before

getting on with business. He was not

here to be badgered. Perhaps the fel-

low would get the hint if Nigel gave

him the monosyllabic treatment.

“Yes.”

“Holidaying, perhaps?”

Nigel decided the boat was ill-

named; he was apparently not going

to get much peace on this trip. He

grunted in the affirmative then

turned his attentions back to his

computer, hoping to kill the conver-

sation without having to be too im-

polite.

“Like Dreher?”

He nodded towards the glass of

Padraig’s finest and then did a dou-

ble-take. It was empty. He hadn’t

remembered finishing it.

Well, if he wasn’t going to be left in

peace, a drink was a fair price to pay

for the interruption. If this Dreher

was the stuff they’d been brewing

here a century or two ago, then yes,

he did like it, as it happened.

He nodded again, this time in accept-

ance of the offer. The stranger raised

a hand to a passing member of staff,

and within the minute there sat two

large glass tankards containing a

clear, golden liquid with a frothy




head.

Just the one drink, then he’d be rid

of this intruder. He nudged the com-

puter lid down and took a long pull

on the tankard. He couldn’t help but

smile. It really was good brew. He

raised the mug to his lips again.

“Was born during that war, you

know...” The old fellow was livelier

than he appeared. Somehow he had

managed a peak at the screen before

Nigel had lowered it. “...Lucky son

of a gun I was. Papa was a soldier

from somewhere or other. So, a son

of a gun in more than one sense, eh

my friend?”

His joke didn’t even crack a smile on

Nigel’s stony face. As though he

hadn’t noticed, the old man went on

with his story.

“We were a travelling family, most

of us carted off to the camps, but we

escaped – so I was told, anyway. I

was only a baba. Mother said she

didn’t know what had saved us. Di-

vine intervention, I say.”

The eyebrows almost reached down

to the bushy moustache as the old

man cocked his head and smiled at

Nigel.

“Man plans, God executes, don’t you

think?”

Nigel took a closer look at the old

man. That remark hit a bit too close

to home for comfort. The eyes

which smiled back were deep, im-

penetrable holes, well shielded by

the bushy tufts of hair and craggy

face. Nigel waited for his unwanted

guest to go on. Sooner or later he’d

get around to whatever it was he

wanted.

“You a football fan, friend?”

“You could say that.” Nigel didn’t

like the hints that were being

dropped here but he had no recollec-




tion of ever running across a fellow

who even resembled this cagey

gaffer in the slightest.

“I’m here for the same reason as

those up there.” The man thrust a

dismissive thumb towards the ceil-

ing. “Couldn’t get a proper conver-

sation out of them, though, if you

held one down and rubbed smelling

salts under his nose – and, believe

me, I’ve tried. No, I won my ticket

in a TV competition. Spent a fortune

on phoning in.”

Nigel was slowly coming round to

this fellow; it seemed he’d mis-

judged him. If he was one of the

upper-deckers, he’d have been

dressed much more elegantly and

would probably trim his facial hair

once in a blue moon. Yet, he wasn’t

harmless. Whoever he was, it

seemed he was here to deliver a mes-

sage. Nigel wished he’d just spit it

out rather than playing this silly cha-

rade.

“‘Win a trip of a lifetime: a cruise

down the river Danube to celebrate

Honvéd’s tenth European Cup vic-

tory,’ it said. Well it’s a bad trip, if

you ask me, friend.”

There was a long pause after this re-

mark, as though the old fellow was

hoping something would sink in.

“Least, I’ve finally found one sensi-

ble soul on board. I’m as proud as

the next chap, don’t get me wrong –

it’s an impressive record we hold,

now, but (added but)I’m starting to

wish I’d stayed home and had a quiet

night in, watching videos of Sebes’

World Cup heroes of the sixties.”

Something flickered in the back of

Nigel’s mind, but with another sip of

Dreher it was gone – as was the last

drop of his drink. He waved towards

the bar staff for a refill. He’d give

this fellow the time of day then, if he

was going to fill him in on the Game.

“Missed the start of the glory years,

the fifties. Too young to know what

was going on and it was hard to fol-

low in those days, didn’t have tele-

visions, us peasants. Newspapers

only any good if you could read.

Too much politics around that time,

almost ruined it all. Poor old Ferenc

almost didn’t make it back to Hun-

gary, what with the Revolution.

Your fellow lent a hand in that, and

the American.”




Nigel had no idea what he was on

about now.

“He wasn’t helped by those bastards

at UEFA, though, when he did get

back. They’d only been around for

a couple of years and already they’d

lost the players’ registration forms,

so they weren’t allowed to play for a

couple of months.”

The man tutted as he looked to the

heavens. This UEFA bunch sounded

as useless as the pussy-farts at the

EU. Nigel guessed the Ferenc to

whom he was referring was Ferenc

Puskas, and enquired as such.

“Of course. The one and only.

Nearly signed for Manchester

United, did you know? After Mu-

nich,” the old man made the sign of

the cross, “they were left with half a

team, but in the end Ferenc decided

to stay put. Wouldn’t have worked

out anyway, he couldn’t speak your

language. Flirted with Spain too, but

Madrid thought he was past it at 31.

Turned out to be the worst decision

they ever made – and look what’s

happened to the buggers since.”

Nigel blinked. What had happened

to them since? Hadn’t they won a

whole bunch of these so-called Eu-

ropean Cups? There was that fellow

named di Stefano, Argentine wasn’t

he? He’d been their captain. And

hadn’t Puskas gone there? He could

have sworn he did. Wiki hadn’t led

him down the lane before. Recently,

there’d been a French fellow, too,

with a funny name. Zim Zam, Ziba

or something. Had a temper, he’d

heard. And they didn’t call them Eu-

ropean Cups anymore did they?

He was certain this tale the old man

was spinning was wrong. But then,

why was everyone upstairs halfway

to the moon over this Honvéd side?

He looked up to question the old fel-

low, and the seat was empty. A dark

shadow was drifting towards the

door, with the tap of the steel-tipped

cane faint now.

Well. Apparently the message had

been delivered. He re-opened the

laptop to see what other incon-

gruities this place held. He’d been

crossing back and forth across the

Ether for ages, so he knew that you

could sometimes take a wrong turn.

So, it hadn’t been Wiki, but he had




been led down the lane. He’d find

out who was responsible, although

he already had half a thought on that

score.

It wouldn’t be a problem to get back,

though. He just had to find where

the split in reality had occurred. ■




Tomasz Mortimer >

As the 1966 World Cup approaches,

we at the BBC have decided to pro-

duce a special multimedia supple-

ment, looking back on Hungary’s

great successes from the past four-

teen years. We will attempt to piece

together what has made the Mag-

yars so successful, not just on the in-

ternational stage, but also in club

football. We’ll also try to predict

how they’ll fare at this year’s com-

petition, at last taking place in the

cradle of the game, England, and

whether the more distant future is

as bright for the World Cup holders.

The upcoming battle for the Jules

Rimet Cup cannot come soon


LEFT TURN AT ALBUQUERQUE


enough for the English population,

but as you dust down your Union

Jacks and polish your rattles, pause

for a moment to think what this

tournament means to the people of

Hungary. Runners-up in 1954, and

winners in 1958 and 1962, the na-

tion at the centre of the fledgling

Eastern European Union is looking to

set an incredible record, by reaching

four World Cup finals in a row.

Moreover, they could become the

first team to win three world titles in

succession, as incomprehensible as

that sounds. Such an achievement

could not be exaggerated. Real

Madrid and Budapest Honvéd’s

three European Cups in three years

is a triumph for all to behold, as we

will discuss later, but to be able to

dominate the world for more than a

decade would be truly remarkable!

Can they do it and at the expense of

the country which gave birth to the

sport?

This supplement will also be the first

of its kind; a feast for all the senses.

You will be guided through our mini

history lesson with a combination of

the written word, radio commen-

taries and television footage. There-

fore, to fully enjoy the experience

you will need access to the follow-

ing:

Videotape player: Ampex 2-inch

Quadruplex VR1000, VR1200 or

VR2000

Cassette player: Philips EL 3300 or

similar

1952: Olympics

The journey started in 1952. Na-

tional team coach Gustav Sebes had

set up a scouting network which

scoured the country for the best tal-

ent available ahead of the upcoming

Olympics in Helsinki, Finland. Differ-

ent tactics were tried and tested,

but thanks to the pioneering meth-

ods of Englishman Jimmy Hogan, al-

most 40 years earlier, Hungary

already knew the way they were

going to play.

Their system was completely differ-

ent to anything that had ever been

seen before and their fluidity, both

with and without the ball, con-

founded everyone they came up

against. For the most part, the stars

of the team hailed from Budapest


LEFT TURN AT ALBUQUERQUE TOMASZ MORTIMER


Honvéd, the dominant club in the

Elit Bajnoki. There was Zoltán Czi-

bor, Ferenc Puskás and Sándor Koc-

sis, with other superb talents like

Nándor Hidegkuti thrown in for

good measure.

Hungary easily beat Italy 3-0, Turkey

7-1 and Sweden 6-0 before coming

up against friendly rivals Yugoslavia

in the Olympic Final. The Magyars

won it at a canter, with the 2-0 score

very flattering to the Slavs. The

Hungarians were happy just to re-

turn home with gold medals, how-

ever – much to the delight of

friends, family, and an adoring pub-

lic. The world had been given their

first glimpse of the ‘Mighty Mag-

yars’. Much more was to come.

1953: Match of the Century

A year later, Hungary lined up

against England at Wembley, on a

cold November night. It was a game

readers will no doubt remember,

and probably never forget.

Since the formation of the FA, Eng-

land had been comfortable in its su-

periority with regards to the game it

invented. Its governors saw no need

to become too involved in any foot-

ball affairs beyond the home na-

tions. Nor did the FA or club

chairmen see any need to evolve

our basic tactics or training meth-

ods. Our position as founders would

carry us through any challenge. As

a result, innovative thinkers, such as

Jimmy Hogan, were more welcome

in the cafes of Budapest and Vienna

than they were at the local pub.

The Three Lions had never been

beaten at Wembley by a foreign

team, but nothing lasts forever.

Sebes’ men relished the chance of

becoming the first visitors to come

away from the cradle of the game as

victors.

[Play first video reel]



BBC video transmission.

First aired 14.12 – 16.04 GMT,

Wednesday 25 November 1953.

England versus Hungary.

Empire Stadium, Wembley,

London. Attendance: 105,000.

Commentator:

Kenneth Wolstenholme.

© Broadcasting House.


14.14: England, then, defending

the goal to our right, and now

there's an exhibition of ball control.

Just look at that from the inside left,

Puskas. Well, we see a great deal of

that, I think we're gonna have an

awful lot of trouble holding these

unbeaten Hungarians. Lined up in

their usual formation, with a front

five of Budai, Kocsis, Hidegkuti,

Puskás and Czbior.

14.15: Well, everybody has always

said, these continentals can't shoot,

but if that's a sample of what we're

going to have this afternoon, then

England are going to be in dire trou-

ble. 1-0 after 45 seconds, then, for

Hungary.

14.54: And that was Puskas, the in-

side left and captain, who scored

that one, and my goodness, if he can

turn on tricks like this, we ought to

have him on the music hall. I've

never seen such tremendous ball

control as that exhibition of that

back-heel and the quick shot. 3-1,

then, for Hungary.

14.57: Well, before the game,

everybody was telling me that it was

a lot of ballyhoo about these Hun-

garians, England would win. Well,

here we are, 27 minutes gone, 4-1

down.

15.36: They seem to play football

as the Harlem Globetrotters play

basketball, this Hungarian side.

16.02: So that’s it. Six goals to

three, all the goals coming within

the hour. An expectant crowd of

over 100,000 has been shell-shocked

today. England looked to be rallying

when Mortensen got the score to 4-

2 but Puskas, the Galloping Major

they call him, and I can see why,

pranced through the England de-

fence all afternoon, and Hidegkuti

scored three. England’s long and il-

lustrious home unbeaten run against

non-UK opposition has come to a

sudden end. These Mighty Magyars

have sent shivers down the spines of

so many footballing nations here.

[ENDS]

1954: World Cup

Hungary went into the Swiss World

Cup as massive favourites. They

were on a 31-game unbeaten run

which stretched back all the way to




1950. This included wins over Italy,

East Germany and Austria among

many other nations, and they had

just beaten England 7-1 in their last

warm-up game before the finals.

After cruising through a group in-

cluding West Germany (8-3) and

South Korea (9-0), the Magyars pro-

ceeded to beat both Brazil and

Uruguay by four goals to two (the

latter after extra time), to set up a

rematch with West Germany in the

final.

On 4 July 1954, under heavy rain,

the stage was set. After taking a

knock in the first game against the

West Germans, Puskás was not

quite fully fit, but Sebes decided to

field his star man nonetheless. The

decision looked justified as Puskás

put Hungary ahead after just six

minutes. When Zoltán Czibor added

the second goal two minutes later

the favourites seemed destined to

ease to victory - just as they had in

the group stage - and thus take the

trophy.

However, West Germany would not

lie down, and quick-fire goals from

Max Morlock and Helmut Rahn had

them level. Hungary were stunned

but managed to reach half time at

2–2, both teams having missed sev-

eral promising chances to take the

lead. The second half continued

where the first had left off, with

both teams were pouring forward,

desperately trying to nab a goal to

no avail – until…

With six minutes remaining, disaster

struck for Hungary. Rahn reached

the ball 20 yards from goal, deceived

the Hungarian defender by feigning

a right-foot shot and scored with his

weaker left. An equaliser from the

supposedly under the weather

Puskás was ruled offside by the

Welsh linesman.

It all seemed unreal for Hungary.

Puskás’ goal wasn’t offside and they

should even have had a penalty in

the last second, but at the end of

the day Hungary’s unbeaten run had

come to an abrupt end in one of the

biggest upsets in the history of foot-

ball.

It would be difficult for the Mighty

Magyars to bounce back from such

an emotional defeat and two years

down the line, the side had fallen




into disarray. In the summer of 1956

Sebes was sacked, and then came an

event which could have ended Hun-

gary’s footballing system altogether.

1956: Revolution

The stunning success of the Hungar-

ian revolution was pivotal to the na-

tion’s footballing revival. Under

communist rule, Hungarian football

had flourished but just prior to inde-

pendence, Magyar Foci was on the

decline. The players were being

treated like second-class citizens.

Sebes was first undermined by the

government and then removed

when results went against him.

Hungary fell into Russian hands at

the end of the War. The USSR took

every penny that Hungary had and

managed Budapest’s affairs from

Moscow. In 1953, when Joseph

Stalin died, the people of Hungary

were given some hope that they

might be free from Soviet rule.

Alas, life only became worse for

Hungarians as the new Soviet Pre-

mier, Nikita Khruschev, turned the

screw (or the sickle, for the poetic

among you). Many Hungarians

were out of pocket, barely able to

survive.

On 23 October 1956 students and

workers took to the streets of Bu-

dapest and issued their Sixteen

Points, which included personal

freedom, more food, the removal of

the secret police, and the removal of

Russian control.

At first, Kruschev was content to let

the protest be handled by local au-

thorities. Within a fortnight, it be-

came apparent that the movement

was gaining momentum and Bu-

dapest might fall. Russian forces

mobilised. Amazingly, students and

tradesmen in both Czechoslovakia

and Poland, the latter dissatisfied

with Moscow’s interpretation of the

Warsaw Pact, launched protests in

support of their Hungarian brethren.

Kruschev suddenly had brushfires to

put out in three cities.

Then the supposedly non-aligned

Marshal Tito took a hand, offering

encouraging words and calling on

western countries to offer support.

Kruschev, unfazed, simply called up

reinforcements.

England and the US were content to




stay out of the fray. Not only were

the Soviets now also a nuclear

power, but the US would look fool-

ish, to say the least, if they con-

demned Soviet intervention in

Hungary while supporting British

and French intervention in the on-

going Suez crisis. In London, how-

ever, ex-Prime Minister Winston

Churchill was meeting with former

US President Harry S. Truman. Very

much against the wishes of their

governments, the two somehow

managed to fly into Budapest.

Once there, the pair announced

their presence to the press and on

the radio, insisting that they would

not leave until Kruschev himself ar-

rived to negotiate a peaceful end to

the uprising. Suddenly, with two of

its iconic leaders in the thick of the

uprising, NATO was intensely inter-

ested in the fate of Hungary. With

grudging Soviet permission, NATO

emissaries arrived in Budapest to es-

cort Churchill and Truman to safety.

The old men refused to depart, in-

sisting upon negotiating a lasting

peace and an independent Hungary.

A month-long stalemate ensued,

with Yugoslavia’s Marshall Tito, long

a thorn in the side of Moscow, vol-

unteering, as a neutral party, to air-

lift supplies into the besieged city.

Kruschev was incensed at the cheek

of Tito but, with Truman and

Churchill on the ground, he was un-

able to refuse without sparking an-

other war. With the frightening

spectre of nuclear conflict the likely

result, neither side was willing to fire

the first shot.

Finally, with no other alternative, Kr-

uschev arrived to negotiate. The

talks lasted another month but

when all was said and done, Hun-

gary, Czechoslovakia, Poland and Yu-

goslavia each signed new

non-aggression and mutual defence

treaties with both the Soviet Union

and NATO. Under the Budapest Ac-

cord, which usurped the more So-

viet-biased Warsaw Pact, the

Eastern European Union was

founded, with the four nations

forming an economic partnership,

which Romania, Albania and, finally

East Germany joined.

The EEU served as a buffer between

the democracies of the West and

the totalitarian USSR. The twin mu-

tual defence pacts kept either side

from encroaching on the fledgling




states, enabling them to develop in

a peaceful, if tense, environment.

When the East Germans joined the

Budapest Accord in 1958, Bonn was

unhappy, as it prevented re-unifica-

tion, and NATO and the Soviets were

upset that they were politely but

firmly asked to leave Berlin.

In 1959, Churchill and Truman, the

man who dropped the first atomic

bomb, were awarded the Nobel

Peace Prize. Ten years, later, the

EEU is a thriving industrial bloc and

the Mighty Magyars, who were on

the brink of oblivion, along with the

rest of Hungary, are the dominant

force in football.

While Churchill, Truman and even-

tual Hungarian President Imre Nagy

were negotiating with Kruschev,

most of the Hungary players were

stranded in Spain, being in Bilbao

with Honvéd for a European Cup

match. Fearing for their lives, they

were reluctant to immediately re-

turn home. Left in limbo for weeks

as the Russians and Hungarians ne-

gotiated, Honvéd lost the tie, 6-5 on

aggregate, having to play the return

leg in Heysel. Finally, the Russian

troops and officials withdrew. The

players could fly home, be with their

families and play for the national

team, once more.

The whole episode couldn’t have

gone much better for Hungary. It

lifted their morale, not just socially,

but in football terms too, which

most Hungarians lived for. Sebes

was back in charge and the 1958

World Cup was in their sights. Could

they rebuild in such a short time and

banish the memories from the

Nightmare of Bern?

1958: World Cup

Hungary entered the 1958 World

Cup in stark contrast to their previ-

ous World Cup campaign. They

were no longer favourites for the

tournament, no longer a communist

country, and had the best team in

the world to compete against, in

Brazil.

Nevertheless, Hungary’s squad was-

n’t too depleted for the tournament

and heroes from the Olympic side of

’52, Puskás, Czibor and Kocsis were

all there to participate alongside

greats like Hidegkuti, Gyula Grosics,

and László Budai.




The Magyars were in a group with

Mexico, Wales and host Sweden.

On paper, it seemed a simple

prospect but the hurried prepara-

tions after political reformation had

made everyone nervous.

Hungary only played one warm-up

game before the tournament,

against a poor Finnish side, whom

they managed to beat 2-1. The per-

formance was well below what was

usually expected of them and the

odds makers were unimpressed,

making the Magyars longshots to

win, at 11-1.

After the Finnish result, the Hungar-

ian FA panicked and reinstated

Sebes. As fate would have it, the

move turned out to be a stroke of

genius. Reunited with their mentor,

the squad suddenly looked like

themselves again, defeating Wales

(2-1) and Mexico (4-0) before draw-

ing to a fierce Swedish side deter-

mined to defend their home ground

in front of a watching world.

In the quarter-final, Hungary drew

their former occupiers, the Soviet

Union. The match was a reflection

of the Budapest Accord, with the

Magyars flexing their independent

muscle and the Soviets looking hes-

itant and unsure. At half time, ten-

sions boiled over, with the two sides

brawling on their way into the club-

house. Each side received two red

cards but luckily for the Magyars

both of theirs were incurred by re-

serves.

When the two sides returned, the

Russians were refusing to take the

pitch, down two men. Sebes hud-

dled with the match officials and

FIFA president Arthur Drewry and

sportingly agreed to play with just

nine men. The match resumed and

the more skilled Magyars used the

extra space to effect, scoring twice

to claim a 2-0 victory.

Hungary then defeated old foes

West Germany (3-1), which went

some way to avenging their loss in

Berne. This set up a tie against the

best team in the World: Brazil.

The Brazil side looked incredibly

strong on paper – but so did Hun-

gary’s – and importantly, the Mag-

yars had gained in confidence as the

campaign had progressed.




[See back of Gustav Sebes/Ferenc

Puskás poster]

IO: Congratulations on your 2-1

victory Gusztáv. How did the players

feel going into their second World

Cup Final in a row?

GS: Many of the players felt a

lot more nervous than last time ac-

tually. You could see in their faces

just before kick-off that they were

thinking of the game four years ago,

and it was up to me to lift the spirits

in the dressing room. I started to

talk about how we convincingly beat

the World Champions in the semi-

final, and all the other fantastic per-

formances throughout the

tournament. I’d like to think it really

fired them up.

IO: What did you say to the

players at half-time when you were

leading by a goal to nil?

GS: Again, I had to make the

players believe in themselves so I

just told them to carry on playing

their game, and if they did that

they’d win the game. I was obvi-

ously nervous about some of the in-

dividual talent that Brazil had out

there, like Pele and Garrincha, but I

really believed my boys would bring

the trophy home.

IO: Explain your emotions when

Zagallo equalised in the last minute

for Brazil.

GS: I was shell-shocked. After

everything that we had come

through to get to this point, I

thought that the Football Gods had

at last smiled upon us but, going into

extrat time, I had to tell the boys to

carry on believing. I believed that

one goal, if we could find it, would

be enough and thankfully it was.

IO: It was a fine winner from

Puskás. In your view, is he the best

players who’s every played the

game?

GS: Without question. The boy

can do things the likes of which I’ve

never seen before. He’s transformed

the game into a modern age, almost



Gustáv Sebes.Interviewed by Imre Oláh.

First published in Nemzeti Sport, 6 July 1958. All rights reserved.


on his own. He can do anything,

dribble past defenders, score from

range, pass, cross. He’s the perfect

player – and a great friend. Even so,

he’ll be the first to tell you to keep an

eye on that young Brazilian, Pele.

[ENDS]

Hundreds of thousands converged

on Budapest to celebrate the play-

ers’ incredible achievement. It was

not just a win for football, but it was

a win for freedom.

1959-61: Honvéd Times

Honvéd struggled to make as much

of an impact in the newly formed

European Cup following the Hungar-

ian Revolution, only managing the

quarter-final on two occasions and

the last-16 on another. But with a

team full of players fresh from their

World Cup victory, it wasn’t going to

be long before they made their

mark. In a bold move they replaced

their coach with the great Jimmy

Hogan, who had by then reached

the grand old age of 77. There was

a lot of excitement about the ap-

pointment of the former MTK Bu-

dapest boss, but also a lot of

scepticism: was he too old for the

job? Could he work his magic on a

new generation of footballers?

These questions were dismissed by

the majority though; Hogan had al-

ready been credited with the foot-

ball revolution which lead to the

Hungarians demolishing England 6-

3 at Wembley, so if this was anything

to go by success was sure to come.

And success did come. 1958/59 was

the start of Honvéd’s three-year

continental dominance. They began

the campaign with a tricky visit to

Polish champions Polonia Bytom,

who they comfortably beat 6-1 over

two legs, before the competition re-

ally started to hot up. They were

pitted against the title-holders from

England, Wolverhampton Wander-

ers, and lost the first leg at Molineux

3-2, thanks to a hat-trick from Peter

Broadbent. The second leg was built

up as the ‘Game of the Decade’, but

it sadly didn’t live up to the hype.

Honvéd strolled the first half, and

were 3-0 up after just 20 minutes

thanks to goals from Kocsis and

Puskás. The second half didn’t get

any better for Wolves, who were

duly thrashed 6-0.




The quarter-final was even easier for

Honvéd: they beat Standard Liege 7-

2 on aggregate. Only Stade de

Reims stood in their way. Once

again, however, they walked over

their opposition, winning 2-0 in

France and 3-1 back in Budapest.

The final was to be a much harder

task. Honvéd were up against the

reigning European champions, Real

Madrid. While Hungary teetered on

the brink of obscurity, the Spaniards

had won the European Cup in the

first three years of its existence, but

they had not had an easy route to

the final this time. They squeezed

past local rivals Atletico Madrid in

their semi-final – a play-off was re-

quired after their two-legged tie

ended 2-2. Real won 2-1.

[Play second video reel]

17.03: [FP] And that’s the end of

the news summary. Now, until a

quarter to seven, we have live com-

mentary from the fourth European

Cup final, contested between Real

Madrid, from Spain, and Budapest

Honvéd, of Hungary.

17.04: [KW] Nearly 80,000 here in

Stuttgart, to witness these two play

out the final. Real Madrid have won

the first three but Honvéd, and Fer-

enc Puskás in particular, will provide

stiff opposition this evening. But it’s

already 1-0 to the Spaniards, Ma-

teos with the goal after only one

minute was on the clock.

17.27: [KW] Here goes Di Stefano,

and Di Stefano, has kept up his

amazing record of scoring in every

single European Cup final. He scored

their first goal in 1956 against Stade

de Reims, he scored their first goal in

1957 against Fiorentina, he scored

their first goal against AC Milan last

year, and this year, he’s had to be

content with scoring their second



BBC video transmission, in association with ARD

(German National Broadcasting). First aired 17.03 – 18.47 BST,

Wednesday 3 June 1959.Real Madrid (ESP) versus Budapest

Honvéd (HUN). Neckarstadion,Stuttgart, Attendance: 72,000.

Commentators: Kenneth Wolstenholme, Walley

Barnes (Frank Phillips, introducing).© Broadcasting House, ARD.


goal. It’s Real Madrid two, Honvéd

nil, from Real Madrid’s favourite

player, and how well it was struck by

Di Stefano.

17.45: [KW] Three goals to one

Real Madrid lead at the interval

then, worth their lead.

17.46: [WB] Their English coach,

Honvéd’s English coach, Jimmy

Hogan, will have a hard task getting

his team back into this one. Very,

very tall order now for the Hungari-

ans.

18.05: [KW] They’ve really come

out of the blocks like Bobby Joe Mor-

row, and they’re deservedly level at

3-3. That goal from Budai and the

two from Puskás, the second from a

free kick, have all been top drawer,

really perfect. They were calling this

the ‘Game of the Decade’ and it’s liv-

ing up to the billing this time, unlike

their tie against Wolverhampton

Wanderers, in the, earlier in the

tournament.

18.05: [WB] Much better game,

this. Much more enjoyable. So

much talent out there.

18.34: [KW] Mateos scores, and

that’s his second of the game and

Real Madrid’s fourth. Do the Hun-

garians have any punch left in them?

18.40: [KW] Puskás with his head,

and it’s in, they’re level, 85 minutes

played and we’re all square, 4-4.

What a player this fellow is, three

goals from him, what a time to

score.

18.44: [KW] Hungary not sure

what to do here, waiting for some-

one to move into position. It’s

thrown in. Kocsis, still Kocsis, and

it’s there. Kocsis has scored, and

surely won the game for Honvéd. All

his own work, Kocsis, left foot,

through the goalkeeper, 5-4. Won-

derful play from the inside forward,

Stanley Matthews would have been

proud of that play. Genius play.

[ENDS]

Honvéd had well and truly Broken

Read Madrid’s spell, and with a side

that included Puskás, Kocsis, Czibor,

József Bozsik, László Budai, Gyula

Lóránt and the national team goal-

keeper, Grosics, they won another

two European Cups, matching Di

Stefano and co.’s record. In




1959/60, Hogan gracefully and

gratefully retired and Károly Sós,

pried away from rivals Ferencvárosi,

took over. Honvéd didn’t miss a

step, thrashing Eintracht Frankfurt,

7-3, in the final, with four goals com-

ing from the talismanic Puskás. The

hat-trick of titles was completed, fit-

tingly, against Real Madrid in 1960,

this time by a more comfortable 4-1

scoreline.

1962: World Cup

As the 1962 World Cup approached

the Mighty Magyars were an ageing

side, and arguably weren’t quite at

the peak of their powers – but still

boasted class acts from the great

Honvéd side such as Puskás, Kocsis

and Czibor. They also included some

new names, like the highly talented

Flórián Albert and 22-year-old Ernő

Solymosi . The Magyars went to

Chile with a lot of optimism and

were looking to become just the

second nation to win back-to-back

World titles, after the great Italian

side of the 1930s. Yet no European

side had yet won one the Jules

Rimet on South American soil.

The players arrived in South America

a month before the tournament was

due to begin, which gave them a

long time to prepare, bond and get

used to the conditions which the un-

familiar continent had to throw at

them. They scheduled warm-up

games against both club and inter-

national sides.

Things didn’t begin well though, as

they lost their first two preparation

matches. A Pelé-inspired Santos

beat them 3-1, and they also fell to

another Brazilian team, Sao Paulo,

4-3. The team gradually started to

gel though, as they beat Argen-

tinean opponents Estudiantes and

River Plate 2-0 and 5-1 respectively.

As the team moved on to Chile, con-

fidence was brewing within the

Magyar camp and they were

greeted by a rapturous reception as

they arrived in Santiago. The

Chilean fans appreciate good foot-

ball, which was clear to see as the

fans lined the streets to welcome

the Hungarians into their country.




[Play second audio cassette]

DC: How have you enjoyed your

time in South America so far?

FP: Very good. Here, it has

been unbelievable. These people

[the Chileans] treat us like we have

just saved the world from disease

and famine. We are greeted as he-

roes, not football players.

DC: And how do you think you

will do in your next match, against

Colo Colo?

FP: We played OK but lost twice

[in Brazil]. Now we are getting used

to the weather here, the food, the

pitches. Now we win our next two,

so people start to talk about us

again. We don’t worry too much

about the scores at the moment, so

I won’t make a prediction. And for

me, personally, I am scoring so I am

happy.

DC: You’re always scoring.

What’s the secret?

FP: There is no secret.

(Long pause)

DC: So how do you see the

team’s chances in the tournament,

can you emulate the Italian team of

the ‘30s and claim back-to-back

World Cup wins?

FP: I don’t make promises, but

all I say is we are playing well and

we are experienced. We have been

in the last two finals and lucky

enough to win one, but there are a

lot of good teams this year. I am just

glad we are free to play football – if

we win, then all the better.

[ENDS]

The first game in Chile was special,

as more than 50,000 fans flocked to

see Colo Colo take on the Hungari-

ans. The visitors ran out comfort-

able 9-2 winners, with Puskás

predictably scoring six on his own.



BBC audio transmission.First aired 14.30 – 14.34 BST,

Tuesday 8 May 1962.Ferenc Puskás,

Interviewed by David Coleman, Via translator Sándor Koman.

© Broadcasting House.


Not worried by the result, the

Chilean fans continued their good-

will and Hungary left the field to a

standing ovation. If their competi-

tors didn’t know it before, they now

knew the Mighty Magyars meant

business. They then moved on to

beat Everton (of Chile), prior to de-

feating the national sides of

Venezuela, Japan and the USA, be-

fore the real event began at the end

of May.

Many of the pundits had tipped

Brazil to secure their first world title.

They had a great side, including Gar-

rincha, Pelé, Vavá and Amarildo –

plus, like Hungary, the backing of the

Chilean crowds. They could also

claim some form of home advan-

tage, being familiar with the conti-

nent, and this would give them an

edge over the European contenders.

Hungary cruised through the group

stage defeating England, Argentina

and Bulgaria, before knocking out

Czechoslovakia in the quarter-final.

They defeated Yugoslavia 4-1 in the

semi-final thanks to braces from

Lajos Tichy and Albert, which set the

final everyone wanted (not least the

Chilean fans) – a tasty affair with

Brazil.

With Puskás failing to recover from

an injury sustained against the

Czechs, the Hungarians’ task looked

a tricky one indeed. They may have

been expecting a good level of sup-

port from the Chilean crowd after

their amorous welcome a few weeks

ago, but the fans inside the Estadio

Nacional gave their full backing to

Brazil, who had been even more

rampant than the Magyars on their

way to the final. Almost 70,000 peo-

ple were to be disappointed though.

Albert opened the scoring for Hun-

gary inside of a minute, before Soly-

mosi added a second just two

minutes later. Suddenly, the match

was being played in a vast canyon

rather than a stifling cauldron.

Coming out in the second half, the

crowd tried recovered some of its

voice and attempted to carry the

Brazilians back into the match. One

man, especially, picked up the ban-

ner for the Brazilians. Young Pele,

now twenty-one, showed the world

that Puskas was not the only foot-

baller who could take over a match.

Time and again, he made inroads

into the Magyar box but Hungary

keeper Grosics held the game score




less for almost the entire half.

Finally, in the eighty-seventh

minute, Pele broke through, literally.

Shouldering off three defenders he

weaved into the box and, leaning to

his left, sent the ball off the outside

of his right foot, deceiving Grosics

and bringing the Selecao to within

one.

Three minutes into stoppage time,

he was in clear again on a perfect

through ball and buried his chance,

only for his joy to turn to despair

upon seeing the linesman’s flag

raised high in the air. The Brazilians

surrounded the match official, iron-

ically a Soviet, but to no avail. The

call stood and, as the Magyars felt

they had been wronged eight years

earlier, in Bern, it was now the

Brazilian’s turn. Hungary, not with-

out controversy, had conquered the

world for a second time in succes-

sion.

Footage of the play is grainy and one

is unable to simultaneously view the

ball being released and Pele splitting

the defenders, so history will never

know whether the goal should have

stood. Regardless, Hungary’s run in

the finals over the past three tour-

naments remains an astounding

achievement.

The players were greeted in Bu-

dapest by thousands lining the

streets, signing ‘Ria Ria Hungaria’.

The scenes were reminiscent of the

victory parade four years before, but

this time they had achieved great-

ness with an unfancied, ageing side.

This proved to the world that the

Mighty Magyars should never be

written off.

1966: Three in a row?

Legends Hidegkuti, Puskás and Koc-

sis have all retired, and several oth-

ers will be joining them after this

year’s World Cup. Young players

have come through to replace these

three, but this is no doubt a weaker

Hungary team than the one that had

dominated world football over the

past decade. Still, Hungary will be

the team to beat, no doubt about

that.

The Brazilians are of course always a

threat, and a repeat of the 1962

final looks a distinct possibility.

England will have home advantage,




and with a good, confident leader in

Alf Ramsey they will be looking to

get to the semi-final at least. The

former Ipswich Town manager pre-

dicted an England triumph when he

took over the national team three

years ago, and we’ll see if he can pull

it off.

This England team will have been

told the tale of the Magyar’s first

memorable victory and, should the

two squads meet, will be motivated

to redress that blemish on the Three

Lions record.

As well, the part played by Churchill

in securing Hungary’s independence

has had an effect on the English

game. It is still very rough and tum-

ble, with players as happy to get a

boot in a player’s way as they do on

the ball, but the days when forward

thinking in tactics was scoffed at are

well and truly gone. It was late in

life but Jimmy Hogan was at last

given a top flight chance with Lon-

don side Tottenham, and he made

the most of it with three runners-up

finishes in the league and an FA Cup

to put in his trophy case.

Hogan was said to have been consid-

ered for the England job, but when

Walter Winterbottom was retained,

he went into retirement, until that

one final swan song at Honvéd.

So, there is a healthy mix of strength

and imagination within the England

side under Alf Ramsey and the

Three Lions are eager to take the

torch from the Mighty Magyars,

Future

With the Hungarian economy expe-

riencing something of a decline,

after its initial post-Soviet revival, it

is hard to think that a significant

amount of money will be injected

into the game. History has shown

that dominance within the sport

tends to be cyclical and Hungary

have been pedalling far longer than

anyone previously has. As men-

tioned, they have lost some truly

great players and only time will tell

whether their replacements can

match their feats.

As well, the younger stars are begin-

ning to be attracted by the money

on offer in Spain and Italy. Playing in

foreign leagues may be the wave of

the future but one wonders how




much it will erode the unity that the

Mighty Magyars have always been

able to bring to bear?

The 1958 side, in particular, was

such a special team, the likes of

which may never be seen again.

Tactically, they were revolutionary.

Under Hogan for one last season,

they perfected the old man’s teach-

ings. The individual talent on show,

such as Puskás with his drag back

against Billy Wright, was ingenious.

Yet, this sort of thing was seen as

commonplace within the Hungarian

side. They weren’t just a side of

great individuals, but they were a

team who played for each other and

blended magnificently well. The

Mighty Magyars will never be for-

gotten, and if this current crop are

half as good they may be waltzing

back to Hungary with an historic

third trophy. ■




Nigel felt a little green around the

gills. The pressure in the first class

cabin was uncomfortable, to say the

least. The stewardess had offered

him a piece of chewing gum to help

him adjust to the sudden change in

altitude. She was certainly a pretty

one, hair shining like corn in the sun,

eyes as blue as the ocean, and a gor-

geous smile.

Amazingly, she had been charmed

by his little history lesson on the ori-

gins of chicle. It had been nice to

come across something that Man

hadn’t completely overhauled, de-

spite it being around for five millen-

nia. Basically, chicle had become

chicklets. Chewing gum was simple

and the simple things were the best.

An aeroplane, on the other hand, was


KLM Flies From The Old Gum Tree


not a simple thing. Build a contrap-

tion out of dense steel and iron, stuff

it full of people, use an explosive

chemical propellant to rocket it into

the heavens and then try to avoid

lightning storms, mountainsides and

innocent migratory birds minding

their own business, before somehow

touching gently down to Earth again,

on the other side of the planet. It

was insanity to even consider such a

contrivance!

Yet, Man claimed air travel was safer

than crossing the street. So, he had

been daft enough to give it a try, just

for the experience. Safe? Right.

Tell that to – where was it again? He

tapped a few keys. Ah yes, Locker-

bie. Tell it to those folks or the poor

sods in the World Trade Center. Of

course, he wasn’t making the expe-

rience any better by spending it re-

searching air disasters.

Thankfully, it was only a short flight,

from Vienna to Amsterdam. Having

retraced his path back from the alter-

nate Budapest, he’d decided to keep

on with his reconnaissance of the

modern world before he did any-

thing rash about the state of the

Game.

The last War fascinated him. It had

certainly reshuffled the deck in Eu-

rope. Many of the old powers were

gone or reduced to bit-part players in

the game of houses, and new nations

had sprouted up all over the place.

He needed to get his bearings and

Holland was the perfect place to do

that.

They had managed the War, coming

out relatively unscathed, despite

being trapped between the Jerries

and his lads for the duration. The

Dutch had always been like that.

Here they were, tucked into a tiny

corner of the continent with bullies

France, Germany and England on

every side. And let’s not forget the

Sea, which had been battering their

defences for centuries, hoping to

swallow them up. Yet, they had held

their own, thrived even.

Until the Swiss took over in the early

twentieth century, they had been the

world’s bankers. Amazing, when

you think about it. A tiny country

surrounded by giants who all owed

it money, and they had somehow

managed to keep their heads at-

tached to their necks. You had to re-


KLM FLIES FROM THE OLD GUM TREE


spect that and, if you used your nog-

gin, learn from it.

As cramped as they were, the Dutch

had some peculiar but handy ideas

about space. They saw it differently,

filling it, but never to the point of

overcrowding, using it, but never

using it up. Both imaginative and ef-

ficient, their ideas had translated

well into their football.

This Michels fellow and his Total

Football impressed. Pity he’d been

napping and missed his chance to

watch the chap in action. Michel’s

best player, Cruyff was it, had done

well, too, bringing the Dutch game

to Catalonia. He had changed it a bit

from the original, though. So had

this young fellow, Guardiola. Al-

ways tinkering and ‘perfecting’.

That was Man’s way; forever chang-

ing, too seldom remembering. Some

of the best ideas in Michel’s design

had been forgotten, as had some of

his best players. Shame, that.

A soft hand gently touched his arm.

He looked up and it was the pretty

young hostess, smiling at him. They

had landed and he hadn’t even no-

ticed. Hmph. Maybe this type of

flying wasn’t so bad once you be-

came accustomed to it. Not that he’d

give up the usual method. No, the

old ways were often the best.

Still, it was always worth keeping an

eye on what Man was up to. Perhaps

he’d check out the Chunnel next.

Fly the friendly skies and journey to

the centre of the Earth. The best part

of Man was his boundless imagina-

tion.

He waited until the last passengers

had disembarked, then took his leave

with the young woman on his arm.

She was chatting merrily, telling him

all about Holland, as she flagged

down a hansom to take them to her

flat in the Jordaan. Well, the Chun-

nel could wait. He was not one to

turn down the invitation of such a

fair maiden. ■


KLM FLIES FROM THE OLD GUM TREE


Mohamed Moallim >

The internet, and YouTube in partic-

ular, has become a wonderful tool

for the football junkie; endless hours

wasted basking in nostalgia,

whether it be great memories,

goals, moments, or even the odd

controversy.

But something I’ve come to lament

is the lack of individual highlights,

show reels, compilations – call them

what you like – of some of the great

players from a bygone age. Players

who should be forever crystallised,

their memories echoing through

time. My favourites have a common

denominator; see if you can guess it:

Johnny Rep, Rob Rensenbrink, Ger-


RUDOLF JOZEF KROL


rie Mühren, Arie Haan. Have you got

it? I’m sure you have.

However, one name I’ve omitted

from that list is the biggest scandal

of all. A player who I believe has no

equal, either during his generation

or since, in Europe or further afield.

His name should be synonymous

with Total Football, rampaging full-

backs, elegant sweepers. His name

is Rudolf Jozef Krol.

Here I must jump ahead somewhat

to stress the term ‘total football’ has

lost its original meaning today,

where it’s associated with free-flow-

ing, passing, attacking football. The-

oretically no side has played Total

Football system since the mid 1970s

and frankly, it may be a long time

until we see another side achieve

the same level that Krol and co. did.

Where to begin with Krol, this mar-

vel, this legend of the game? Su-

perlatives soon start to dry up. In

the modern game, many get carried

away with Dani Alves’ attacking

prowess – even I do sometimes –

but Krol was on another planet, if

not another galaxy. Yes, he was pre-

dominantly a left-back (early in his

career, anyway), but I also believe

his mate and counterpart on the

other flank, Wim Suurbier, was also

a greater player than Alves will ever

be. But that’s another article for an-

other time.

Krol, on his day (which was more or

less every time he took to the field),

dominated the entire left flank. It

was his domain; no-one touched

him. It’s amazing, considering that

as a youth player he was mainly

right-footed. When Theo van Duiv-

enbode left Ajax in the summer of

1969, Krol was drafted into the

squad. His coach, Rinus Michels, set

him a challenge: take that vacant

spot. But Krol needed to change his

game – slightly.

Michels wanted Krol to be as effec-

tive with his left foot as his right, to

maximise his attacking potential,

while also thinking of the various

ways he could counter the opposi-

tion that would pose him problems.

Michels also knew of the one major

stumbling block to his development:

his party lifestyle. He even com-

mented that the biggest threat to

Krol wasn't wingers, but the Amster-

dam nightlife.


RUDOLF JOZEF KROL MOHAMED MOALLIM


Krol accepted the gauntlet. He

would spend hours after training

working on his left foot, with

Michels watching on. Deep down,

Krol knew Michels truly believed in

him, and that he could reach for the

stars if he applied himself correctly.

In his first pre-season for

the club, the defender’s

impressive displays

against Schalke 04 and

Manchester City justified

Michels’ belief, and he

was given an opportunity to prove

himself in the league. In one of his

first games he scored a spectacular

goal against Sparta Rotterdam,

catching everyone’s attention. The

following day in training Michels ac-

knowledged that he was on the right

path with a simple pat on the back

and word in the ear.

Before he could get his head around

where he was in his career, the 20-

year-old Krol was lining up for the

national team. His début came

against England, and despite playing

well the Netherlands lost

the game 1-0, which was

no shame against the

then world champions.

Two months later in the

reverse fixture Krol

played again in a goalless

draw. After an imperious perform-

ance against him, England winger

Francis Lee labelled Krol as the finest

left-back he'd ever faced.

However, back on the domestic

footing, things weren’t always rosy;

despite an impressive start his place

in the first XI wasn’t always guaran-

teed. Ajax had started to build a

reputation as a slick-passing attack-

ing team, and as their fanbase grew,

so did the level of expectation. The

fans demanded to be entertained.

Michels noticed this, and in order to

sate their appetite he would often –

in the home games at least – bench

Krol in favour of a more attack-

minded player (often the forward

Dick van Dijk).

However, when Krol was benched

for a tricky away game against MVV

Maastricht, he went to see Michels

in his office the following day to ask

him about his decision. Krol later re-

flected on that moment: “I know

there were always exciting stories

about me and how I lived my life,

but in those days I was a serious pro-



Back on the

domestic front,

things weren’t

always rosy


fessional. I simply asked for the rea-

son and since then, I started in all

the games.”

An early setback saw Kroll miss

Ajax’s first European Cup triumph,

against Panathinaikos in 1971 (he

was sidelined with a broken leg

which he picked up against NEC just

before the semi-final against

Atlético Madrid). This was the low-

est point in his career.

Krol later described the agony of

missing out on what would have

been his first European Cup final:

“You would stand there in the wide

tunnel in Wembley, waiting to go

onto the pitch. You had to wait a bit

for the formalities. That feeling then

and there, the sound, the excite-

ment, that’s why you play football.

“The best players in the world stood

there and they all felt the butterflies.

And there I was, with my leg in a

cast. And the noise from the stands

swells up. The orgy of sound, of

hope, singing, chanting, yelling.

“Nowhere in the world is a venue

noisier than Wembley. And I was

there, among the players, but they

got to play and I could only watch. It

was the hardest moment of my ca-

reer.”

That disappointment quickly left

him the following season. Krol be-

came an integral part of the all-con-

quering side that won every piece of

silverware up for grabs, setting all

kinds of records in the process.

He was tailor-made for Michels’ sys-

tem, which was continued by the

coach’s successor, Ștefan Kovács.

Like most – if not all – of his team

mates, Krol was adept in various po-

sitions on the pitch, in what became

known as the Total Football philoso-

phy. Krol would often drift into the

centre of the pitch, if the passage of

play required it. Once that hap-

pened, defensive midfielder Arie

Haan would take up Krol's original

position. As Krol moved into this

central position, it was more than

likely he would take up a deeper

role. This was mainly to cover for el-

egant centre-half Barry Hulshoff,

who liked to continue his forward

runs and join the attack. His partner,

the sweeper Horst Blankenburg, in

the same passage of play would

shuttle across to the vacant right-

back position, and Suurbier would




end up as a right-winger.

There was no rushing in the Ajax sys-

tem – there was no need to. It was

built to make sure the players were

as fresh at the end of the game as

they were at the

start. Krol explained

the simplicity of the

system:

“It was also a solu-

tion to a physical

problem. How can

you play for 90 minutes and remain

strong? If I, as a left-back, run 70

metres up the wing, it's not good if I

immediately have to run back 70 to

my starting place. So if the left mid-

fielder takes my place and left

winger takes the midfield position,

then it shortens the distance. That

was the philosophy.”

Krol's intelligence meant that he was

often the organiser at the back, at

times in tandem with Johan

Neeskens, the instigator of the

team’s pressing

game. But where he

was deadly was in

his natural domain:

often more of a left-

winger, alongside

the likes of Johan

Cruijff, Piet Keizer

and Johnny Rep, he would cause

plenty of problems for the opposi-

tion.

Much of his attacking prowess he at-

tributed to studying and learning

from Keizer, with whom he was

close. The defensive side of his

game he attributed to Velibor

Vasović, the great libero:

“I was always looking what Vasović

was doing. I watched what he did,

how he did it. I tried to think and

move like him. Vasović played so

many games without making one

mistake. I learned a lot from him.

He was the conductor.”

Krol’s biggest strength was undoubt-

edly his tenacity. In the space of

about two years he made the step

up from talented junior player in the

fourth class Rood-Wit Club to inter-

nationally respected Ajax defender.

This takes more than just talent. His

first contract was 2,500 guilders per

year, with an extra 60 coming in

bonuses for games won. This

equates to around £22,000 in



If I run 70 metres up

the wing it’s not

good if I immediately

have to run back 70

to my starting place


today’s money. He later said, “I

knew it was hardest for me to go to

Ajax, what with the competition and

all, but I also knew that if I’d make it

there I could make it anywhere.”

As a student of the game, Krol was

ever learning. When Ajax played

Celtic in the 1970/71 European Cup,

Jimmy Johnstone often got the bet-

ter of him to the extent the left-back

was made redundant in the game.

Nevertheless, words of encourage-

ment from Michels put paid to that.

The manager, who would later be

crowned FIFA Coach of the Century,

urged Krol to rethink his approach

and adapt to the situation, instead

of letting it get to him. By doing this

he could get one over on his tor-

mentor, and that he did.

The 1972 European Cup final tri-

umph over Internazionale was the

game that cemented the team’s

legacy. Although Cruijff would go on

to claim the individual accolades, he

remained humble in praise of his

team mates, often saying Krol was

one of the finest players he played

with, if not the best.

Back to the international scene. Krol

was as effective in orange as in red

and white. His brilliant play on the

left flank was key to The Nether-

lands’ near-success at the 1974

World Cup, no more so than as

provider of Cruijff’s now famous

goal against Brazil. However, that

brilliant Dutch side were denied the

success that Krol and Cruijff enjoyed

at club level, finishing as runners-up

to West Germany, who defeated

them 2-1.

Four years later and now minus Crui-

jff, they came even closer to glory.

Now captaining the side and playing

as a Vasović-esque sweeper, Krol al-

most scored the winning goal in the

final: his free kick from deep in his

own half was missed by Rensen-

brink, and the ball rebounded off

the post. Yet more agony. The game

went to extra time, where Argentina

triumphed 3-1.

Krol won 83 caps for l’Oranje and

was the most-capped Dutch player

until Aron Winter broke his record in

2000. Only eight players have rep-

resented The Netherlands on more

occasions than Krol.

Despite playing over 300 games in




12 seasons for Ajax, he felt that his

decision not to leave along with

Neeskens, Keizer and Cruijff may

have hindered his career. This in no

ways besmirches the club – it was

clear for all to see that the glory days

were waning. He did eventually de-

part in 1980, when he moved to the

States to play in the North American

Soccer League with the Vancuvoer

Whitecaps. He returned to Europe

after a year, where he played for

four seasons at Serie A side Napoli.

There, he became an instant fans’

favourite and is revered to this day.

After playing for a further two years

in France for Cannes, Krol hung up

his boots in 1986. Three years later,

unsurprisingly he took up the man-

agerial game, starting out at KV

Mechelen. Six clubs and 22 years

later he is still at it, managing the Or-

lando Pirates in the South African

Premier Soccer League.

YouTube may not have much of his

individual highlights, but no matter

what any poll or survey says, he is

the greatest left-back that has ever

been. No equal, no question. It’s a

real shame that generations to

come will not witness the brilliance

of one of the finest players to have

played the game. ■




“What, all of you? Really?”

“Yes, Jonathan, all of us. The cus-

tom’s been passed down for ages.

Wouldn’t make this sort of thing up,

would I?”

“What about Davies?"

(Nod)

“Coleman?”

(Bigger nod)

“Wolstenholme?!”

“Are you kidding? Ken was the

grandfather of it all, he loved the

stuff. He popularised the fatty in

England! Seriously Jonathan, I’m

telling you, we’re all at it. Come on,


Smoke Two Johns In The Afternoon,And It Makes Them Feel Alright


give it a try. They only do the pure

shit here now, since the tobacco ban

three years ago.”

The two men were speaking in

hushed, secretive tones, but Nigel

had little trouble making out their

conversation from across the

sparsely populated Amsterdam café,

even with the ceiling fans whirring

and clicking away. They were from

his neck of the woods, these two. He

wasn’t familiar with their faces but

recognised their voices from some-

where.

The sceptic, Jonathan, was middle-

aged, with a round, stubbly face,

topped with dark, wavy hair that had

won its morning battle with his

comb. He was dressed in a plain but

rumpled pastel blue shirt, baggy

black trousers and a pair of sensible

black brogues.

His cheeky companion looked a

good twenty years older. His

washed-out hair was neatly trimmed

and slicked back, but the twinkle in

his eye and his rosy cheeks gave the

impression of a youthful spirit. A

bright, ill-fitting ensemble con-

firmed this suspicion. The light or-

ange t-shirt with black sleeves, and

matching black shorts were em-

bossed with the letters ‘BFC’. The

kit was completed with a pair of

black stockings, pulled up to the

knees. On his feet sat a pair of bright

green sandals.

Nameless was polishing what turned

out to be a pair of thick-rimmed sun-

glasses with his napkin. He looked

even more pretentious than he

sounded when he put them back on.

Returned to their station they now

perched themselves on the end of his

nose. What was the point of dark

lenses when the dim light barely

punctuated the dense smoky air?

The conversation became more ani-

mated as Nameless tried to cajole a

still unconvinced Jonathan.

“I dunno. Really? You having me

on?”

“Well, I better just say, in case there

are any pesky gutter press listening

in, this is all made up and in no way

representative of my professional be-

liefs.”

Jonathan looked relieved. “Oh.


SMOKE TWO JOHNS IN THE AFTERNOON


So… it’s not true?”

“No! Of course it’s true, it’s all fuck-

ing true. That was just a disclaimer,

my son.”

Nameless sported a mocking grin as

he passed Jonathan a rudimentary

cigarette. He leant forward and held

out a lighter at arm’s length, pointing

it at his partner’s head like a re-

volver. With a metallic flick and

click a flame appeared and Nigel’s

nostrils flared at the faint but pun-

gent odour of butane. Nameless mo-

tioned for Jonathan to light the

cigarette. Jonathan obliged. Copi-

ous coughs ensued.

A waiter appeared by Nigel’s side,

interrupting the show momentarily,

so a drink was ordered to keep up ap-

pearances. These two were provid-

ing ample entertainment to justify

whatever ludicrous price he was

about to be charged for a mug of hot

water and sprinkle of coffee bean.

Tea wasn’t even on the menu – what

had these Europeans been smoking?

A small bell sounded as someone left

the café, and a light breeze swept

through the room. Nameless took a

large sheepskin coat from the back

of his chair and draped it round his

shoulders. He left his arms and

hands unhindered to craft another

cigarette.

They were both at it now, inhaling

loudly and spluttering broken senti-

ments. The latest creation was

passed across the table to Jonathan,

and it was eagerly received this time.

“Frees the mind, see?”

“Yup… that it does! You’ve never…

never done this before going live on

air though, surely?”

The older gentleman’s cheeks were

redder than an urchin’s spanked

backside now.

“Aha! All the time, Jonny boy. You

don’t think I could come up with half

my shit with a clear head, do you?

Those falsetto moments don’t come

out of nowhere.”

Jonathan looked bamboozled, almost

crestfallen.

“Oh. Mine do. You know… some-

times I forget where I am and ac-

credit a goal to Matilda or Sir




Killalot. Spent six years doing that,

force of habbit, y’know? Guess

what the Beeb do to cover it up.”

Nameless arched an eyebrow in

reply.

“They just use the time delay to edit

it, extend whatever I’d said just be-

fore into one long screech. Makes

me sound silly.”

The older gentleman furrowed his

brow as he flicked the drooping end

of his cigarette into a small porcelain

figurine of a nude lady that was dou-

bling as an ashtray.

“Yes I suppose it does. But it’s your

catchphrase.”

“I know. They take the piss though,

the runners, the tea-makers, even the

cleaners. The other day a road

sweeper trundled past me in the early

morning as I was going for a jog. He

shouted ‘Morning Jonathaaaan’ out

the window of his little buggy, in a

real high-pitched voice. Made me

want to give it all up.”

Nameless stood up and removed his

glasses. He examined his younger

companion from head to toe, assess-

ing him with exaggerated serious-

ness. Disbelief was written across

his face like a neon sign in Piccadilly

Circus.

“You go jogging?”

For a moment, Nigel thought the

question would elicit an angry re-

sponse. By Pan’s hooves, it took less

than that to set Otto off.

Jonathan’s mouth motioned as if to

reply, but he bit his lip. He stared at

Nameless. Nameless stared back.

The silent shootout continued for

what seemed like an age, until

Jonathan broke the impasse with a

snigger. Nameless followed suit.

This progressed into a titter, and then

a full giggle. Within seconds tears




were streaming from both men’s

eyes. The madness lasted a couple

of minutes with Nigel looking on,

his face a picture of bewilderment.

Eventually the merriment subsided,

and Jonathan rekindled the conver-

sation.

“Reckon maybe I should cut my

losses. Jump ship.”

“Make one hell of a splash!”

More giggles.

Again, Jonathan regained himself

first and tried to continue.

“What’re they called, Bee Sky?”

“Thee Sky?”

“No, Bee Sky.”

“BSkyB?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why’d you call it that then? Every-

one just calls them Sky.”

“Dunno. To make them sound like

more of a faceless corporation, I

guess. You know, ‘don’t you just

hate those wankers down at

BSkyB?’”

“Sure do.”

Long pause.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Should I go for it? Work for them?”

“Work for who?”

“Sky!”

“Sky? Oh, yeah. Nah, you don’t

wanna go there. Bunch of tossers.

Anyway, they’d bully the likes of us.

Gotta have a nice suit, tight trousers

and a smooth face to get on there.”

“How the devil did Gary manage it

then?”

The pair erupted into more laughter

at this point, so much so that Nigel

thought it a good time to pay a visit

to the outhouse. He’d found out

they’d been moved indoors these

days, which he admitted did stop

him catching a chill when going




about his business.

When he returned the men were still

in fits of laughter, but they were now

slouched over what looked like

beached manatees, over in the cor-

ner. Jonathan’s manatee was leak-

ing; what looked like small marbles

were escaping from the ripped cloth

each time he shifted his weight.

Nigel assumed something similar

was going on in the man’s head.

Nigel left with the two men rolling

about on the floor, smoking and

laughing in equal measure. As he

walked out into the bright summer

sunshine he heard the older gentle-

man yip with delight.

“This stuff just gets better, and bet-

ter, and better!” ■




Stefan Bienkowski >

In recent weeks, the spotlight beam-

ing down on FIFA has never shone so

bright. It has burned through the

media etiquette and ignorance of

past establishments and highlighted

an almighty revolution that will no

longer allow fans to stand by the ill-

advised bureaucrats who run the

game. Never before has the line be-

tween right and wrong been so evi-

dent in football.

Yet that hasn’t always been the case;

the sport has had enough conspira-

cies, bribery scandals and match-fix-

ing accusations to be well-versed in

coping with the pressure of distin-

guishing which direction it treads on


WHEN THE DRUGS DON’T WORK


the road of morality. But what hap-

pens when the lines of distinction

become a little blurred, and people’s

priorities are diluted with the neces-

sity to make money?

Welcome to distorted history of

Colombian football.

Pablo Emilio Escobar was the first

character of questionable principles

to express an interest in the game,

30 years ago. A man who oversaw

80% of the world’s cocaine traffic,

and later controlled Colombian foot-

ball with just as much of a strangle-

hold, Escobar defined Colombian

culture in late 1980s. A notorious

drug lord, he made no secret of his

profession, simply because he didn’t

have to. He would pay off prosecu-

tors, judges, cops, and build hospi-

tals, schools and churches – as long

as it kept him out of jail.

A connoisseur of public relations, Es-

cobar spent a fortune building foot-

ball fields and sports centres, and

supporting countless charities and

youth teams. His reputation as

Medellín’s Robin Hood grew by the

day.

For most Columbians, Escobar was a

saint. Sure, he may have been a

drug dealer, but he was a man that

the people of the country’s second-

largest city loved and respected.

Of course, men of Escobar’s nature

don’t simply plough money into

such ventures without expecting a

return, and as a result Colombian

football descended into a hotbed of

corruption among officials and asso-

ciation leaders.

Between 1981 to 1986, América de

Cali won five consecutive league ti-

tles – but the abundant bribery of

officials meant the game had

reached a point where a league title

was no longer won on the merit of

the strength of your squad, but the

influence of your chairman.

With Escobar heading the list, noto-

rious drug barons’ names and influ-

ence had spread throughout

Colombian football to a point were

removing them would entail the

death of the game. It was an evil,

however necessary, that defined

Colombia’s troubles not only with

drugs, but a highly corrupt football

system.


WHEN THE DRUGS DON’T WORK STEFAN BIENKOWSKI


Having the richest drug dealers in

the world at your disposal did have

its perks. Through Escobar at

Atlético Nacional, José Gonzalo

Gacha at Millionarios and the Ro-

driguez Orejuela brothers at

América, Colombian

football experienced

a surge of invest-

ment that was un-

heard of in world

football.

Salaries went through the roof, av-

erage attendances went up to an all-

time high of 15,423 per game, and

stars like César Falcioni and Ricardo

Gareca flooded into the league as

Colombia swelled with pride. The

rest of South America watched in

envy.

Colombian football – and Escobar’s

Atlético Nacional in particular –

reached a new level of continental

success when the Medellín club won

the Copa Libertadores de América in

1989. They beat Olimpia of

Paraguay 5-4 in a

penalty shout-out,

after two legs of

heated action saw

the teams dead-

locked at 2-2.

Over the course of the late ‘80s

Colombian sides would reach the

final of the Copa Libertadores on

four occasions, and – perhaps more

significantly – ushered in a three-

year gap were no Argentine,

Uruguayan or Brazilian club would

reach a final.

While the rest of the world looked

upon Colombian society’s struggles

with drug-laundering and crime

with a sense of pity, the nation’s

football fans were celebrating in the

streets, proclaiming a golden era for

the sport. Football had well and

truly become the opiate of the

masses.

Yet, with all things in this sport,

nothing lasts forever. Escobar’s –

and thus Colombian football’s – days

were numbered.

Along with the new decade came a

new resolve among the Colombian

government to clean up the coun-

try’s top drug lords. With pressure

from the United States, the Colom-

bian government sanctioned the ex-

tradition of criminals to the US



For the first time in

15 years Colombian

football turned on

the hand that fed it


under the Colombian Constitution

of 1991.

Escobar fled. After two years of

fighting throughout the city of

Medellín he was caught and killed

by a joint Special Forces task group,

made up of American soldiers and

vigilantes funded by Escobar’s rivals.

Although Escobar’s death didn’t im-

mediately lead to the fall of Colom-

bia’s cocaine empire, it did spell the

beginning of the end. Whereas pre-

viously the nation’s motto, ‘Liberty

and Order’, had seemed laughable,

now its national anthem, ‘O Unfad-

ing Glory’, was looking the more

naïve.

The second of July 1994 was per-

haps the most significant date along

the road to recovery for the beauti-

ful game in Colombia. Ten days pre-

viously, Los Cafeteros (The Coffee

Growers) were knocked out of the

1994 World Cup at the hands of the

United States, by an own-goal from

defender Andrés Escobar.

That night Escobar would be mur-

dered while entering his car outside

a local diner, by a group of men

seeking vengeance for his gaffe.

His death led to a debate within

Colombian football that few had

deemed possible. Politicians,

lawyers and Public Officers died

when they got in the way of drug

money all the time, but never had

this happened to a beloved football

player.

In a country where football was

more important than any election or

religious holiday, the assassination

of one of its national footballers was

deemed an attack on Colombia’s

people. For the first time in 15

years, Colombian football and the

nation as a whole began to turn on

the hand that fed it, ironically, in the

name of morality.

For a short while, the Orejuela

brothers gained control of the mar-

ket, but they were rounded up in

1995 and tried in America. Colom-

bia had finally dealt with its crimi-

nals – and football would suffer for

it.

Without the drug market

bankrolling the league, clubs began

to struggle to maintain a profit. A




decade of free-spending had left lit-

tle appreciation for conservative

budgeting, and most top flight clubs

found themselves in uncontrollable

debt.

Average attendances fell in correla-

tion with salaries, as the big players

all moved back to Argentina and

Brazil. Colombian football began a

long transition period of living

within its means. It still struggles

today.

Now, drug money in the sport has

never been so low. New initiatives

from the government, forcing clubs

to cooperate with the Ministry of Fi-

nance to extinguish money-launder-

ing and financial crime as well as

imposing more transparency in the

process of investing in clubs, have

encouraged other businesses and

sections of society to stick their fin-

ger in the newly baked pie of Colom-

bian football.

Nevertheless, a shaky future looms.

While it may be presumed club own-

ers will sleep soundly having hit the

straight and narrow, they could still

face many a restless repose as finan-

cial burdens replace ethical ones.

Let’s hope one day Colombia can

enjoy success, this time without

having to compromise its morality. ■




Nigel stood in the shade of the Vera-

wood tree at the top of the hill. Its

bright yellow flowers and leafy

green branches made him nearly in-

visible to passersby. Those who did

notice him took no heed of a man

simply getting out of the hot midday

sun.

Hot was an understatement. It was

bloody scorching. Under his tree,

however, it was cool and, when a

soft breeze kicked up, even pleasant.

Still, he was getting damned tired of

waiting.

He looked down the dusty street to

the compound a hundred yards off.

It’s walls were chipped, reddish-

brown adobe, it’s gates heavy oaken

wood and wrought iron. There were

men with automatic rifles walking


Devil In Disguise


the rampart and two more concealed

in the alcove at the gate. Not that

they’d be any trouble. It was their

boss who he had to worry about and

maybe his guests, too.

They had certainly thrown him for a

loop. Coming down for breakfast, at

the out-of-the-way hotel in a sleepy

barrio on the edge of Medellin, he

had sensed them just before walking

out onto the balcony which over-

looked the lobby. He drew back and

stayed in the shadows. Seemingly,

they hadn’t noticed him.

A couple, young in appearance, both

blonde, immaculately groomed and

dressed casually in brightly coloured

polo attire, fresh denim and expen-

sive trainers, were chatting with the

rather seedy looking fellow behind

the desk. The husband also sported

an expensive watch and the missus a

shiny tennis bracelet and gaudy wed-

ding ring. They had ‘Rob Us’ writ-

ten all over them but anyone who

tried would get the surprise of their

lives – and probably the end of it.

He had never seen them before and

he had always made it a point to be

aware of the competition. Still, his

senses didn’t lie. They were gods.

They should have felt his presence

by now, as he had not seen them

until it was too late, but they were ei-

ther very good at masking their

awareness or were totally oblivious

to him.

Having gotten what they needed

from the clerk, they walked out into

the street, both now chatting on cell

phones as they held hands. Well, he

supposed that yuppies needed repre-

sentation, too, although they’d find

none of their constituents in this

neck of the woods.

Deciding that he’d better find out

what they were up to, even if it was

a trap, he masked his presence and

followed at a safe distance. Down

the street, some children were kick-

ing a ball in the middle of the road.

It got away from them and rolled to

the feet of the lady. Laughing gaily,

she popped it into the air with her

right foot and juggled it for a mo-

ment or two. Not too bad, Nigel

thought, impressed with her skill.

Giggling, she headed the ball to her

husband, who scrambled to keep the

ball in the air. After two lunging


DEVIL IN DISGUISE


kicks, he deposited it into a fruit cart

on the opposite side of the street.

That at least partially explained his

not knowing them. They were obvi-

ously American.

With the children laughing at the

man’s ineptitude and the vendor ges-

ticulating wildly over his spoiled

merchandise, the fellow sheepishly

pulled out a large billfold and

handed over several American notes.

The aggrieved vendor instantly be-

came his best friend, offering the

best of the undamaged fruit, while

the children clamoured after a bit of

booty for themselves. Smiling be-

nignly, the lady produced a few bills

from her clutch, passed them out and

shooed the ecstatic urchins on their

way.

As they ran down the street, the

woman watched them go, slipping a

maternal arm around her scowling

beau and reaching up to peck him on

the cheek. His face brightened a bit

as he looked around. His searching

eyes passed right over Nigel, who

had sat in an empty chair outside a

doorway, trying to blend in. Satis-

fied that all was well, the Yank led

his lady off down the road. He let

hem have another fifty feet before he

rose to follow.

Imagine his surprise when, after fol-

lowing them all the way through the

barrio, he realised that they were

heading to see the same person he

had traveled halfway ‘round the

world to meet. They had been ush-

ered into the compound as though

they were expected and had been in

there for two hours now.

Their host was not one to be trifled

with and as the time passed, he

began to wonder if he should go in

to find out if they were alright. They

had seemed oblivious to him and to

their surroundings on the stroll from

the hotel to their destination, yet

none of the many street toughs

which they had passed had paid

them any mind. Conversely, as he

followed, he had found it necessary

to discourage a handful of them.

Just what the couple were was a

mystery.

Then, as he finally stirred, his pa-

tience at an end, the gate swung

open. He settled back against the

Verawood trunk, twirling a yellow

blossom in his fingers as they strode


DEVIL IN DISGUISE


up the hill. He stared directly at

them, expecting a response, but both

were chatting away on their cells

again, not even sparing him a side-

ways glance as they went by.

He waited until they turned a corner

in the distance and moved towards

the compound. Walking at an easy,

unthreatening pace, he attracted

nothing more than glances from the

wall. It wasn’t until he stopped di-

rectly in front of the gate that the two

doormen stepped out into the sun.

“¿Qui usted quieren al viejo hom-

bre?” one of them sneered.

You really should be pointing your

weapon at me, if you’re going to in-

sult me, Nigel thought.

“Old man?” he asked in an ag-

grieved voice. He shrugged when

neither took the bait. “Tell Señor

Capac that Nigel is here to see him.”

“¿Quien?”

“Ni-gel.” He phoneticised it this

time.

The guard who had spoken chuck-

led. “No, señor, you do not under-

stand. I do not know any Señor

Capac.”

Nigel let out a frustrated sigh, “I

don’t care what he’s calling himself

these days, just tell your Jefe that

Nigel wants a little chat, yeah?”

The guard stiffened slightly at the

curt tone, then glanced at his partner,

and up at the wall before his gaze

settled back on Nigel.

“Wait here,” he commanded, spitting

at Nigel’s feet.

Turning, he went through the huge

wooden doors. It was only a few

minutes when he returned with a

tiny, officious looking man, dressed

in a tailored suit.

“If you will follow me, por favor,

Señor,”

Nigel followed as the little man led

him through the gate, across a dusty

compound and into a stucco building

with a tiled roof. The interior was

well ventilated, cooled by large ceil-

ing fans. They trudged up one set of

stairs, down another, through a


DEVIL IN DISGUISE



DEVIL IN DISGUISE

labyrinth of hallways and catwalks,

and down one final flight of stairs.

Nigel had the feeling that his guide

was deliberately attempting to dis-

orient him. Finally, however, the

man opened another set of impres-

sive oak doors and ushered him into

a large salon.

The room was at least fifty feet by

twenty-five, with white stucco walls

and huge crossbeams of stained oak

in the ceiling. The walls were

adorned with rich tapestries and

there were pre-Columbian carvings

set on pedestals and on the end tables

and coffee table which surrounded a

trio of large divans in the centre of

the room.

At the far end was a massive desk

with a red leather chair, unoccupied.

Behind the chair was a huge bay

window, framed by sheer draperies.

Clinging to one curtain was a large

green chameleon with a thick torso,

telescopic eyes and a long, thin tail.

One eye turreted towards Nigel for a

moment, then ratcheted away to lo-

cate another target.

Nigel’s guide gestured to the sofas.

“Please be comfortable, Señor. My

employer will join you momentar-

ily.”

The little man bowed his head and

backed out of the salon, pulling the

doors closed behind him.

Nigel took a seat on the couch far-

thest from the desk, so that he could

face it directly. He sat patiently,

glancing from tapestry to statue to

tapestry, every so often interrupting

his circuit of the room to check on

the lizard.

It remained unmoved, except for its

eyes, clinging to the curtain, seem-

ingly willing to wait as stoically as

its new companion. The pair’s silent

vigil stretched on for several minutes

but Nigel remained unperturbed at

being left alone for so long.


After another ten minutes, a fly

buzzed into the room through the

open bay window. It flew lazily

about the area around the desk be-

fore finally nearing the curtain where

the lizard hung. Quick as lightning,

a tongue flicked out and the fly was

gone.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Manco,” Nigel

exclaimed. “That was just disgust-

ing! When are you going to come

down from there?”

The green lizard suddenly blurred,

its shape, as well as its hue, shifting.

It let loose of the curtain but before

it could hit the ground grew into the

shape of a man, approximately five

and a half feet tall, with dark brown

skin and shocking black hair. He

was dressed in a white linen guayav-

era, similar to Nigel’s, with matching

trousers.

When the transformation was com-

plete, Manco let out a cackling

laugh.

“Shit, mano, I thought I had you

fooled.”

Nigel shook his head. Hs host

shrugged ruefully and came around

the desk to shake hands. When he

made to expand the greeting into a

hug, Nigel quickly stepped back.

Manco put on a chagrined look.

“¿Que paso, amigo? Come, come, it

isn’t like that between us, is it?”

“I think I know you a little better

than those Yanks, Manco. Done

away with three older brothers to

take over the family business. That

beats Cain and Abel by half! You

may be a little bastard, ‘amigo’, but

you are a bastard.”

Manco cackled again but then of-

fered up a protest.

“Come now, Nigel, that isn’t fair.

You exaggerate my condition. One

of my brothers ran off and hid. No-

one has seen him in ages but I didn’t

kill him, amigo. No, I didn’t harm a

hair on his head.”

“And if he walked through that door

right now, Manco, would you wel-

come him with open arms and offer

him a place in your little empire? Or

would you snap him up like that little

fly, just a moment ago?”


DEVIL IN DISGUISE


Manco’s eyes flashed for a moment

and he seemed ready to strike out,

but then the tension left his body and

another hoarse cackle escaped his

lips.

“Ah, Nigel, you know me too well.

And apparently you know my Yan-

qui friends, as well. Funny, they did

not mention you.”

“We’ve not yet been introduced.

Maybe you want to arrange that?”

“No, amigo. That I cannot do. They

have already left Medellin, if I am

not mistaken.”

“Well, what can you tell me about

them, then?”

“Nigel, Nigel. They are business as-

sociates. A god in my position has

to maintain certain confidences or he

cannot do business.”

Nigel grunted.

“Business? Is that what you call it?

It suits you, though, Manco. Right

down to the tee. It’s a real nasty

business.”

Manco wasn’t smiling any longer.

“Why are you here Nigel? No one

has seen you for a century and sud-

denly you’re popping up every-

where. What do you want, Ingles?”

“Popping up everywhere? You seem

to know a lot about my travels. Who

have you been talking too, Manco?”

Manco’s eyes flashed again but he

simply shrugged, showing his hands,

palms up.

“Yes, yes, confidences. I heard you.

Why am I here? Well, in those trav-

els you seem to know so much

about, I’ve been coming across a lot

of your handiwork and I’ve learnt

that you’ve been pushing your poi-

son in my patch, while I’ve been

busy. That’s not proper and I don’t

like it, Manco. It’s filth. You keep

it away from my people.”

“Keep it away from them, Ingles?

How can I do that? I have agree-

ments to honour.”

“Don’t talk to me of honour, Manco.

You wouldn’t know honour if it

dripped out of your nose and bit you


DEVIL IN DISGUISE


in the arse. Just get your shit out of

my patch. I’ll not tell you again.”

“Or what?”

“Or we’ll have words, mate. Entien-

das?”

“Understand?” Manco’s eyes were

full of fire now but he was still hold-

ing himself in check. “I’ll tell you

what I understand, gringo. Your

people came over here to the Amer-

icas and they brought their own poi-

son. They wiped my people out with

their small pox and they brought

down the one thing I’ve done in my

life that might be called good. And

they did it just for a bit of gold.

“Now it’s my turn to bring the death

and disease and take back my gold

in the bargain. I’ve waited a long

time to have my revenge and you

think you can come in here and

‘have words’ and I’ll just back off

like a coward? Maybe you don’t

know me all that well, then, eh

Gringo?”

“Oh, I know you, mate. You and

your so-called good work. What did

the Incas, the Mayans and the Aztecs

do that was so worthy? They may

have had some science and knowl-

edge but they were always ready to

put a knife to an innocent’s throat to

get a little more, weren’t they?

Sooner or later, the price has to be

paid.”

“Yes, the price must be paid, amigo.

And now it is your turn to pay. If

you want to stop me, you’d better

bring more than words. Now get out,

before I forget that you are my

guest!”

Nigel stood up from the sofa and

took a step towards Manco. The

Incan god clenched his fists and

scowled fiercely but took a step

back. Nigel smiled at the show of

fear and then faded from site. He’d

keep his promise but there was

something else he had to know first.

As he left, he heard one last snigger-

ing cackle. ■


DEVIL IN DISGUISE


Martin Palazzotto >

Fair warning: this debate has noth-

ing to do with the fairer sex. OK,

now that I've lost ninety percent of

my audience with the first sentence,

let me explain to the rest of you that

what it does concern is the sporting

world's predilection with size.

None of them coming back, then?

Bugger.

Our fascination with BIG is having a

major impact on sport. Unfortu-

nately, that impact may prove dam-

aging in the long run.

It is already wreaking havoc in

America. All four of the major team


SIZE MATTERS


sports on the other side of the At-

lantic, those being baseball, basket-

ball, gridiron football and ice hockey,

are afflicted with serious dilemmas

stemming directly from the increase

in the size, strength and speed of

their athletes over the last two

decades.

Two important factors have ganged

up to lead American (and Canadian)

sport down a blind alley.

One pill makes you larger

First, sports science, funded by the

exponential growth of sport as a

marketing tool, has made tremen-

dous advances with regards to train-

ing methods, nutrition, medical

procedures and rehabilitation. The

USA's consistent haul of medals in

the Olympics bears this out. Where

would Sugar Ray Leonard, Michael

Phelps, Carl Lewis and Mary Lou

Retton be were it not for the ubiqui-

tous Wheaties box? Lance Arm-

strong owes much of his success to

the sponsorship of the US Postal

Service. Tiger Woods, who not only

advanced the cause of minorities in

golf but in athletics as a whole, is

supported by his relationship with

Nike, the same company which wel-

comed Wayne Rooney to its Oregon

sports complex, last fall, to rehabili-

tate a persistent ankle injury.

Elite athletes make most of their

money not from their sport of

choice but from lucrative endorse-

ments. Yet those marketing dollars

depend upon performance. If

you're at the top of your game, the

world will camp at your doorstep.

Thus, health and fitness are actually

a higher priority than technical skill

if an athlete is to maximise his or her

earning potential.

It's such a priority, in fact, that

sports science has been used to cut

corners. Every major American

sport has suspended athletes for

using steroids or other performance

enhancing drugs.

Surprisingly, baseball, which de-

mands far more technical profi-

ciency from its players than athletic

ability, has been hit the hardest.

Hall of Fame candidates Roger

Clemens, Mark McGwire, Sammy

Sosa, Rafael Palmeiro and Manny

Ramirez have all had their legacy

threatened by positive tests or seri-


SIZE MATTERS MARTIN PALAZZOTTO


ous allegations of steroid use. Home

run king Barry Bonds was recently

convicted of obstructing justice (for

refusing to co-operate fully) while

being acquitted of four counts of

perjury for allegedly lying to prose-

cutors investigating the wide-reach-

ing BALCO Labs scandal. Olympic

athlete Marion Jones served time in

jail after being found guilty of similar

charges.

All-Star third baseman Ken Caminiti

admitted to having used steroids for

several seasons, beginning in 1996,

and died shortly after his retire-

ment, overdosing on a cocktail of co-

caine and opiates. Caminiti was

alleged to be suffering from severe

depression, understandable when

you have severely altered your body

chemistry for several years, hoping

to prolong your career and the fame

which comes part and parcel, only

for it to all come crashing down be-

fore you're prepared to move on.

Gridiron football star Lyle Alzado

died of a malignant

brain tumor in 1992.

He was forty-three

and had only been

retired from the

game for seven

years. Although oth-

ers denied his asser-

tions, he claimed

that his condition was the direct re-

sult of continued use of anabolic

steroids.

"I started taking anabolic steroids in

1969 and never stopped. It was ad-

dicting, mentally addicting. Now I'm

sick, and I'm scared. Ninety percent

of the athletes I know are on the

stuff. We're not born to be 300lb

(140kg) or jump 30ft (9.1m). But all

the time I was taking steroids, I

knew they were making me play

better. I became very

violent on the field

and off it. I did things

only crazy people do.

Once a guy side-

swiped my car and I

beat the hell out of

him. Now look at

me. My hair's gone, I

wobble when I walk and have to

hold on to someone for support,

and I have trouble remembering

things. My last wish? That no one

else ever dies this way."

Given that it’s almost twenty years



Ninety percent of

athletes I know are

on the stuff. We’re

not born to be

300lb or jump 30 ft.


after Alzado's death and profes-

sional sports are still arguing over

drug testing with their players, his

wish is unlikely to be granted.

In American football, steroids are

obviously used to build up the body,

so that it can take and dish out more

punishment in what is a very violent

game. However, the drug is thought

to have become so prevalent in

baseball more for its incredible re-

cuperative powers. In either case,

athletes have been driven to cheat

by the desire to maintain their flam-

boyant lifestyle. The competition,

money and fame are just too diffi-

cult to leave behind.

The spectre of chemically enhanced

athletes hasn’t spilled over into Eu-

ropean football in the way it has in

cycling, track and field, and other

Olympic sports. The signs are there,

however, that UEFA, despite having

been proactive in adopting stringent

testing procedures, had to do so out

of necessity and that they cannot af-

ford to let up their guard, even if

they have a jump on the problem.

Kolo Toure, the Manchester City de-

fender who dipped into his wife’s

stash of diet pills to battle his weight

problems, serves as a warning that

temptation hasn’t been wholly dis-

couraged, while Adrian Mutu’s co-

caine addiction hints that the more

traditional drinking culture perva-

sive throughout the game, with ath-

letes, pundits and fans alike, is

crossing over into more dangerous

areas.

Even the strange treatment offered

at a Serbian clinic, where athletes

such as Robin van Persie have gone

to have fluid of horse placenta

dripped on their injuries, has a con-

nection to the issue of anabolic

steroids, which are derived from the

proteins contained in horse semen.

I’m not a bio-chemist but it seems to

my lay mind that there can’t be

much difference between two sub-

stances involved in equine birthing,

even if one is taken from the stallion

and the other from the mare.

Given that it took decades to learn

the full effects of steroids on the

human body, it would seem prudent

to proceed very slowly with the de-

velopment of placenta based treat-

ments for football players.




One pill makes you small

While athletes in American sports

have been seeking out the best and

worst that science has to offer, in-

creasing their size, strength and

speed, the arenas in which they play

have been shrinking, or at least not

increasing proportionately to ac-

commodate the growth of their

practitioners. Thus, the effects of

uber-developed muscle, force and

movement have been amplified by

the lack of space in which these

American gladiators can operate.

The result is, naturally, an increase

in violent collisions, injuries and

reckless play. Unsurprisingly, fans

have bought into the increased may-

hem in a big way.

Yet, for NFL and NHL players the cost

of entertaining their supporters has,

in more and more cases, become a

significant decrease in life ex-

pectancy. Both gridiron football and

hockey are dealing with the fright-

ening effects of concussion on their

athletes.

An NFL field is 120 x 50yds (including

the end zones). An NHL rink is 200

x 80yds and enclosed by a 42 inch

high wall, topped by glass barriers at

each end. In football, virtually every

player on the field is expected to col-

lide with an opponent on each play.

In hockey, the players rotate on and

off the ice in 30-45 second shifts,

during which time, they are coached

to take at least one shot and make a

minimum of one bone-jarring check.

In both cases, when looking to inca-

pacitate an opponent, the head is a

very inviting target.

Now factor in that the average

player has grown 4-6 inches and put

on roughly 30lbs in the past three

decades, that coaching and sports

science have evolved the pace of

both games to sixty minutes of con-

tinuous hyper-drive and that, as a

result of that combination, there is

far less space to operate on the play-

ing surface. Unsurprisingly, serious

injury is on the rise in both games.

The situation has become so dire

that the US Congress has stepped

into the debate. The NFL, which has

long put off serious research into

the effects of concussion, is now

having to play catch up. Retired

players are dying prematurely at an

alarming rate. It has reached the




point that one former star, Dave

Duerson, committed suicide to end

his misery – but shot himself in the

chest so he could donate his brain to

researchers.

The NHL, which, as a bi-national

league is less concerned by the au-

thority of Congress, has not suffered

as seriously from the effects of con-

cussion. Players have not died but

more than one major

star has had their ca-

reer curtailed. The

most notable is Eric

Lindros, who was ex-

pected to inherit the

mantle of best in the

game from Wayne

Gretzky and Mario Lemieux. In-

stead, a series of vicious hits left him

on the injured list much more often

than he was on the ice. This year,

the Pittsburgh Penguins lost the lat-

est darling of the sport, Sydney

Crosby, to concussion in December.

He did not return all season and,

while now skating on his own, has

yet to be cleared by specialists for

physical contact.

The difference between American

sports and football, of course, is that

the beautiful game

is hands off. In only

using one’s feet, it is

rare for players to

knock heads. It

does occur on 50/50

headers but is

hardly predominate.

Yet, there are issues with size in

football.

And the one that Blatter gives

you...

Compare the styles of play in the

Premier League and La Liga, for in-

stance.

The English game is as close as foot-

ball comes to the ethos of American

sport. Work ethic defines play in the

Premier League. Ask Dimitar Berba-

tov what Man United fans think of

players who hunt patiently for time

and space, blending into the back-

ground until it’s time to strike, as op-

posed to human Tasmanian Devils

such as Carlos Tevez, who are pre-

pared to run down anything that

moves, be it a lazy back pass, un-

wary goalkeeper or simply a squirrel

which has wandered into the wrong

six yard box at the wrong time. A



The English game is

as close as football

comes to the ethos

of American sport


Premier League match is all about

harrying your opponent refusing to

allow them any time or space.

The Primera Liga is less bloodthirsty.

No one is any better than closing

down time and space than

Barcelona, but they prefer to be el-

egant and refined in going about it.

Ironically, however, that elegance

cannot be achieved if you do not

have room to operate.

How do Spanish clubs solve this par-

adox? Well, a typical Premier

League pitch is 105 x 68’, although

one or two are a bit more cramped.

A La Liga surface is 107x72’, how-

ever. Wow, you say. Big deal, two

feet longer and four more in

breadth. So what?

Actually, the difference amounts to

an extra 564 square feet, or almost

eight percent more space in which

to work your magic. If it still doesn’t

sound like much, take a look around

your flat and imagine what you

could do with an extra salon or two

bedrooms.

One thing you might be able to do

with the added space is hide from

Nigel de Jong. Or Karl Henry, Ryan

Shawcross or, as Andrew Thomas

will get into later, Jack Wilshere.

You see, while football players aren’t

growing at the rate of American ath-

letes, they are still getting bigger,

faster and better conditioned. They

are also being encouraged by man-

agers, supporters and media to

transfer all that new power into la-

tent aggression. Tackles are coming

fast and furious in the English game,

with its comparatively small pitch. Is

it just me, or does a rough average

of one broken leg per month not

suggest a problem?

Football has two intrinsic qualities

which offer a measure of immunity

from the fascination with size. One,

as already mentioned, the game is

played with your feet, and two, the

playing surface is overly spacious. In

baseball, basketball, gridiron foot-

ball and even hockey, the use of

your hands naturally gives tall play-

ers an advantage and the close quar-

ters aid give more impetus to a

powerful build. In football, it’s nat-

urally easier for a compact player to

control the ball with his feet and

large, bury defenders are continually




exposed by quicker, smaller attack-

ers.

At the moment, Barcelona provide

the ultimate in small attacking foot-

ball. To beat them, you have two

choices.

Option one: build a better La Masia

and grow your own new and im-

proved Xavis, Iniestas and Messis,

which would take at least a decade.

Good luck with that.

Option two: hire Jose Mourinho, buy

tall players with speed and skill and

taller defenders with speed and ag-

gressive tackling. This known in the

football world as negative football.

That’s life, though. Negative players

cancels out positive ones, ugly play

mars its beautiful rival.

In Spain, that extra space makes it

more difficult for negative play to

gain a foothold. In England, the

crowded pitch allows it to thrive. Of

course, for English fans, the price for

their style is that they struggle inter-

nationally, where officials aren’t as

tolerant of bullying tactics. It would

be interesting to see what would

happen in English football if they in-

creased the size of the pitches at

every level.

So, while the beautiful game is

ahead of the sporting curve in being

accessible to players of any culture,

nationality, race, creed or body type,

has different issues and faces differ-

ent challenges, it too must come to

grips with the fact that size matters. ■




Now, this was a bit more like Eng-

lish weather. Nigel had coalesced on

the edge of a grassy park during a

light drizzle. The sky was cloudy

but not too overcast and sunlight was

breaking through the shower in

spots. The air was cool and the tem-

perature mild. Not far off, the Cas-

cades were holding the rain clouds

between themselves and the mighty

Pacific Puget’s Sound was a far cry

from the sweaty rainforest of Colom-

bia.

A shrill sound caught his attention.

There was a pitch marked off with

bright orange cones in the center of

the park, with a goal set up at either

end. The American goddess was

standing to one side of the pitch,

now dressed in navy sweatpants and

a white long-sleeved kit, trimmed


Swear She’d Be A Better Man


with navy and gold. It was her whis-

tle which had startled him. Now, she

was shouting encouragement to a

gaggle of young girls, probably

eleven or twelve years of age, who

were attempting to dribble through a

series of smaller cones laid out on

the grass.

Where was hubby? Nigel looked

around and saw a man reclining in a

folding chair under a large willow

tree. He was gently rocking a per-

ambulator and cooing to the infant

apparently inside.

Nigel strolled over. The man looked

up and smiled disingenuously. He

was wearing a lime green kit with an

‘X’ emblazoned across his breast.

‘Sounders FC’, the crest read.

“Hello, friend.”

Nigel nodded and smiled back.

Friend? With someone who had

dealings with Manco? Not bloody

likely.

“Boy or girl?” he asked, trying to

keep his rising temper in check.

The man laughed. “Girl,” he replied.

“She’ll be seven in January.”

Seven? In a pram? He moved

around to the other side, curious but

careful to peer into the carriage

while simultaneously keeping an eye

on this lunatic. When he focused on

the tiny passenger, a hairy little face,

all brown, black and white, with

beady little eyes stared back at him.

Then it snarled, showed its tiny

fangs and began yapping at him in a

high pitched squeak.

By the Dragon! It was a bleedin’

dog. What the bloody hell was it

doing in a pram? He backed off and

tried to get out of its line of site but

the little bugger wouldn’t shut up.

The man cooed at it urgently and

rocked the dog house faster. That

only made it yip louder.

He heard footsteps behind and

turned to find the missus hurrying

over.

“What’s going on?” she asked, a

touch of concern in her voice. Be-

hind her, the young girls were going

through their paces as though she

still had her eye on them.


SWEAR SHE’D BE A BETTER MAN


“It’s okay, sweetie,” the man an-

swered over the increasingly insis-

tent barking of the miniature hound

from hell, “Toto was just startled by

this gentleman. Nothing to worry

about.”

The woman looked back and forth

between her husband and Nigel, be-

fore sighing and reaching into the

pram and removing ‘Toto’. The

scrabbly little thing fit right in her

hand. It immediately stopped bark-

ing and embarked on a serious quest

to lick its mistress’ face. The woman

tolerated it for a moment, then kissed

it on top of its scruffy head and

placed it back into the pram.

Straightening, she put her hands on

her hips, fixing Nigel with a stern

gaze.

“And just what do you want?”

“Honey, that’s no way to talk to the

gentleman. He didn’t mean to startle

Toto. You know she’s just high

strung.”

“Oh, do shut up, Todd.” The scorn

was dripping from her voice. “I

swear you don’t pay attention to any-

thing. Don’t you recognise him?”

Nigel tensed. Todd gave him a good

once over, with a bemused look on

his face.

“No Tail, I don’t. Should I?”

‘Tail’ nearly screamed in her frustra-

tion.

“How many times do I have to tell

you not to call me that in front of

other people?!”

Todd’s face went red.

“Sorry, honey.” He turned towards

Nigel, holding out a hand. “I’m

sorry if I don’t remember you,

buddy, although I can’t think why I

should. The name’s Todd and this is

my wife, Taylor. And you are?”

Nigel was confused. Was this fellow

that dense or just trying to throw him

off? Taylor’s exasperated voice cut

through the haze.

“His name is Nigel.”

Todd’s face still didn’t register any

recognition but Nigel spared a

glance at the woman. She was wait-




ing for him to make the first move.

“Nigel?”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Todd, get

with the program. He’s the one who

followed us in Colombia.”

Finally, some concern crept into the

dim reaches of Todd’s brain. Reflex-

ively, he moved to position himself

between Nigel and the pram. Taylor

rolled her eyes and let loose with a

string of invectives, some of which

Nigel made an impressed note to re-

member.

“He’s not after Toto, you moron!

He’s here to find out about us.”

“He is? Oh. Well, that’s alright,

then.”

The hand came back out again.

“Nice to meet you, Nigel.”

Nigel shook the proffered hand. No

one could be that devious. Todd def-

initely had a few thunderbolts miss-

ing from the quiver. Nigel took the

measure of Taylor now that he re-

alised there was no immediate dan-

ger. She was definitely tanned and

fit. The badge on her kit registered

with him. LA Galaxy. So that was

the way of it between them, was it?

It didn’t quite add up, however, for

instance how did she know who he

was?

He opened his mouth to ask but Tay-

lor beat him to it.

“Relax. I asked around when I made

you in Medellin. You want to know

what we’re doing with a piece of shit

like Manco, don’t you?”

Well, she certainly didn’t mince

words. He nodded.

“I’ve got to get back to the girls.




Walk with me and I’ll explain.”

Nigel fell in step, after glancing at

Todd. He was in the process of get-

ting a facial from a frantic Toto.

“Look, we can’t stand him, either,

but he isn’t exactly easy to be rid of.

And he’s got plenty of friends, too.

Some of them carry a lot of weight

in the community, if you know what

I mean.”

Nigel nodded. He knew.

“Fair enough but I don’t understand

why he’s saying you’re in business

with him.”

“We are, sort of.” Taylor’s face

looked uncomfortable. She barked

out some instructions to the girls and

then turned her attention back to

him. “Look, we haven’t been at this

god thing very long. Basically we

answered an ad in our college paper,

looking for eager go-getters with an

interest in soccer.”

“Todd’s interested in football? I was

in Colombia, remember.”

She laughed. “I played in school.

He was a cheerleader. It reverses the

stereotype, I know, but he’s pretty

handy once you get him pointed in

the right direction. Plus, he gives a

really good back rub.”

“I’ll take your word for that.”

Taylor laughed again. She was at-

tractive when she didn’t look like

she was about to try to rip your

throat out.

“Anyway, we’d love to be rid of

Manco and his friends but we don’t

have much power. The other foot-

ball rules the roost here and there’s

three or four others between us and

him. None of them really care about

their charges. They’re true Ameri-

can Gods; in it for the power.

“So, we’ve had to get creative.

We’ve made ourselves available to

the authorities.”

Nigel’s eyes bugged out of his head

but before he could get his own

litany of invectives out, Taylor

gripped his arm and reassured him.

“No, no. They don’t know who or

what we actually are. They think




they’ve recruited us to run an under-

cover sting on him.”

She lifted up the side of her kit.

Hooked on the waistband of her

tracksuit was a gold star mounted on

a black leather case.

Nigel laughed. “You’re going to try

to put him in jail? No human prison

will ever hold him. I doubt a godly

one could.”

“I realise that. What we’re trying to

do is map out his business and, one

by one, remove his contacts. Then,

when he’s forced to run, we’ll hunt

him down and finish it.”

“On your own?” Nigel snorted at the

thought.

“No, not alone. We’ve made a few

friends of our own in the commu-

nity.”

Nigel’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Tay-

lor smiled deviously.

“I’d love to know. In fact, I’d be

more than happy to lend a hand.”

“Really? Well, I’ll talk to the rest

and let you know what they say.

You’re not exactly thought of as a

boy scout yourself, you know.”

Nigel sighed. It was true; he was not

the best at making friends.

“When will you be in touch?”

Well, you’re coming to the Game,

right?”

“The Game?”

Taylor rolled her eyes again.

“You really have been out of touch,

haven’t you?” ■




Samuel Garuda >

Most people have no idea what FIFA

actually does – thus when some

kind of debate occurs they attack

the governing body and not the

issue itself. Nowhere is this more

prevalent than in England.

Of course, it follows that, to every-

one else, England begins to sound

like the nation that cried wolf.

FIFA is the international governing

and regulating body for arguably the

only truly global sport on the planet.

It organises international competi-

tion and supervises regional and na-

tional federations and protects the

interests of the game from political


FIFA AND THE WORLD


interference.

FIFA has more member nations than

the United Nations.

Some argue that there is no need for

the body at all. I sat down, and tried

to think of the best way to present

my counter to that claim.

There was an advert recently, for

what product I forget, which re-

minded the audience that half time

used to mean a change in rules, as

well as ends. For the first half, the

home team would dictate the rules,

for the second, it would be the visi-

tors

An international body like FIFA stan-

dardises the rulebook. They make it

possible for a team like TP Mazembe

of the Congo to play Internazionale.

Or the Central Coast Mariners. Or

LA Galaxy. Anyone they like, actu-

ally. And on a level playing field.

Everything is official and agreed be-

forehand, and when you might have

teams playing in so-called friendly

competition after their respective

nations have suffered a long history

of bad blood... well, official is impor-

tant.

Organising the World Cup is no small

feat either. There’s a great deal of

negotiating and diplomacy behind

the scenes at FIFA. Basically, if FIFA

didn’t exist, we would have to create

it.

The problem, of course, is that some

people don’t like the version we

have. Not needing to be account-

able to anyone fosters an environ-

ment in which corruption and

bribery flourish. Because FIFA has to

exist, there’s no pressure on its

members to be upstanding, moral

citizens and because of the body’s

lack of transparency, there’s little

chance they’ll be caught in the act in

any case.

So, when it comes to important mat-

ters, such as deciding who gets to

host the highly lucrative and presti-

gious World Cup, there can be dis-

crepancies. Famously, two members

of FIFA’s executive committee tried

to sell their votes to undercover re-

porters. This tends to raise eye-

brows and ire, especially when the

English Football Association subse-

quently sees its bid for 2018 crash

and burn.


FIFA AND THE WORLD SAMUEL GARUDA


Caught bang to rights, FIFA banned

the members in question, then fined

them – but steadfastly refused to

delve any deeper. If you find what

looks suspiciously like a landmine

when you’re weeding in the garden,

you don’t dig deeper, do you?

In cases of severe and endemic cor-

ruption, though, a leader must arise

and tackle it head on. In FIFA’s case,

that leader is Sepp Blatter. Or at

least, he is portraying himself as a

crusader for ethics and trans-

parency.

In the midst of a damaging scandal,

Blatter conveniently won an uncon-

tested election that has made him

President for another four years. It’s

the same brand of no-holds-barred

democracy championed by Soviet

Russia, Zimbabwe and North Korea.

Everything is just so much simpler

when there’s only one name on the

ballot. And choosing can be so

stressful.

In his first speech after

re-election, Blatter

went off on a geomet-

rical/nautical tangent.

“Our pyramid is intact.

I want to get the ship

out of troubled waters and once

again in a safe harbour so we can yet

again build this pyramid whose base

is on national associations.”

Despite his mixed metaphors and

smug nonsense, the message con-

cerning the FA’s little rebellion was

quite clear. The FA and Scottish FA

had demanded that the election be

postponed in light of the corruption

scandal. Blatter said it quite clearly:

“Don’t worry about the English.”

And this is what great

big chunks of the

British media (and their

readers) fail to under-

stand. Blatter couldn’t

give a shit what Eng-

land thinks of him – be-

cause he has a lot of

the world in his corner. In the end,

just 16% of member states ab-

stained or voted for the election

postponement. Despite a massive

and bloody obvious corruption scan-

dal, Blatter had 84% of the foot-

balling planet on his side.

This is what great big chunks of the



Despite his mixed

metaphors and

smug nonsense,

Blatter’s message

was quite clear


British media (and their readers) fail

to understand. Blatter couldn’t give

a shit what England thinks of him

because he has the greater part of

the world in his corner. So the FA

can throw a tantrum but it only has

two choices: get back in line, or drop

out of FIFA completely, as it did

twice before World War II.

The rest of the world might not love

Blatter – although evidence suggests

strongly that they do – but they cer-

tainly dislike England and the UK

After spending centuries acting like

belligerent arseholes themselves,

England were never going to win a

popularity contest with anybody.

Yet, before Brits lay into FIFA, they

should remember that our own dear

FA attacked BBC Panorama for un-

covering a little corruption within its

own ranks.

When I say a little corruption…

Barebones of it: the FA have no right

to accuse FIFA of anything. If it had

been England who bought the

World Cup instead of Qatar, would

we have demanded FIFA change it

back? Or depose Blatter? Not

bloody likely. The FA are just pissed

they didn’t think of using their

chequebooks first, or were simply

too cheap to be willing.

But are there any alternatives? MP

Damian Collins has gone as far as

helping ChangeFIFA draw up an al-

ternate FIFA manifesto. It’s all very

interesting – he repeatedly writes in

favour of shared governance, al-

though he doesn’t make too much

noise about the UK getting an auto-

matic vice-presidential place at the

table.

I suppose it is us, after all, and you

can trust us – you just can’t trust

anybody else. Best make the FIFA

President an automatic Brit, just to

be on the safe side.

He also lists Lionel Messi and Barack

Obama as the people to challenge

the status quo. Now why the hell

would Messi decide to get involved?

He also lists Lionel Messi and Barack

Obama as the people to challenge

the status quo. Now, why the hell

would Messi decide to get involved?

Does constructing the next Super

Lego set qualify a twenty-four-year-




old to rebuild football’s global gov-

erning body? And Obama? If it

were FIBA, maybe, as he’s a huge

basketball supporter, but then, the

US is just as unpopular as Britain and

for much the same reason.

As the scandal drags on, CONCACAF

President Jack Warner has resigned

and has refused to cooperate with

the FIFA investigation into the alle-

gations against him and Qatar’s Mo-

hamed bin Hammam because it is

being run by an American, former

FBI Director Louis Freeh. He has la-

beled the accusations of corruption

hypocrisy, noting that the “giving of

gifts” has been a practice within FIFA

since its inception.

England sees that as something

which must change. Yet, much of

the rest of the world is quite happy

to offer bribes. In many countries,

to not do so is an unforgivable insult.

Let’s face facts. FIFA is not going to

award the World Cup to a country

which can’t handle the responsibil-

ity because they would lose far too

much money and all credibility.

Thus, becoming host of the tourna-

ment is a popularity contest be-

tween capable candidates and what

makes someone more popular than

passing out nice gifts when they

come to visit?

If England (and America) are too

self-righteous to understand that,

then FIFA are more than happy to let

them stew in their own juices.

Warner’s replacement as FIFA

Deputy, Jim Boyce, shed a little more

light on his organisation’s opinion of

the FA:

“I can assure you that I will do all in

my power – if asked – to help the

English FA”.

Perhaps it’s just me, but that ‘if

asked’ part sounds very much like it

could be replaced with ‘if begged’.

As in ‘oh, you boys are in so much

trouble’. ■




Nigel sat in the corner of the pub,

trying to sort through everything he

had learned over the past few days.

He invoked Wiki and Google end-

lessly, trying to piece together the in-

telligence that Taylor had hinted at.

He wanted to know who was back-

ing Manco within the community.

Sun Tzu was right, the crafty little

bugger. It paid to keep your enemies

close.

Not that he was ever too quick on the

uptake when it came to subtlety, but

he was having a devil of a time sort-

ing this mess out. It didn’t help, ei-

ther, that the pub was having a

karaoke night. Khali’s knickers!

He’d heard shagging alley cats that

could carry a tune better than this

sorry lot.


Follow The Bouncing Ball


Suddenly his laptop chirped. Nigel

sat up straight.

What the bloody hell? There it went

again!

He minimised the Wiki page on

Qatar and underneath there lay a box

with an envelope sealed with the

number 1. ‘You’ve got mail,’ it said.

Who would know how to send him

mail? He wasn’t exactly on the in-

formation superhighway. More like

a private lane off the beaten track.

He adjusted his specs and peered at

the user name. Haggis1. It was

Hamish, the cheeky Scot.

He clicked on the envelope and the

message appeared.

‘Go to the VIP window at the Emi-

rates, tomorrow noon. There’ll be a

ticket in your name. Want to in-

trouce you to a friend.’

With a few taps, Nigel had called up

the Arsenal website. The Gunners

were up against Fulham in the last

match of the season. Not as massive

as the rivalry with Spurs, but it

would do for his first London Derby.

Nigel alternated between wondering

who this new friend might be and

trying to sort out his enemies, but the

caterwauling refused to allow him to

concentrate. A few more taps and an

Elvis Presley songbook popped onto

the screen. Well, if you can’t beat

‘em... ■


FOLLOW THE BOUNCING BALL


Gary Al-Smith >

Yesterday, George Manneh com-

pleted his exams. He’s just 19, and

he has many questions about this

life, as you’d expect of an impres-

sionable teenager. Among them:

why does Arsène Wenger not buy?

Manneh lives in Banjul, capital of

the Gambia, in West Africa. He met

Arsenal under strange circum-

stances. He recalls sitting on a sofa

one day, looking for the Lakers –

Heat basketball game on ESPN. On

his way there, he passed by channel

39. He stopped. It was football

game. Whoever was running com-

mentary was screaming.


ARSENAL’S AFRICAN ATTRACTION


“Threeeee! The little Russian nukes

Liverpool. This is Arshavin. And

this… is… the Arsenal”.

Then the replays came on.

“Damn, that was tight,” he thought.

So he stayed on and watched the

rest of the game. The Little Russian

nuked Liverpool again. The game

ended 4-4. With his laptop next to

him, he checked Andrei Arshavin

out. He watched the midfielder’s

YouTube clips. By the time he was

through a series of compilations,

match reports of this latest game

were online. He found when next

they’d play – it was five days later

against Middlesbrough.

He watched that game, too. Arsenal

dominated and won 2-0, with two

Ivorians starting! Even better, there

was a Cameroonian and a Togolese

on the bench!

He was hooked to the Arsenal.

Almost 4,000 miles (6,500km)

south-east, in a very different part of

Africa, an Arsenal fan for the past 17

years is not in such a positive mood

about his team at the moment.

“For the first time in the years I’ve

been supporting Arsenal, I’m feeling

really disappointed in them – more

specifically in Arsène Wenger,” she

sighs.

“I mean, really? When we last won

a trophy my baby had just been

born. Now he’s almost six, and even

he has won something – an eating

competition at the Baby Fair. Arse-

nal has nothing. Any time I ask JuJu

why he does not like Arsenal he

says: ‘Daddy says you are poopoo!’

I would be very annoyed if my hus-

band succeeds in making JuJu a

blue.”

That’s Bongeka Gumede. Obviously,

she’s pissed. She lives in Praetoria

in South Africa. She has a loose

affinity for Mamelodi Sundowns and

SuperSport United, the local teams,

and usually goes with the “whoever

is doing well these days” attitude.

But for Arsenal, it’s more than that.

These are just two of the millions of

Africans who follow Arsenal. Arse-

nal is the most widely supported

Premier League team in Africa, fol-


ARSENAL’S AFRICAN ATTRACTION GARY AL-SMITH


lowed by Manchester United, Liver-

pool and Chelsea. And in another

year where the North London club

recorded healthy profits, the lack of

trophies does not seem to be taking

the number of supporters into the

red.

In my own study of 300 people, 54%

voted that they were not happy with

the inactivity of the club in the

transfer market. Would they stop

supporting Arsenal? 87% said no,

8% said they were undecided and

the rest had converted to United,

Barcelona or Real Madrid, in that

order.

I’m aware that three hundred peo-

ple cannot be representative of a

continent of one billion. However, it

brought me to the larger question:

why is Arsenal so popular in Africa?

Despite the eternal questioning of

Wenger’s policies by some fans, the

love for the club remains. This may

be due to the emo-

tional reasons respon-

sible which caused

these fans to join Ar-

senal in the first place.

Football teams see an upward surge

in their supporter numbers when

they do well and win trophies. The

Arsenal is no different, with a large

section of its youthful fan base being

attracted during the glory days of

the Invincibles. Some time in 2004,

Kenyan football fans woke up to

Gani Kali kati ya Man U na Arsenali,

a hit Swahili song asking ‘Which is

greatest between Arsenal and Man

United?’

Arsenal arguably had the most

votes. Thierry and his Invincibles

were at the height of their powers

and went on to win that last trophy

a year later. This

song, by Dry Gin and

Frakaz, spoke of

Henry, Bergkamp and

Pires. It also men-

tioned Cristiano

Ronaldo, Rooney, Giggs and van Nis-

telrooy. The dominance of Arsène’s

boys swung neutrals toward Arse-

nal, as they wanted to be associated

with a winning team.

And then, there’s the flowing foot-

ball. In writing this piece, I got re-

sponses from Arsenal fans in sixteen

African countries, mainly through

the wonderful world of Twitter.

Every single one of them mentioned



The Gunners seem

more effeminate,

more vulnerable


“sexy” or “beautiful” in their de-

scriptions of the team’s style. No

surprise, then, Arsenal is referred to

as “the ladies’ team” in many parts

of the continent. It’s believed that

the grit and hard nature of United

and Chelsea appeals more to the

male psyche, while the Gunners

seem more effeminate, more vul-

nerable (and thus more injury-

prone).

Yet, in my own woefully inadequate

study, 12% of female Arsenal fans

ticked ‘I’d sacrifice baby-faced Arse-

nal players for mean-looking game

winners any day.’ One of my good

Arsenal-supporting friends always

says he would like to see Denilson

break more opponents’ legs, get the

marching orders and get three

points – rather than listen to the

boys flinching at every other tackle

and having Wenger blame a lack of

referee protection after the game is

lost.

Football is not a fair sport; you are

not judged by chances created or

missed but by the score at the end

of a match. That said, this love of

sexy football may be traced to the

way Africa’s national teams tradi-

tionally play. The prevalent cross-

continental style is predicated on

flair and creativity. It was encour-

aged, among many others, by the

legendary Sir Stanley Matthews,

who visited Africa many times be-

tween the early 1950s and his death

a few years ago.

Again, even though the number of

African imports at the club has fallen

over the years, with the departure

of Kolo Touré to Manchester City

being the most recent, an earlier

legacy is at play in hearts across the

continent. The initial acquisition –

and eventual elevation – of Kanu

Nwankwo (Nigeria), Lauren Etame

Mayer (Cameroon), Emmanuel Ade-

bayor (Togo) and others did a lot to

cement the team’s reputation. It’s a

pity there weren’t many pre-season

tours to this part of the world at the

height of the African presence in the

team.

In later years, the legacy of feeling

an African-ness or ‘black kinship’

with the club has continued. Socio-

logically, many African Gunners like

to identify with the team because it

seems African-friendly. Arsène, they

point out, does not make excuses




about the biennial African Nations

Cup being a reason he would not

sign African players, unlike the other

top teams in the Premier League.

Going deeper into the

team’s youth ranks,

more such talents are

given opportunities to

flourish and genuinely

challenge for spots in

the first team.

Ghanaian-born Emmanuel Frim-

pong was discovered at nine and

was nurtured along with many oth-

ers, just missing out on a first team

place to Jack Wilshere (partly due to

injury). Now 19, Frimpong has rep-

resented England at youth level and

speaks glowingly about Wenger’s

all-embracing nature:

“He does not see black or white.

When he spots a talent in any com-

munity he goes for it. Among us

footballers we hear a lot of weird

stories about clubs where scouts are

picky about who they

take. Arsenal has al-

ways been a very

open place, which is

why we have some of

the best figures

around when it comes

to racial representa-

tion in the youth teams.”

And it appears there’s a historical di-

mension, too. An elderly colleague,

Lenny Amartey, tells me of what he

calls the “North London Black Co-

nundrum.” He lived in the area for

the best part of two decades, until

the late 90s, and, despite being

African, is thoroughly British in his

mannerisms. According to him, Ar-

senal appeals to the black commu-

nity more because of this ‘kinship’.

“People think it has to do with when

Ian Wright joined the Gunners in 91.

It goes back further than that. To

the days of Viv Anderson. To Paul

Davis. To Michael Thomas. To the

late David 'Rocky' Rocastle. Those

days.”

Amartey goes on: “What I saw at the

time was a historical distrust of

black people by that other North

London team. People felt influential

[Tottenham] players like Jimmy

Greeves were racist. Terry Venables,

too, when he was their manager.”

He reminds me that Venables took

charge of Spurs in 1987, a time



Venables, if he

had any fucking

sense, would have

brought through

black players


when the North London area held

the second-largest black population

in the whole of the United Kingdom.

“Venables, if he had any fucking

sense, would have brought through

black players to get them more

goodwill, at least. How many did he

get in?”

Venables had none, which naturally

swung the black supporter base in

Arsenal’s favour.

“When Venables eventually became

the England manager in the mid

1990s, quite the same thing hap-

pened. He should have drafted [Les]

Ferdinand and/or [Ian] Wright be-

cause they were two of the best

England strikers at the time. He

chose Alan Shearer and [Teddy]

Sheringham.”

People may argue that the race card

is a delicate issue but it’s relevant to

the story of Arsenal’s healthy num-

bers in Africa. Nigeria has Arsenal’s

largest support base, followed by

Kenya. These two countries have

been in the news for more (ex-

treme) fan-related behaviour in the

past two years than any other na-

tion. I could not believe my eyes

when I read, in 2009, that 29-year-

old Suleiman Omondi had hanged

himself from the balcony of his

house in Nairobi after Arsenal’s 3-1

loss to Manchester United.

Wenger may not know about these

cases. Or about Manneh in Gambia,

who also says he’s not leaving the

club now despite the trophy no-

shows. Or about Gumede in Praeto-

ria, who jokingly threatens to shift

her love to her dad’s favorite South

African rugby team, the ‘Blue Bulls’.

If the Frenchman knew, maybe, just

maybe, it would prod him to delve

into his pocket for more hardy ac-

quisitions to key areas of the team.

If only to stop that one young fan

from labelling his team “poopoo!” ■




A short gentleman with perfect pores

opened the door to the Heritage

Suite. Nigel, holding a glass of

twelve-year-old Scotch, neat,

stepped inside and nodded to the

man as he pulled the door closed,

leaving the god to soak up the Arse-

nal ‘Heritage’.

The room assaulted the senses.

Three banks of dining tables, done in

the modern style, dominated the

foreground. The tables were clear

glass, the chairs black leather,

mounted on undulating black tube.

The service was silver and crystal.

The entire room was lit by halogen

track lighting, which, from the

vestibule, gave the effect of search

and rescue helicopters intruding on a


Nancy, With His Laughing Face


romantic interlude. Once you

moved into the room proper, how-

ever, the lighting promoted an ele-

gant, intimate environment, very

easy on the eyes – so long as you

didn’t look up.

Nigel blinked to clear his vision and

continued to the other side of the

suite.

Behind the bank of tables was a wall

of booths done in plush red leather

and hardwood. The booths looked

out onto the pitch from a perfect cen-

tre line vantage point. As he gazed

out the window, he realised that his

view was distracted by three heads

bobbing just on the other side and

below the glass.

Leaning over the booth to gain a bet-

ter perspective, Nigel was greeted by

the sight of a beige fedora with a

shiny satin band, from which a

colourful feather was protruding, a

red and green plaid tam and, in the

middle, a freckled scalp in the ad-

vanced stages of male pattern bald-

ness, ringed by curly brown hair.

Nigel tapped on the glass and

Hamish’s face looked up from under

the tam, smiled, and pointed to

Nigel’s left. Finding a door in the

shadow along the wall just next to

the booth, Nigel exited the suite

proper and joined his companions in

their reserved seats.

Coming ‘round the corner, Nigel

found the other three on their feet,

waiting to greet him. Cwm had a

frown on his big round face.

Was he still miffed about the vow-

els? Some people had no sense of

humour.

Behind him, the pom-pom on

Hamish’s tam was bobbing furiously

as he gestured for Nigel to keep the

peace. It was the tiny fellow closest

to him, though, the fellow in the felt

hat, matching plaid suit and slacks,

and patent leather shoes, that

brought a huge smile to his face.

“Nancy, lad! It’s been ages, good to

see you, man!”

The little black man in the hat

laughed as Nigel rushed forward and

fairly crushed him in an affectionate

embrace. Nigel stepped back and

looked at his friend and then gave

him another bruising hug.


NANCY, WITH HIS LAUGHING FACE


“Eyes, man! I wasn’t expecting to

run into you. And in London, no

less! Fortune bite my arse!”

Nancy laughed again. The sound

came easy to him. He shrugged his

shoulders and twisted his neck, like

a man just escaping the chiroprac-

tor’s clutches, went into a shadow

crouch with his dukes up and waded

playfully into Nigel. The bigger man

laughed and responded in kind,

which quickly brought a mock sur-

render from the diminutive fellow.

Nigel laughed again. “When did I

last run across you? Lord and Lady,

what was it? Seventy-one? Seventy-

two?”

“It was seventy-one, my friend. I am

pleased that you remember.”

Nancy’s voice was full of cheer, and

had a musical quality to it, with an

alto-tenor pitch. It was surprisingly

deep coming from such a diminutive

figure. If the dandy suit he was

sporting were drenched, he might

top eight stone.

“Oh, I remember, alright,” Nigel

chuckled. “I had to trek all the way

to Ujiji, just to make sure that you

didn’t lead that Yank up the garden

path. How may other fellows did

you lead a merry chase all over

Africa, looking for Livingstone?”

“Oh, I don’t know, half a dozen,

maybe?” Nancy’s smile showed ab-

solutely no remorse.

“At least! You know, Brits aren’t use

to having their heroes put in a zoo

exhibit for African bushmen. And

they say I’m always causing trouble.

You have me beat by half!”

“Ah, well. That’s my job, my

friend.” Nancy’s smile grew bigger,

if that were possible. “Everyone

needs to be brought down a peg,

once in a while. Even you English.”

Nigel laughed again. “Especially us

English! But who are you here to

peg back today?”

“We’ll get to that, soon enough.”

Cwm’s scowl finally intruded on the

reunion. “The match is starting. Do

sit down or we’ll miss it.”

Nigel glanced over his shoulder. The

players were positioned around the

center circle, just waiting for the ref-




eree’s signal to begin.

“Alright then, Cwm, alright.” Nigel

took a seat next to Nancy, giving him

a friendly elbow and a wink. “What,

have you got a fiver on the game?”

The Welsh god’s puffy cheeks turned

a deep red and his jowls flapped

madly about as he took the bait.

“Gambling is an evil vice, Nigel, and

you know I don’t indulge. You may

like your fun and games but look at

all the trouble it causes.”

Cwm seemed about to launch into a

full fledged sermon but the match

started and he was instantly drawn

in. From the other side of him,

Hamish leaned forward and caught

Nigel’s eye.

“Why do you always have to tease

him, mate? He’s a good fellow in a

pinch and you know it.”

“He’s a stick-in-the-mud,” Nigel

sneered in reply.

“OK, so he takes life too seriously,

mate, but someone has to provide a

counterweight for you.”

Nancy chuckled at the barb and

Nigel shrugged it off with a guilty

grin.

An Arsenal player made a run down

the flank and Cwm suddenly came to

his feet. The play fizzled out, how-

ever, and the Welsh god slipped back

into his seat, disappointed.

Nigel looked over at Hamish.

“One of his lads?”

Hamish nodded.

“Looks a bit of alright.”

Cwm turned on him with a snarl.




“Yes, he does and no thanks to you!”

“Me? What did I do?”

“It was one of your lads who did him

in, wasn’t it?”

“Dunno, mate, was it?”

Cwm lunged out of his seat but then

lurched right back into it, as Hamish

yanked hard on his shirttail.

“Take it down a notch, mate. Nigel

wasn’t around when that happened

and you know it. No sense blaming

him. Besides, this isn’t why we

came here.”

Nigel peered around a seething Cwm

at the Scot. “And why exactly did

we come here?”

Hamish smiled. “Well, let’s go in

and have a nice dinner, and I’ll ex-

plain.”

An hour later, after some excellent

roast of lamb, Nigel found himself

sipping a rather excellent wine and

thinking that this was exactly why he

had dreamt up the Game in the first

place.

“So, we settle our differences on the

pitch, then?”

“Aye, it’s already been agreed. If we

win, Manco closes up shop. There’s

some other side bets, as well, but

everyone’s in on the big one. Except

you, of course.”

“Oh, no. I’m in. Definitely count

me in, Hamish. I want that little rat

and his nasty powder out of my

patch, and I mean sharpish.”

“Good, then. The rest will be glad to

hear it. It’s not going to be easy,

though. Manco has some heavy-

weights in his corner.”

“Pierre and Gaston?”

“Who else? But Otto’s come out on

their side, as well.”

“Otto? Wouldn’t have thought it of

him.”

Cwm finally spoke up. “Well, he

was going to play with us but then

you showed up out of the blue, got

in a tussle with him, laid a kiss on his

little bird before you left and that put

paid to that.”




“Well, what about you, Cwm? You

always seem to have a bug up your

arse about me. I’m surprised you’re

not boning up on your ‘comment ça

vas’, too.”

Cwm shot out of his chair and began

jabbing a fork in Nigel’s face. “Well,

if you bloody well took a moment to

think before you stuck your bloody

effing nose in where it doesn’t

bloody effing belong!”

“OK, OK, Cwm. Take it easy, mate.

We’re all on the same side and this

is going to work out, yeah?”

Cwm glared at Hamish, then at

Nigel, then at Hamish again. Finally,

he relaxed, gently put his fork back

on the table, turned and walked out

of the suite, slamming the door be-

hind him.

Hamish looked at Nigel, reassur-

ingly. “He’ll be alright. No wor-

ries.”

“Okay, I guess.” Nigel nodded, and

then moved on. “Who else we got?”

“Well, there is me, my friend,”

Nancy smiled.

“You play?”

Hamish let out a belly laugh and

Nigel looked over, confused.

“Boyo, he can play. Oh yes, you

needn’t worry about that! He’ll be

keeping their back line busy all

night. We just have to worry about

keeping Manco from doing the same

at the other end.”

Reassured, Nigel chuckled and play-

fully mashed Nancy’s hat down on

his head.

“Don’t you ever take that ugly thing

off?”

Nancy laughed, “Only when it’s time

to get serious, my friend.”

Nigel’s chuckle grew into a full

throated roar.

“This is going to be right fun, it is.”

Nancy laughed along with him but

Hamish looked like a god who has

realised he might have bitten off

more than he could chew. ■




Andrew Thomas >

Hate, as everybody knows, is a neg-

ative pursuit; a destructive approach

to the world that serves only to di-

minish the hater. Haters gonna

hate, we tut, pitying those who are

so misanthropic in their bearing that

they cannot help but bring con-

tempt to the party, to ruin life – and,

more importantly, football – with

their ceaseless carping, their inces-

sant sniping, with their vicious and

vituperative bent.

All well and good. What the hate

haters won’t tell you, however, is

that hating can be healthy. Hating

can be good. And hating can be an

enormous amount of fun.


ON THE PLEASURE OF HATING

JACK WILSHIRE


A couple of conditionals. First, we

are not talking about hate in a stu-

pid, hyperpartisan, conspiratorial

way. It is important, when hating,

not to let your loathing consume

and destroy your rationality. If this

happens, you are lost. At all times,

be fair. It is, as we shall see, per-

fectly possible to hate a footballer

while understanding that he is

pretty darned good at the game.

Second, it is best to try to hate on a

basis that isn’t simply tribal. Not

only does this expose you to greater

risk of succumbing to hyperpartisan

attitudes – becoming nothing more

than a vector for hate – but it is, to

be frank, boring. Hating a Scouser

because you hate Scousers is alright,

but it’s not what we’re talking

about. Find somebody who evokes

something personal; find a genuine

reason to hate that specific Scouser

more, and better, than you hate all

other Scousers.

Or, as in my case, find a young lad

from Stevenage, decide that you re-

ally can’t stand the sight of him, and

run with it.

There are rational reasons to hate

Jack Wilshere, of course: he’s

younger than me, he’s disgustingly

talented, and he plays for Arsenal.

But there are players both younger

and more talented than him that I

actively like and there are Arsenal

players that I’ve admired, both re-

luctantly and enthusiastically. I even

like Arsène Wenger, despite (or per-

haps because of) his intense pre-

ciousness, Cyclopean stubbornness,

and barely concealed snobbery. But

there is something uniquely repel-

lent about Wilshere; something I’m

not sure I quite grasp even as I think

about it. Something that seems al-

most larger than young Jack himself.

Hating, of course, is perfectly and

fundamentally natural. English es-

sayist William Hazlitt – in his sple-

netic On the Pleasure of Hating, to

which this piece owes more than a

little – notes that the human condi-

tion is “always to have a quantity of

superfluous bile upon the stomach”.

It’s what we do. Anybody who does-

n’t is either a hippy or high (proba-

bly both) and so not to be trusted.

And, while dwelling on hate can lead

to misery, indulging it from time to

time – say, at the weekends – can be

a fine vocation.


ON THE PLEASURE OF HATING JACK WILSHERE ANDREW THOMAS


It helps that Wilshere is eminently

hateworthy, for all kinds of reasons.

There’s his face, cocked in a perma-

nent half-pout, half-sneer; an ex-

pression that encapsulates all that is

bad about Wenger’s latter-day Arse-

nal, convinced of its own superiority

and disdainful of the inadequate

world that fails to acknowledge it.

He has the features, bearing and

self-righteousness of a Young Con-

servative, a scion of privilege who

knows that he will inherit the world

because, quite simply, he deserves

to.

Then there’s his tackling. Wilshere,

like plenty of other footballers who

like to consider themselves hard but

lack that curious blackness of the

soul that football’s genuine psy-

chopaths thrive upon, is a nasty little

swine in the challenge. Frequently

late, usually high, generally with a

flash of stud, he perpetually pres-

ents the vice of callous-

ness as the virtue of

commitment. He is, in

short, very much “that

sort of player”. One red

card in 64 starts may not

seem to reflect that, but

then, of course,

Wilshere is not disciplined or refer-

eed like other players, as Jermaine

Pennant will tell you.

For Wilshere’s is the latest head

around which can be found the

golden miasma of destiny, the halo

of England. Just as John Terry and

Steven Gerrard – and Alan Shearer

before them – have found their ca-

reers cushioned, smoothed and lu-

bricated by official tolerance and tol-

erant officiating, so now Wilshere

finds reds becoming yellows, and

yellows becoming stern

words. This is not an ac-

tive conspiracy, but then

it doesn’t need to be. It

is the simple and natural

consequence of being

who you are. Players

who acquire a reputa-

tion for thuggery will find them-

selves carded more; players who

acquire a reputation as the Great

White Hope of English Football will

find that English football itself be-

comes more accommodating to

their peccadilloes, and their elbows,

and their sharp, flashing cleats.

That’s not Wilshere’s fault, of

course, but then neither is his face



That’s not

Wilshere’s fault,

of course, but

then neither is

his face


nor his character, so at least we’re

being consistent. And there’s more,

a million tiny offences against the

soul: his persistent, petulant whin-

ing; his weirdly nationalist Tweeting;

his classlessness in defeat; his class-

lessness in victory. I even briefly en-

tertained the notion that I hated

him because he should have taken

Aaron Ramsey’s leg-chopping, the

thought being that England churn

out decent midfielders all the time,

whereas Ramsey is very literally a

once-in-a-generation talent for

Wales. I abandoned that, though, as

being perhaps a touch unsustain-

able.

All the above is, of course, colossally

hypocritical. Each and every one of

the malign attributes outlined above

can be found in plenty of players

that I don’t despise with the same

enthusiasm, to say nothing of a few

players that I actively adore. What

this means is that the hatred doesn’t

emerge from these attributes as

such; it is not contingent on

Wilshere looking like an over-in-

dulged Tory leg-scraper. Instead, I

think it’s better to understand the

hatred as being sparked by some-

thing minor – a late tackle followed

by a querulant yelp – but then being

sustained and enhanced by the

sheer joy of it; hate piling upon hate

in a kind of malicious feedback loop,

forming a glorious pile of blood-boil-

ing, teeth-gnashing rage, the result

of which is I can’t actually look at

him without wanting to kick some-

thing small and furry and cute.

It’s marvellous. Hazlitt writes that

“without something to hate, we

should lose the very spring of

thought and action. Life would turn

to a stagnant pool, were it not ruf-

fled by the jarring interests, the un-

ruly passions, of men”. And this is

what Jack Wilshere does for me: by

being the centre of the loathed uni-

verse, he keeps the pool fresh, and

thought and action springy. You are

not just defined by your loves, but

by your hatreds; without knowing

what you stand against, as well as

for, you are nothing.

And the best thing about hating

Wilshere like this is that it has noth-

ing (or at least very little) to do with

the football. It runs happily concur-

rent to any assessment of Wilshere’s

footballing ability – very good, po-

tentially outstanding, may find de-




velopment awkward with the

tongues of half the Fourth Estate

rammed up his back passage – and

so doesn’t really affect the game.

Instead, it seasons it; gives it spice

and tang. That he seems to be a

colossally boring man only makes it

sweeter. (See? Even when I’m trying

not to insult him, I end up insulting

him.)

In truth, I do not come to bury

Wilshere, but to praise him. To

praise him for adding a whole new

dimension of derision to Arsenal

games; for applying a whole new

layer of loathing to the England

team; and for inspiring a greater

love for Ramsey – who may only be

his rival in my head, but that’s what

counts – than I thought possible.

He’s given me a dark heart at the

centre of the universe; the purest

avatar of the yin that squats in op-

position to all the wondrous yang

out there. But, like the yin yang, it’s

not truly about good and evil, or

about right and wrong. It’s about

my centre. If I am to love – and, this

being football, I will love, love, and

love again – then it stands to reason

I must hate in equivalent degree,

lest I lose balance and spin away,

flailing and discombobulated.

I’m not telling you to hate Jack

Wilshere. If you do, welcome; if not,

that’s your own lookout. But find

somebody. Find a player, or man-

ager, or club, or mascot, or badge, or

even a groundsman, that rubs you

the wrong way, that gets right on

your wick and your tits. Gary

Neville, I suspect, was a popular

choice for many a year. Stephen

Hunt has the right stuff in spades.

More obscurely, perhaps Cyril the

Swan? The entire population of

Stoke? The owl on Oldham Ath-

letic’s badge?

As the experience of football gets in-

creasingly sterile, you owe it to your-

self to stoke up some fiery loathing.

You’ll enjoy yourself. And that’s

what this is all about: you, the audi-

ence, have found your pantomime

villain. Boo. Hiss. He’s behind you!

Trust me. It’s a lot of fun. ■





Nigel bounced up and down in the

dark, his nerves on edge. How can

you get twenty-two gods together for

a football match, not to mention

countless others in the stands to

watch, then let the stadium lights go

out? Frankly, it was embarrassing.

He’d grab the ball and piss off if

there weren’t so much at stake.

Eventually there was a series of loud

clicks, followed by an intense hum,

and the pitch was bathed in light

once again. Players immediately

latched onto balls and began running

through drills.

Nigel took a moment to soak in the

surroundings. The Monumental cer-

tainly had been named well. The

stands rose up steeply on all sides

and the gods in paying attendance

Let The Game Pour Down FromGods Above


were already in full song, rooting on

their chosen side.

Nigel caught sight of Hamish com-

ing back onto the field, wiping his

hands with a rag and looking about

sheepishly.

“Sorry ‘bout that. A drunken satyr

spilled some mead on the wiring.

All sorted now.”

Nigel nodded and, noticing a spot of

grease on Hamish’s cheek, made a

mirroring gesture on his own.

“Got a bit on yer face, mate.”

“Huh? Oh, cheers!”

Hamish wiped at his cheek with two

fingers, leaving behind a much big-

ger smudge than before. Nigel

grinned.

“No, mate. Other cheek.”

Hamish left a matching trail on the

opposite side.

“That got it?”

Nigel shook his head.

“Missed a bit.”

Another smudge appeared just as

Nancy jogged up. His feathered felt

hat was still atop his head

“That’s got it.”

“Thanks.”

“No worries.”

Nancy took in the exchange, looked

at Hamish’s warpaint, his grin

widening, and elbowed Nigel in the

ribs. The Brit bit his tongue to keep

a straight face.

Looking at Nancy's hat, Nigel asked,

"Don't you ever take that ugly thing

off?"

Nancy let out a guttural laugh.

"Only when I get serious, my

friend," he replied. "Besides, the

women love it."

Nigel barked at that and played at

trying to snatch the headgear away.

Manco strutted up, wearing the arm-

band for his side. Gaston and Pierre,


LET THE GAME POUR DOWN FROM GODS ABOVE


still topped with berets and dragging

on cheap cigarettes, accompanied

him. Even up close, it was impossi-

ble to tell them apart, but Padraig

claimed he had it on good authority

that they weren’t twins. Not even re-

lated, he said.

“Are we ready?” Manco sneered.

Hamish slipped on his armband and

nodded in the affirmative. Manco

looked momentarily confused by the

black marks on the Scot’s face, but

decided to ignore them.

“All sides ‘ave agreed upon the

stakes, non?” One of either Gaston

or Pierre spoke up.

Trying to decide which it was could

give a god a headache. Nigel de-

cided that from now on whichever

one spoke, he would think of him as

Gaspierre.

Hamish reassured the French duo

that everyone had agreed to all per-

tinent wagers.

Nigel looked about. “Where are the

officials? No way are this lot going

to work on the honour system.”

Otto materialised in full kit and

boots, four startled men in tow and

with Ramona, replete in armour,

horned helm and her own face paint,

on his arm. He glared angrily at

Nigel as he answered.

“They are right here.”

The foremost man wore a whistle

around his neck. He was seventy if

a day, pale-skinned, balding and pot-

bellied. There were two others car-

rying flags, the first short,

olive-skinned and bearded, wearing

a ghutra on his head, and the second

a tall black fellow, bespectacled and

looking quite unhappy. The fourth

man, carrying an electronic time

clock, was Caucasian, with a cheer-

ful disposition and a thick mane of

wavy black hair. Gaspierre looked

particularly displeased by his pres-

ence.

Nigel snorted.

“You’ve got to be joking! Except for

the one carrying the clock, none of

them look like they could walk

around a moat, let alone keep up

with us for ninety minutes. Do they




even know the rules?”

Taylor spoke up from behind him.

“If you took a survey most people

would say no. But they’re the ones

who run the mortal game. The ref-

eree is the FIFA President. Anyway,

for them this is merely a dream.

They are each actually in bed, sound

asleep.”

They run the Game? Nigel sized

them up again.

“Lord and Lady! This is a bigger job

than I’d thought.”

Manco cackled and the rotund ref-

eree blew his whistle, waving every-

one into position to start the match.

“One moment!” It was Otto. “We

must have the anthem. If you please,

I have brought my delightful consort

to do the honours.”

Collective groans came from all

sides. Ramona pretended not to hear

and cleared her throat as she waited

for everyone to stand guard. When

the two sides were lined up and quiet

she launched into an earsplitting aria,

of which Nigel could understand

nary a word.

He leaned toward Hamish and whis-

pered, “Listen, mate. In all the ex-

citement, I didn’t get a wager in. I

feel kind of cheated.”

Hamish’s countenance reddened

slightly as he stammered, “Ah, yes...

well, you see... ah, um, well… actu-

ally you do have a wager in. We

agreed it beforehand, in your ab-

sence.”

Nigel’s eyes narrowed, and Hamish

began to look positively uncomfort-

able.

“Well? Out with it, man! What have

you got me into?”




Cwm spoke up, on the far side of the

Scot. “If we lose, you give up any

proprietary rights to the Game, any

authority over it, and agree to depart

from this plane for five millennia.”

“What? I’m banished, and while I’m

gone you lot are free to screw up my

Game? Sod that!”

He took a step out of the line, intend-

ing to make straight for Manco.

Hamish grabbed him by the arm and

hissed, “It’s too late, mate. Oath has

been given. All you can do is abide

by it. If you break the pact, you’ll be

sent packing anyway.”

Glaring at the two of them and furi-

ously fighting down his own rage,

Nigel finally ground his teeth and

muttered, “Then we’d best win, had-

n’t we?”

Ramona finished her performance

on a high note that threatened to

shatter the banks of lights ringing the

ground. It was debatable whether

the muted applause was in apprecia-

tion of her talents or the fact that the

audience had survived them without

any permanent damage to their

eardrums.

Nigel took up a position in the rear

of midfield. To his right was Epsen

of Hollandia. He was well named, a

Dutch bear indeed, with his shock of

black hair, a thick beard and a mat of

curly fur covering his forearms and

legs. Not only that, he was as huge

as a bear, in the bargain. Nigel

hoped he was as agile as his name-

sake.

Behind him, the line was Home Na-

tions all the way, Cwm and Hamish

in the middle, Padraig on the right

and crafty little Declan on the left.

Paddy was actually better in central

defence, but the two Irish gods stub-

bornly refused to get any closer to

each other on the pitch.

In goal was Taylor’s husband, Todd.

Nigel frowned. Hadn’t she said he

was a cheerleader?

She noticed his worried look and

called over to him. “Tod’ll be fine.

He’s allowed to use his hands and

he’s very enthusiastic!”

Nigel took another look. Todd was

smacking his hands together in their

giant keeper’s gloves, his head bob-

bing and neck veins throbbing as he




pumped himself up. Nigel began to

worry about what he might be doing

for the next five thousand years. He

turned back towards Taylor and she

gave him two thumbs up.

Well, Hamish and Cwm had their

work cut out. He had no reserva-

tions about the girl, though. If she

could handle the ball in a match the

way she did in Medellin, she’d do

fine, and Hamish had gushed about

what Nancy could do in the box. All

Taylor needed to do was get the ball

to the little African.

On the wings were two familiar

faces, but Nigel couldn’t put names

to them. He gestured to Hamish.

“They’re two of Emil the Turk’s

sons. They’ll do fine.”

Nigel grunted.

The whistle blew and everyone

began to move.

The pace was quicker than he had

anticipated but Nigel adjusted imme-

diately. Manco was up front all

alone but Pierre and Gaston – best

not to lump them together just now

– were slotted in behind him. There

was a trio of Asians behind them in

the midfield, with Otto and Ivan, the

big Russian, anchoring the defence.

He couldn’t make out who was in

goal, but the fellow had a massive

moustache, a pointed beard and a

huge turban. The full-backs were

strange faces as well.

Pierre and Gaston quickly began

working the ball back and forth

across the pitch, trying to open up

Hamish and Cwm and catch Nigel

and Epsen out of position. Well,

Nigel was having none of that. The

Gallic pair recycled possession well,

playing the ball back to whence it

came whenever someone crowded

them, but they also liked to work

with each other too often. More than

once, one of the Asians made a run

for a through ball, but every time it

ended up at the feet of a French god

on the halfway line instead.

About a quarter of an hour in, Nigel

found what he was looking for.

Gaspierre slotted a ball through

Epsen’s legs, expecting the other

Gaspierre to slip into the empty

space. Nigel nipped in and got there

a second sooner, tapping the ball

quickly to Epsen who was now in




acres of space. The Dutchman

looked up and instantly spread it

right, into Taylor’s path, but a shrill

whistle broke up the counter attack.

Nigel turned to see a grimacing

French god rolling on the ground,

clutching a shin. What the hell?

Nigel hadn’t even touched him. The

fat little bald man walked up and

flashed a yellow card in his face.

Nigel went ballistic.

“Are you mad? I got the ball, not

him, you moron! What the…?”

Before he could get the rest out

Hamish and Cwm had corralled him,

and Taylor as well. Epsen was doing

his best to calm the startled human

and keep Manco, Gaston and Pierre,

both on their feet now and looking

fresh as daisies, from egging the old

fellow into producing a red.

“Calm down!” Hamish urged.

“But…”

Cwm cut him off this time. “Getting

you sent off is just what they want,

you effing fool. Get your head out

of your arse or we’re done.”

Nigel rounded on him but then got

hold of himself. Cwm was right.

Had to happen eventually. He didn't

put voice to the thought but it

brought a smile to his face and broke

the red haze in front of his eyes.

“Right. You’re right. Sorry. I’m

fine, now. Let’s go.”

Cwm stood stunned for a moment.

Then he actually smiled too, and

clapped Nigel on the back.

“Let’s do it!”

Manco was impatiently standing

over the ball, eager to take the free

kick. The ref was having none of it,

however, and allowed Todd to set up

his wall. The Yank barked out orders

as though he’d been doing it all his

life. Who the bloody hell was this

bloke? And what had he done with

Taylor's meek little hubby?

Nigel took his spot in the front line.

The wall leapt in unison as Manco

connected with the ball. On his re-

turn to earth, Nigel twisted to see the

result.




The ball had curled above and

around the wall and was bending

right towards the angle of the goal.

Crap. At the last instant, however, a

huge gloved hand was there, and the

ball caromed harmlessly outside the

post. The save was followed by a tri-

umphant roar from the stoked Amer-

ican keepe. Well done, Todd!

Manco hurried over and lined up the

corner. Nigel’s group was well or-

ganized, though, and Hamish got a

head to the in-swinger. It ricocheted

directly to Nigel, who took one

touch to get it over to his fellow an-

chorman, Espen.

The big bear could move, the Brit

was glad to see. He slipped past one

half of Gaspierre, took another touch

and sent the ball to the centre circle.

Taylor locked onto it and moved into

the attacking half, drifting slightly to

the right. Out of the corner of her

eye she saw a shape dart behind two

others, and she sent a low, perfectly

weighted ball between Ivan and

Otto.

Nancy streaked in from the opposite

side, just beat the charging keeper to

the ball, flitted past his flailing lunge

and toed the ball into the goal.

Nigel punched his fist in the air in ju-

bilation. One-nil! Five thousand

years, his arse!

The side quickly settled back, con-

tinuing to separate Gaston from

Pierre. Each time they won the ball

back, Manco screeched in frustra-

tion, while Epsen moved the ball

from flank to flank, picking out

passes masterfully. Life was good.

Just before time, however, it turned

bad. Very bad.

After a sustained pummeling of the

opposing goal, during which they

couldn’t seem to find the final touch,

Nigel’s side were caught napping.

Otto latched onto a loose pass and

sent the ball soaring down the pitch,

more in hope than expectation.

Manco was sharp, though. While his

markers hesitated, he raced onto the

clearance and side-footed past Todd

from the edge of the area to level the

score.

Before Nigel’s troops could regroup,

the ball was back down their end

again. Gaston and Pierre finally




worked some space just outside the

area, combined with a neat one-two,

then slipped a ball into the six yard

box. It was an inch too far for

Manco. Nevertheless, as the ball

trundled out for a goal kick, the de-

vious Incan cleverly tripped himself

over Cwm’s trailing foot, collapsing

in a heap and wailing like a banshee.

The tubby official, twenty yards be-

hind play, pointed to the spot.

Manco dusted himself down and

calmly calmly sent Todd the wrong

way, placing the ball just inside the

other post. Manco danced through

the box, arms raised. Cackling

madly, he pointed to the dejected

keeper. “You are too easy, Ameri-

cano!”

In just a couple of minutes the game

had turned on its head. The half-

time whistle sounded and Nigel

jogged over to a despondent Todd.

Slipping an arm over Todd’s droop-

ing shoulders, Nigel squeezed hard

and said, “Shrug it off, mate. Nei-

ther was your fault. We’ll get it

back.”

“But…”

“But nothing, mate. You’re doing

fine. Forget what’s happened and

get your head back in the game. We

need you!”

Todd looked up at Nigel. He smiled

like a newborn.

“Right. You can count on me!”

“Good on ya!”

Nigel turned to find Taylor beaming.

Blushing, he headed the other way to

confab with Hamish and Cwm.

After mulling it over for a bit, the

trio agreed that they were doing fine.

Both goals could be put down to in-

competent officiating, and there was-

n’t much they could do about that.




They’d carry on as they were after

the restart, and if they couldn’t find

their way back they’d think about

opening up and perhaps bringing in

a fresh body. Nigel hoped it didn’t

come to that, though. The pine was

filled with fresh-faced young

godlings who looked as though

they’d never even seen a battle, let

alone been in the thick of one.

The second half started slowly, both

sides wary of conceding a goal that

would drastically change the face of

the game. Manco’s pack were sitting

back, soaking up pressure and look-

ing to hit on the counter. Nigel and

Espen were prepared though, track-

ing back to help cut off any service

to Manco and his French allies.

As the clock ticked down to the final

quarter of an hour, the scoreboard

still read 2-1. A deflected long shot

had resulted in a rare corner for the

opposition, and Pierre and Gaston

worked it short to Manco, twenty

yards out. He was surprisingly

strong for his size. Managing to

shake both Hamish and Cwm, he

burst into the area. Only Todd, knees

knocking but gloves at the ready,

was between Manco and the game.

Nigel saw it all unfolding, but he

was just out of range to handle it

properly. There was nothing for it.

He was going to have to take Manco

down. And if he was, he might as

well get his money’s worth. Racing

in from behind, Nigel launched him-

self at the little Incan, raking his

sharp studs from thigh to ankle.

Manco went to the ground, scream-

ing. This time his pain was genuine.

A shrill whistle pierced the prostate

striker’s groans and the crowd’s

jeers. An incensed tub of lard came

bounding over, whistle shrieking

with each breath and his hand fran-

tically waving a card as red as his

cheeks. Looking down at the still-

whimpering Manco, Nigel shook his

head.

“Take it like a god, you little shit.”

As he turned to head off the pitch, he

glanced at Todd. The American

looked pale and grim but he gave

Nigel a thumbs-up. The Brit

slumped against the corner of the

tunnel entrance and watched Manco,

recovered now, confidently step up

to the ball. The drug lord made a




herky-jerky approach, hoping to de-

ceive Todd one more time and kill

off the match – not to mention

Nigel’s career.

Absolutely full of himself, Manco

cheekily sent a soft shot right down

the middle. Todd, tensed for another

leap, showed amazing instincts and

stayed rooted to the spot, simply

kneeling to cradle the slowly rolling

ball into his arms.

A huge grin spread across his fea-

tures and he pointed back at Manco.

“Who's easy now, Corto?”

Manco's visage turned a deep purple.

Alone on the spot, stamping his feet

and screaming at the top of his lungs,

the tiny Incan looked the complete

fool

Even down a god, Taylor and the

lads were inspired by the save and

they rallied. Pierre and Gaston were

shackled by a reinvogorated midfield

patrol of Espen and Taylor, and as

they could get no space or time on

the ball, Manco’s supply dried up.

When a ball did make it through, his

fury had upset his timing. Still, the

sands of time were running down for

Nigel.

Then the game turned ugly.

Taylor, fed again by Epsen, turned

on a sixpence and sprinted into

space. From either side, Pierre and

Gaston, who had dropped back into

midfield to see out the game, closed

on her. One gave her a hard shoulder

and the other slid in, cracking into

her ankle before nudging the ball

away. Taylor went down. She

stayed down. She hadn’t made a

sound – raising herself another notch

or two in Nigel’s eyes – but he knew

she was finished.

Half of Nigel’s squad rushed to the

American goddess’ aid, waving for a

physio, while the rest restrained

Todd, eyes bulging and mouth froth-

ing, from getting his gloves on Pierre

and Gaston. The referee stood pa-

tiently by, cards firmly in pocket and

hands on hips.

Nigel realised he’d better think about

a sub. He didn’t recognise any of the

gods on the bench; mostly sons of

old friends, he suspected. Their

wide eyes pleaded up at him, search-

ing for an indication of who should

go on.




As he mulled over the unenviable

decision, the air beside him suddenly

crackled. A pasty-faced god with

raven hair and a hooked nose mate-

rialised. He was kitted up and ready

to go. Meeting Nigel’s eyes with a

twinkling set of his own, his smile

exposed a row of yellow, crooked

teeth.

“Hello, friend. Need some help?”

Nigel threw his head back and

laughed. “Sandor, you old bastard!

So what was you after all, you

scheming old squire. I’ll be

damned!”

Sandor nodded towards the pitch. “I

was hoping to prevent that,” he

replied.

Nigel extended an arm towards the

pitch. “By all means.”

At a nod from the fourth official, the

Hungarian trotted into the fray, clap-

ping for Taylor as the stretcher carted

her off, then briskly shaking hands

with Espen and Nancy. The little

African turned towards Nigel, his

everpresent smile replaced by a men-

acing glare. He lifted his hat off his

head and flung it over the touch line.

It was time to get serious.

Pierre and Gaston were obviously

less than enchanted with this San-

dor’s admittance, and the pair loudly

harangued the referee. A thunder-

cloud crossed the elderly human’s

round face, and his whistle fairly

roared as he shooed the two French

gods away with surprising authority.

Maybe this one had something in

him after all.

The match started up again and it

soon became evident that Epsen and

Sandor had something of an under-

standing. They moved the ball be-

tween them with even more

telepathy than Pierre and Gaston, but

kept the others involved, too. De-

spite their godpower advantage, the

two Gallic deities and their mates

were now desperately on the back

foot. Otto and Ivan had a firm leash

on Nancy, however, and he didn’t

look like breaking free again.

They had help, as well. The Arab

linesman, in the Ghufta, had begun

raising the offside flag every time

the little African looked like having

half a chance. Thankfully, the sour-




faced fellow on the other side

seemed completely uninterested in

participating in his dream. He fol-

lowed the play up and down the

touchline, but his expression never

changed and his arm never left his

side.

Knowing they couldn’t catch Manco

offside made Hamish and Cwm’s job

simpler, as one man-marked him and

the other swept in behind.

Epsen and Sandor kept plugging

away in their attempts to find Nancy,

determined to fight for their red-

carded mate till the last. As the sta-

dium clock approached ninety

minutes, Nancy came to the top of

the box to collect an angled ball.

Marked by two defenders, instead of

turning back into the crowded area

he laid a return pass in front of San-

dor, who stepped into it with author-

ity. His low effort fizzed through

Otto’s legs and thumped into the net,

just inside the far post. The bearded

and turbaned keeper hadn’t a prayer,

and the match was all square.

Nigel danced on the touchline glee-

fully.

Incensed, Manco, Pierre and Gaston

redoubled their efforts and, as the

fourth official indicated seven min-

utes of injury time – might as well

put up eternity, Nigel though – they

descended on Todd’s goal. Hamish

and Cwm did their honest best but

the pressure was overwhelming and

efforts rained in.

Yet it didn’t matter. Todd was a god

transformed; stinging shots were

parried left, right, tipped over the bar

or smothered. Crosses were

punched out and he screamed en-

couragement at his line so loudly

that even Nigel, now pacing back

and forth in the six by four technical

area, could hear it over the raging

crowd.

At last, the whistle blew and twenty-

one gods stood on the pitch, stunned.

The match was deadlocked and no-

one seemed quite sure what would

happen next. Pierre and Gaston

were lobbying for extra time, but

Hamish held firm.

“We agreed on ninety minutes, me

froggies, and ninety minutes it is.

Nigel stays and, reluctantly, so does

Manco.” He glared at the Incan.




“Count yourself lucky, mate.”

Nigel strode up with a wicked grin

on his face but Manco chose discre-

tion over valour, fading hastily out of

sight. Gaston and Pierre looked at

each other, then, in unison, at Nigel.

“Merde,” two voices snarled in har-

mony, and then they too were gone.

Otto walked up and offered his hand.

“Well played,” he said, and he meant

it. “I enjoyed myself. The woman

was quite good but I think I’d rather

deal with her than that tricky cus-

tomer Sandor. See you next year?”

Nigel smiled grudgingly, “Maybe

sooner, mate.”

As Otto took his leave, Nigel could

have sworn that Ramona offered him

a surreptitious wink. Nah. That was

just too much woman for him.

Turning to his teammates he put both

arms around a startled Sandor, plant-

ing a kiss firmly on the Hungarians

lips. Laughing merrily, he addressed

the rest.

“Alright, who knows where there’s a

decent pub in this burgh? I’m buy-

ing!” ■




Emelie Okeke >

Featuring the greatest footballer in

the world, the best player from the

World Cup and the most exciting

young prospect in the game, Copa

America 2011 promises not to dis-

appoint.

“He's on his way to becoming the

best player in history. Given what

we already know and because he

surpasses himself day by day, he's

already the best in the world”.

Sergio Batista was one of the 80,000

awestruck spectators in the Stadio

Bernabeu on 29 April who wit-

nessed Lionel Messi's mesmerising

two-goal display against Real Madrid


ENGLISHMAN’S GUIDE TO THE

COPA AMERICA


in the Champions League semi-final

first leg. As manager of the Ar-

gentina national team, Batista is

placed better than most to predict

the dizzying heights that the

Barcelona forward can reach. No-

one will be hoping more than

Batista that Messi can steer La Al-

biceleste to victory in their home-

land – and keep the under-fire coach

in his job in the process.

The drama surrounding the 43rd

edition of what, pound-for-pound, is

the true heavyweight champion of

international competitions began

well before the final twelve talent-

laden squads had even assembled

on Argentine soil. There were man-

agerial upheavals and administrative

power-struggles in the aftermath of

the World Cup – a tournament that

was, on the whole, utterly under-

whelming for Latin America.

Argentina departed South Africa on

3 July, 2010, chastened by a crushing

display of German efficiency and

counter-attacking guile more suited

to the playing fields of Buenos Aires

than the training pitches of Berlin.

With a major tournament

of their own to be hosted

less than 12 months after

being given the bum’s rush

from Cape Town, the pow-

ers that be in the Argen-

tine Football Association

broke free from their mav-

erick head coach and playing legend

of yesteryear, replacing the uninhib-

ited Diego Maradona with a less

outspoken maverick head coach and

playing legend of yesteryear.

Batista was appointed caretaker

manager after the sacking of his

more celebrated 1986 World Cup-

winning team-mate. A despondent

Maradona was less than compli-

mentary towards his successor,

claiming that El Checho “would not

even be recognised in Uruguay”. To

his credit, the new man has re-

mained reticent in the

face of criticism from his

esteemed peer. Batista’s

reign formally began in

most encouraging fashion

in Qatar, seven months

ago, with a 1-0 friendly

victory over arch-rivals

Brazil, featuring a 90th minute goal

from Messi.

Yet, the pressure has heightened on

the former River Plate midfielder in


ENGLISHMAN’S GUIDE TO THE COPA AMERICA EMELIE OKEKE

Group A

Argentina

Bolivia

Colombia

Costa Rica


the wake of some less than enlight-

ening displays in the close season,

including defeats to Nigeria and

Poland (albeit with shadow sides

fielded). Despite these showings,

with their Champions League-win-

ning superstar in tow, a record 15th

continental title is in high demand

among the notoriously fanatical Ar-

gentine faithful.

The Brazilians also em-

barked on a managerial

regime change in the

wake of their quarter-

final disappointment last

summer. The phleg-

matic Dunga made way for Mano

Menezes and, with the 2014 Brazil-

ian World Cup in mind, Menezes is

ushering in a new era of young tal-

ent.

Domestic-based starlets such as

Lucas (Sao Paolo) and Ganso (San-

tos) have already been coveted by

numerous European outfits, and the

pair now have the opportunity to

showcase their ability in the famous

golden shirt of the Selecao during a

major tournament.

The crown jewel of this

new litter of gifted youth

is undoubtedly Ganso's

club-mate, Neymar. This

19-year-old forward is top

quality and plays like he

knows it; employing an

abundance of tricks and

feints to complement his powerful

bursts of pace and fleet-footed fin-

ishing. He has made one appear-

ance on English soil, running the

show as Brazil easily defeated Scot-

land in a friendly at the Emirates Sta-

dium earlier this year. Seeing as

Chelsea apparently lead his long list

of suitors, London may soon be see-

ing more of the player who could

challenge Messi for player of the

tournament this summer.

As seeded nations, Brazil and Ar-

gentina have been kept apart in the

draw for the group stage and appear

to emerge as prime beneficiaries of

favourable pairings for the prelimi-

naries. The Selecao will begin the

defence of their trophy against

Venezuela, followed by dark-horses

Paraguay - aren’t they always? - and

Antonio Valencia-driven Ecuador.

The curtain-raiser for hosts Ar-

gentina also kicks off the competi-

tion: a date with Bolivia. They then

face Columbia and Costa Rica, the



Group B

Brazil

Ecuador

Paraguay

Venezuela


latter having been drafted in as late

replacements for earthquake and

tsunami-stricken Japan.

The Japanese had been invited to

compete as a guest nation but were

forced to pull out in the devastating

wake of the natural and nuclear dis-

aster in their homeland, which led

to the subsequently delayed J-

League’s understandable reluctance

to release its players. In their ab-

sence, there had been speculation

that the United States or possibly

Spain (!) would step in. In the end,

however, neither was willing to com-

mit after their players had endured

a shortened summer in 2010,

through duty in South Africa. The

Americans also were committed to

the CONCACAF Gold Cup, which

they just lost to Mexico, last week-

end, and are in the midst of the MLS

club campaign. Costa Rica were in-

volved in the God Cup, as well, but,

having lost out to Uruguay for a spot

in South Africa, felt fresh enough to

do double duty.

An unintended by-product of

Japan’s natural disaster is a routine

passage to the knockout stages for

Argentina, much to the chagrin of

their rivals. Messi and co.

were the only outfit from

Group A to qualify for

South Africa 2010, and the

gap in class should be

telling.

Mexico, who apparently

can’t get enough football,

are the second invitee. They happily

avoided Brazil and Argentina but

landed in what will undoubtedly be

dubbed the Group of Death: Group

C.

There resides Atletico Madrid's

striker supreme Diego Forlan, who

was named the best player of the

World Cup. He will again be the

lynchpin for the incisive attacking

play which made Uruguay such a joy

to watch last summer, with the ob-

vious exception of their

opener against France.

Forlan looks set to reprise

the playmaker role that he

clearly relishes for the na-

tional team, behind Edin-

son Cavani and Luis

Suarez.

Looking through the provisional

Uruguay squad, the key element



Group C

Chile

Mexico

Peru

Uruguay


which emanates from their roster is

stability. The majority of their squad

are at the peak of their careers and

have accrued a large number of

caps. Unlike Brazil, Argentina and

Group C rivals Chile, the Celeste re-

tained their manager after an im-

pressive World Cup where they

outperformed all other Latin Amer-

ican entrants. That may be a crucial

detail in this tournament.

Oscar Tabarez has now been in

charge for five years, overseeing a

remarkable improvement in results

which resulted in an elevation to a

record high of sixth in the FIFA

World Rankings. They have since

dropped one place, falling in behind

England. It would, of course, still be

a shock if Uruguay won the Copa

America, or even made the final, but

there is an abounding feeling in

Montevideo that, if a tournament

triumph is to befall this famous foot-

ball nation during this generation,

then it will happen this summer.

Chile may have parted ways with

their Argentine head coach, Marcelo

Bielsa, but they have deservedly

earned their reputation as an enter-

taining, refreshingly forward-

minded team, buoyed by the

youthful exuberance of alumni from

their recently successful Under-20

and Under-17 sides. Big things were

expected of La Roja at the World

Cup but, despite flashes of enter-

prise, an unkind draw contributed to

early meetings with Spain and Brazil,

leading to a second round exit.

Another Argentine from the class of

‘86 now manages the team; Claudio

Borghi took the reins in February.

He is being paid a salary of $1.5mil-

lion and will be expected to at least

lead his adopted nation to knockout

football in his motherland.

Fans of the richer European clubs

will be especially interested in the

displays of winger-cum-striker Alexis

Sanchez. The Udinese player has

been linked predominantly with

Barcelona and Manchester City, with

the Friuli side reportedly holding out

for a €50 million windfall.

Peru are the side most likely to miss

out on the knockout stages from

Group C, yet any team led by the

seasoned striking talent of Claudio

Pizzaro and backed up by the pace

of Jefferson Farfan cannot be dis-




counted. Farfan bullied Inter Milan

in the Champions League this sea-

son and Brazilian defender Maicon

will not have fond memories. The

Schalke forward is most definitely on

the 'Bale List'.

Finally, we return to Mexico. El Tri

will be backed to religious extremes

by their ever-fervent support, but

they’ve suffered momentous set-

backs in their preparation. Five

members of their Gold Cup squad

were suspended indefinitely after

testing positive for a banned sub-

stance in a routine doping test dur-

ing this summer's CONCACAF. This

will not directly affect the composi-

tion of their Copa America squad

though, as they are sending a

shadow roster to Argentina, com-

prised entirely of home-based play-

ers – with the exceptions of Spurs

forward Giovani Dos Santos and his

younger brother,

Jonathan, who plies

his trade for

Barcelona B. Still,

morale among offi-

cials and supporters

is at a low ebb and if

the uncertainty

trickles down to the

largely inexperi-

enced group of

players perform-

ances will suffer.

Realistically they’ll

be hoping to scrape through as one

of the two best third-placed teams.

So, those are the twelve partici-

pants. Before I do a Lawro and un-

veil my ‘expert’ predictions, it is

worth noting that some of the finest

clubs in Europe will be losing the

cream of their Latin

American talent dur-

ing what is a key pe-

riod of pre-season

preparation, the ma-

jority of July. The

Madrid clubs, as well

as Udinese and AC

Milan, will have no-

table absentees, but

it appears that

Milan's neighbours

Internazionale will

suffer the most, with

Javier Zanetti, Diego Milito, Lucio,

Maicon and Julio Cesar having all re-

ported to their respective nations.

As well as these Nerazzuri players ef-

fectively missing pre-season train-



Bravo

Zapata

Da Silva

Cacares

Zanetti

Vargas

Ganso

Banega

Falcao

Suazo

Barrios

Chile

Colombia

Paraguay

Uruguay

Argentina

Peru

Brazil

Argentina

Colombia

Chile

Paraguay

PLAYERS TO WATCH

GK

DEF

DEF

DEF

DEF

MID

MID

MID

FOR

FOR

FOR


ing, factor in a recent World Cup and

a long season of Champions League

glory just before that, and it’s fair to

say they will be returning to Inter for

the start of the new campaign off

the back of two years of non-stop

competitive football. With a new

manager in Gianpero Gasperini at

the helm, it will be no surprise if the

start of the Serie A season throws up

a few surprise results.

For Barça fans, prayers will be di-

rected towards Messi’s unscathed

return to his club come August. For

Argentina's faithful, prayers will be

directed towards the world's num-

ber one footballer returning the

Copa America trophy to Buenos

Aires for the first time in almost two

decades. ■




Jude Ellery

FOOTBALLFARRAGO >

@JudeEllery >

Founder and editor of Man and

Ball. After being inspired by the

brilliant Blizzard I decided to pro-

duce something along the same

lines, but with a fantasy twist. My

blog includes work from guest

writers, many of whom can be

found below.

Martin Palazzotto

WORLD FOOTBALL COLUMNS >

@Martin_Whitehat >

Runs World Football Columns, a

collaborative site than comprises a

weekly pick of fixtures as well as

provocative thoughts on major sto-

ries from around the globe. Makes

virtual peanuts, serving as Nigel's

chief biographer.

David Hartrick

IN BED WITH MARADONA >

@Hartch >

Co-edits the best football blog

around – don’t just take my word

for it though, ask some of the

10,000 readers IBWM attracts every

day. Luckily for us, he’s agreed to

serialise his Chairman Diaries story

in Man and Ball, and it turns out

he’s as good a writer as he is editor.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://twitter.com/#!/Hartch

www.inbedwithmaradona.com

http://twitter.com/#!/martin_whitehat

http://www.worldfootballcolumns.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/JudeEllery

http://www.footballfarrago.com/

Jonathan Lines

PRETTY, PRETTY GOOD BLOG >

@JonathanLines1 >

Owes knowledge of German foot-

ball to having lived in Weimar for a

year, watching a lot of games and

“learning general stuff out of univer-

sity procrastination”. Supports West

Ham, for whom goalkeeper Bert

Trautmann performed heroics in

the 1956 FA Cup final, despite suf-

fering a broken neck. Knew there

was a flimsy link somewhere.

Tomasz Mortimer

HUNGARIAN FOOTBALL >

@HungariaFootbal >

Currently on a one-man mission to

educate the masses on Hungarian

football, past and present. Also

knowledgeable on Eastern Euro-

pean football in general. Looking

for new blood to contribute writ-

ings, art, photos or videos – as long

as it’s related to Magyar Foci, Tom’s

interested.

Mohamed Moallim

LA CROQUETA >

@jouracule >

A love affair with l’Oranje; can usu-

ally be found absorbed in DVDs of

The Netherlands and Ajax circa

1970. Expect articles on Dutch leg-

ends of yesteryear, but also musings

on other topics. One of Martin

Palazzotto’s disciples from WFC.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://twitter.com/#!/jouracule

http://jouracule.blogspot.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/HungariaFootbal

http://hungarianfootball.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/JonathanLines1

http://prettyprettygoodblog.blogspot.com/

Stefan Bienkowski

THE OVAL LOG >

@gtefan_gla >

Once upon a time Stefan was a reg-

ular contributor to FootballFarrago,

but now focuses his energies on his

similarly pretentious, anti-main-

stream blog now – a world football

site that currently includes a brilliant

team-by-team preview of the Copa

America.

Samuel Garuda

@SamuelGaruda >

Elusive and creative in equal meas-

ure. His sharp writing deals with

major and minor issues alike, and

happily some more of his work can

be found at FootballFarrago. Cap-

tain Capello’s Mandolin was a real

gem, and definitely should be the

name of a band.

Gary Al-Smith

@garyalsmith >

A nomad of the blogosphere, Gary

has written for ESPN, ITV and Kicker.

He’s your go-to guy for African foot-

ball knowlegde – if he doesn’t

know about it, it’s not worth know-

ing.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://twitter.com/#!/garyalsmith

http://twitter.com/#!/SamuelGaruda

http://twitter.com/#!/stefan_gla

http://theovallog.wordpress.com/

Andrew Thomas

TWISTED BLOOD >

@Twisted_Blood >

Acerbic, intelligent, inquisitive, un-

forgiving. And a decent writer, too.

Look up the brilliant Through Grit-

ted Teeth series and Gardening

Leave.

Emelie Okeke

RAMBLING WITH GAMBLING >

@Emelie_Okeke >

Writes readable football essays,

which is a commendable feat in it-

self. Again, discovered via a

gumtree advert for FootballFarrago,

he’ll surely go on to grace better

blogs and maybe even a real life

newspaper one day.

Christopher Lee

CHRISTOPHER LEE >

A modern artist (is it possible to be

anything else?), who branched out

into illustration as a favour at first,

and has now become our resident

Nigel portraitist. Also supplied this

issue’s front cover.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://www.christopher-lee.co.uk/

http://twitter.com/#!/Emelie_Okeke

http://www.emelieokeke.blogspot.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/Twisted_Blood

http://twistedblood.wordpress.com/

Gant Powell

GANTPANTS >

@gantpants >

They said it couldn’t be done, but

we’ve manged to produce this with

two Americans on the team and

not one mention of soccer. Illustra-

tions flooded with emotion, as you

can see by his pictures that accom-

pany our articles. Has worked for

all sorts of publications in the States;

a real coup.

The following have helped with this

issue of Man and Ball:

Promotion:

ManUtd24 >

Football Stryder >

James Lee >

Technical help:

The Blizzard >


CONTRIBUTORS


www.theblizzard.co.uk

http://www.myspace.com/heightenedfeeling

http://footballstryder.wordpress.com/

www.manutd24.wordpress.com

http://twitter.com/#!/gantpants

http://www.gantpants.com/


COPYRIGHT

Man and Ball Issue One:

Let Sleeping Gods Lie.

Written by Martin Palazzotto and

Jude Ellery.

Contributions from David Hartrick,

Jonathan Lines, Tomasz Mortimer,

Mohamed Moallim, Stefan Bi-

enkowski, Samuel Garuda, Gary Al-

Smith, Andrew Thomas, Emelie

Okeke, Christopher Lee and Gant

Powell.

This Issue published 28.06.2011

Copyright © manandball.com and

individual authors/illustrators.

All rights reserved. No part of this

publication may be reproduced, or

transmitted in any form, electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, record-

ing or otherwise, without the prior

permission of the copyright owner.

This issue is free, so please email it

to a friend. Careful though – Nigel

doesn’t take kindly to plagiarism.

Contact Man and Ball:

[email protected]

Website >

Facebook >

Twitter >

http://twitter.com/#!/Man_andBall

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Man-and-Ball/178620268860276

www.manandball.com


Documents

Man and Ball Issue One