The simultaneous resignation of England cricket captains Michael Vaughan and Paul Collingwood yesterday, and the appointment of Kevin Pietersen today, raise several questions.
a) Why did Vaughan decide to go?
First of all, although he is one of England’s most gifted batsmen he has been in horrible form for a long while, and has reached a point where he could hardly justify his place in a Test side. No doubt this has combined with the stresses of captaincy into a vicious circle of mental fatigue, and this is pretty much the reason he gave in his resignation statement. However, it is hard to avoid the suspicion that this is not the only reason.
Many critics have been carping at his captaincy, with its apparent closed-shop approach, its chummy nicknames and ‘Vaughany’s gang’ feel, and its familiar parade of press-conference cliches about positivity – mostly because he hasn’t been winning. Yet this system worked superbly for him in the past. With Duncan Fletcher as coach, he created a side that depended on close bonding, shored up by the security of central contracts – and by success. Has it gone stale because Vaughan himself is tired and stressed, because of lack of talent to surround him, or because as a system for the national team within the England set-up, it could not work long-term?
It has been obvious that Vaughan has not agreed with the selectors recently, most notably over the choice of Darren Pattinson, a competent bowler who acquitted himself well in his one Test match but has mostly played in Australia and was unknown to almost everyone in the England set-up. Vaughan let it be known that he felt this selection – combined with dropping his ally Paul Collingwood for the same Test – led to ‘confusion’. He then had a lengthy meeting with the Chairman of Selectors Geoff Miller, which apparently ‘cleared the air’. So much so, in fact, that a few weeks afterwards Vaughan was clearing his desk.
The England coach Peter Moores clearly does not have the relationship with Vaughan that his predecessor Fletcher did. Perhaps Vaughan thinks Moores is rubbish. Perhaps Moores thinks Vaughan is complacent and past it. Hard to tell, because they haven’t been seen much together. They have never shown the world that they formed a working team.
b) Why did Paul Collingwood decide to go?
His resignation has received less attention than Vaughan’s, but is in many ways more surprising.
For those unfamiliar with cricket structures, it should be explained that the captaincy of a national side is not normally split, but this is happening more often as the shorter forms of the game take on greater importance. The received wisdom is that it makes for trouble within the ranks and that the Test captain (the senior partner) can be undermined by an upstart captain of one-day games. In this case, Collingwood is a close friend of Vaughan, and became one-day captain at a time when Vaughan was already struggling with his form after massive injury problems. There is every sign that they have worked very well together.
Colly has his own brand of dauntless competitiveness, but he has not been altogether successful as captain. He made a serious error of judgment in one match and is currently serving a suspension for not controlling the over-rate. So he may perhaps have felt that it was not really the job for him. On the other hand he was not doing badly enough in terms of results for anyone to demand that he should go.
Like Vaughan he has been in terrible form, but in the last Test batted himself back with a superb innings. It is quite likely, though, that he had already taken the decision to give up the captaincy before he went out for that innings, and so freed up his mind to play at his best.
Did he jump or was he pushed? Some journalists are asserting that he was sacked, others are suggesting that he was asked to step down because the selectors wanted one captain in charge of both teams.
Given their friendship it is impossible to believe that Vaughan and Collingwood did not discuss their situations. If Vaughan’s relationship with the selectors and coach had deteriorated to the point where he no longer wanted to be captain, it seems likely that Collingwood would feel that he, too, wanted to pack it in.
c) Why has there really only been one candidate for the next captain?
Sadly, the current England team contains far too many players who are performing way below their ability, and some whose ability at Test level is questionable. Kevin Pietersen is actually the only player who is guaranteed a place in both test and one-day sides on the basis of his current playing.
This is a pretty shocking state of affairs and suggest that there are deep-seated problems in both the selection and coaching of England cricket players.
Duncan Fletcher demanded central contracts because he felt that the county system did not prepare players properly for the national side. However, it seems that we now have centrally contracted players who are not dropped or rested when out of form, and the county system is still not putting through enough talented players.
d) Will Kevin Pietersen make a good captain?
Who knows?
He certainly has a Marmite personality, some find him obnoxious and others immature, some enjoy his enthusiasm and others see him as an irresponsible brat.
My own view is that he’ll last one series. Two at the outside. And that someone else will captain England in the all-important Ashes series next year.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Best of British: honourable mentions - Ebren
Pseuds regulars offer their take on the best five British footballers of the last 50 years
Mackay, Charles, Giggs, Southall. and Roberston. The five greatest British players ever?
No reputations were seriously hurt in the making of this list – but some might be a little bruised. So to try and ease some Arnica into any growing purple patches, here are some of the people who have a good case to be on that list, but for one reason or another are not.
For the second time in as many weeks Bobby Charlton has missed out on a list of the top British footballers of the last 50 years. This feels a little unfair – but given he is the only Brit one universally acclaimed as one of the greatest ever he should get over it. Why was he missing? Simply because none of us knew exactly WHY he was seen as a legend – apart from a decent effort against Mexico.
Dennis Law is equally absent from both lists. If it makes his supporters feel any better – I rate him higher than Best. A supreme No 10, scored more in fewer games than Best, a greater success in Italy than Rush, but hopes dashed on the shores of peerless competition.
Jimmy Johnston is the player I most regret leaving out – as good as Garrincha to many. The man to first unlock Inter and Herrer's cattenacio and proving in the process that even a bent ref can be overcome if you are good enough (Pele later re-enforced did in Escape to Victory). I will let the pictures talk for me.
Peter Shilton took Forrest to two European Cups and the League in their first season in the top flight. As well as picking up 125 England caps, more than 1,000 league appearances and scoring 1 goal. He ruled himself out when arguing Banks was better (something I dispute) and as second to Banks (who appears on the other list) he didn't make it either.
I'm sure people will disagree here - but Jimmy Greaves was the greatest British goalscorer of the last 50 years. An incredible strike rate of 422 goals in 604 top class games (plus another 44 in 57 for England) - Scored in every debut he made at every level of every club he played for - and a grace and poise with the ball at all times. And it's not like he was simply an in-the-box player either - balance, speed, he could score overheads (as he did as part of his hat-trick on his Spurs debut) and dribble as well as almost any. If he had played and scored in the '66 final he might be rated above Best - but he didn't. And he isn't John Charles. So he misses out.
Alan Hanson's reading of the game, positioning, and organisation in defence served to make Liverpool both hard to break down and impossible to win the ball from. He also won every single club honur twice - he retired as the most decorated player in British history (to be overtaken by Giggs).
Oh, and check this out for Greaves, Mackay, and Johnny Haynes (who is a close outsider on many of these lists) and British football at its best.
Mackay, Charles, Giggs, Southall. and Roberston. The five greatest British players ever?
No reputations were seriously hurt in the making of this list – but some might be a little bruised. So to try and ease some Arnica into any growing purple patches, here are some of the people who have a good case to be on that list, but for one reason or another are not.
For the second time in as many weeks Bobby Charlton has missed out on a list of the top British footballers of the last 50 years. This feels a little unfair – but given he is the only Brit one universally acclaimed as one of the greatest ever he should get over it. Why was he missing? Simply because none of us knew exactly WHY he was seen as a legend – apart from a decent effort against Mexico.
Dennis Law is equally absent from both lists. If it makes his supporters feel any better – I rate him higher than Best. A supreme No 10, scored more in fewer games than Best, a greater success in Italy than Rush, but hopes dashed on the shores of peerless competition.
Jimmy Johnston is the player I most regret leaving out – as good as Garrincha to many. The man to first unlock Inter and Herrer's cattenacio and proving in the process that even a bent ref can be overcome if you are good enough (Pele later re-enforced did in Escape to Victory). I will let the pictures talk for me.
Peter Shilton took Forrest to two European Cups and the League in their first season in the top flight. As well as picking up 125 England caps, more than 1,000 league appearances and scoring 1 goal. He ruled himself out when arguing Banks was better (something I dispute) and as second to Banks (who appears on the other list) he didn't make it either.
I'm sure people will disagree here - but Jimmy Greaves was the greatest British goalscorer of the last 50 years. An incredible strike rate of 422 goals in 604 top class games (plus another 44 in 57 for England) - Scored in every debut he made at every level of every club he played for - and a grace and poise with the ball at all times. And it's not like he was simply an in-the-box player either - balance, speed, he could score overheads (as he did as part of his hat-trick on his Spurs debut) and dribble as well as almost any. If he had played and scored in the '66 final he might be rated above Best - but he didn't. And he isn't John Charles. So he misses out.
Alan Hanson's reading of the game, positioning, and organisation in defence served to make Liverpool both hard to break down and impossible to win the ball from. He also won every single club honur twice - he retired as the most decorated player in British history (to be overtaken by Giggs).
Oh, and check this out for Greaves, Mackay, and Johnny Haynes (who is a close outsider on many of these lists) and British football at its best.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Best of British: John Robertson and Neville Southall – MouthoftheMersey
Pseuds regulars offer their take on the best five British footballers of the last 50 years
Considering nominees for the five best British footballers of the last fifty years presents methodological and philosophical issues. I wish to address these first.
My methodology disallows me from choosing any player whom I did not see in the flesh or regularly on television. So Best’s immense reputation, Charlton’s trophies and Moores’ imperiousness count for nothing. My methodology also allows me to pick from a player’s best years and not discount them against a long decline. Philosophically, I rule out the huffers and puffers and the artistes who never won very much that really mattered (since that is the object of the game). So no Bryan Robson and no Glenn Hoddle.
John Robertson and Neville Southall have much in common. Neither were natural athletes, barely athletes at all, though Robertson played an astonishing 243 consecutive games through Forest’s glory years from December 1976 to December 1980 and Southall racked up 750 appearances for Everton. Both blossomed as players quite late at an age when Cesc Fabregas will have played 300 games or so. The key to their success was the understanding that the game is a simple one, in which Robertson’s job was to beat his full back and pass the ball to a man in a goalscoring position and Southall’s job was to stop the ball going into the net. Crucially, both players had managers who recognised this simplicity in approach and indulged their star player’s foibles (Southall’s eccentricity, Robertson’s smoking). In return for that faith and indulgence, they delivered multiple trophies at national and international level and are held in the highest respect by fellow pros and fans the world over.
I recall Southall’s first few games for Everton in the 1981-82 season. He had been signed from Bury (how times change) and was vying for a place with Jim Arnold, a solid, but uninspiring keeper. Neville, unkempt in his green jersey, would shamble on to the pitch for his warm-up, but come alive as the crosses were slung in and the shots saved. Once the match started, we saw that he had no weaknesses: his positioning was perfect; his catching of the high ball immaculate; his shot stopping, especially at close range, spectacular; his speed off the line surprising; and his bravery and temperament unimpeachable. We muttered to ourselves that with this man in goal, we were going to win things. I have only had that feeling once in the intervening 27 years about a goalkeeper. I saw one of Peter Scmeichel’s first games for Manchester United: we left Goodison muttering those same thoughts, this time about the opposition. Schmeichel and Southall – the two best goalkeepers I’ve ever seen.
In a race with Ryan Giggs from the halfway line to the goalline, Ryan would be careering into the net as John Robertson just entered the D, already blowing hard. But Robertson was the fastest player I ever saw over one yard, and that was all he needed to play the killer ball. It helped that Robertson didn’t really run at all, he just paused, waiting, then shuffled and passed. He didn’t tackle back (but he never gave the ball away either) and was always an out ball for a defence under pressure and was, therefore, not a maverick but a team man in every sense. He was never prolific as a goalscorer, though he got 12 in Forest’s Title winning season, but he always seemed to score vital goals, including the one that won Forest’s second European Cup (after presenting Trevor Francis with an unmissable chance to win Forest’s first).
Robertson’s biggest fan was his manager Brian Clough, who knew a bit about players. There are many quotes attributed to Clough concerning Robertson, but my favourite (possibly apocryphal, but true in a larger sense) concerns a half-time team talk. A young substitute is being briefed by Clough, “… And when you get the ball, young man, just give it to The Genius”. The substitute, confused and intimidated, hesitantly points across at the first £1M player, scorer of the goal that won the European Cup, the footballing thoroughbred Trevor Francis. “Not him - HIM!” shouts Clough pointing at a slump shouldered, slightly overweight Scotsman puffing on a fag. Genius indeed.
Considering nominees for the five best British footballers of the last fifty years presents methodological and philosophical issues. I wish to address these first.
My methodology disallows me from choosing any player whom I did not see in the flesh or regularly on television. So Best’s immense reputation, Charlton’s trophies and Moores’ imperiousness count for nothing. My methodology also allows me to pick from a player’s best years and not discount them against a long decline. Philosophically, I rule out the huffers and puffers and the artistes who never won very much that really mattered (since that is the object of the game). So no Bryan Robson and no Glenn Hoddle.
John Robertson and Neville Southall have much in common. Neither were natural athletes, barely athletes at all, though Robertson played an astonishing 243 consecutive games through Forest’s glory years from December 1976 to December 1980 and Southall racked up 750 appearances for Everton. Both blossomed as players quite late at an age when Cesc Fabregas will have played 300 games or so. The key to their success was the understanding that the game is a simple one, in which Robertson’s job was to beat his full back and pass the ball to a man in a goalscoring position and Southall’s job was to stop the ball going into the net. Crucially, both players had managers who recognised this simplicity in approach and indulged their star player’s foibles (Southall’s eccentricity, Robertson’s smoking). In return for that faith and indulgence, they delivered multiple trophies at national and international level and are held in the highest respect by fellow pros and fans the world over.
I recall Southall’s first few games for Everton in the 1981-82 season. He had been signed from Bury (how times change) and was vying for a place with Jim Arnold, a solid, but uninspiring keeper. Neville, unkempt in his green jersey, would shamble on to the pitch for his warm-up, but come alive as the crosses were slung in and the shots saved. Once the match started, we saw that he had no weaknesses: his positioning was perfect; his catching of the high ball immaculate; his shot stopping, especially at close range, spectacular; his speed off the line surprising; and his bravery and temperament unimpeachable. We muttered to ourselves that with this man in goal, we were going to win things. I have only had that feeling once in the intervening 27 years about a goalkeeper. I saw one of Peter Scmeichel’s first games for Manchester United: we left Goodison muttering those same thoughts, this time about the opposition. Schmeichel and Southall – the two best goalkeepers I’ve ever seen.
In a race with Ryan Giggs from the halfway line to the goalline, Ryan would be careering into the net as John Robertson just entered the D, already blowing hard. But Robertson was the fastest player I ever saw over one yard, and that was all he needed to play the killer ball. It helped that Robertson didn’t really run at all, he just paused, waiting, then shuffled and passed. He didn’t tackle back (but he never gave the ball away either) and was always an out ball for a defence under pressure and was, therefore, not a maverick but a team man in every sense. He was never prolific as a goalscorer, though he got 12 in Forest’s Title winning season, but he always seemed to score vital goals, including the one that won Forest’s second European Cup (after presenting Trevor Francis with an unmissable chance to win Forest’s first).
Robertson’s biggest fan was his manager Brian Clough, who knew a bit about players. There are many quotes attributed to Clough concerning Robertson, but my favourite (possibly apocryphal, but true in a larger sense) concerns a half-time team talk. A young substitute is being briefed by Clough, “… And when you get the ball, young man, just give it to The Genius”. The substitute, confused and intimidated, hesitantly points across at the first £1M player, scorer of the goal that won the European Cup, the footballing thoroughbred Trevor Francis. “Not him - HIM!” shouts Clough pointing at a slump shouldered, slightly overweight Scotsman puffing on a fag. Genius indeed.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Best of British: Ryan Giggs - Margin
Pseuds regulars offer their take on the best five British footballers of the last 50 years
Articles on the best footballers through history are usually an excuse to do two things. One is to court controversy to push up the readership of a blog site with little else to report at that moment. The other is to give the writer and enjoyable trip down memory lane. The first of those is entirely fine by me, but the second leads to a problem.
It is seemingly too easy to fondly recall players who hung up their boots years ago, rather than those still playing today. It seems natural to assume the best player of the last fifty years played fifty years ago, not last year. But surely football like most things improves over time, or at least shows little sign that it is inherently less now than once it was.
And so having recalled Dave Mackay, who joined Spurs fifty years ago this summer, it is now time to champion Ryan Giggs, who has played for Manchester United’s first team for a full third of the fifty years in question, and will play on longer still.
Firstly the medals - Giggs has won ten league titles. TEN. I’ll restate that in case it hasn’t hit home. TEN! Double figures! More titles in fact than any club in England has ever wracked up except three. And one of those is Manchester United who had only had seven before Ryan showed up. Then there are four FA Cups, two League Cups, six Charity Shields, two European Cups, a Uefa Super Cup, and an Intercontinental Cup.
Next up longevity: His first trophy was a League Cup win that came before the Premier League formed. Now read that again and take it in this time so I don’t need to repeat myself. Done that? Good. He lifted his tenth title and second European Cup two months ago.
Finally the stats - Giggs has played in 759 games for by far and away the best team in England of his era. So far he has scored 144 goals and created 371. He was the first player to be awarded the PFA Young Player of the Year award in consecutive seasons. And he is the only player ever to score in twelve consecutive European Cup tournaments.
I hope that has opened a few eyes to Ryan Giggs. This is a man who was lauded as the next George Best when he first emerged. Then the cult of Beckham relegated him to the role of just another player who wasn’t the next George Best after all. And then he carried on being brilliant for over fifteen years until finally people realised he was the next Bobby Charlton, who by coincidence also started on the left wing only to move to the middle later on.
Normally longevity comes at a price. To extend a career a player steps down a level and eventually disappears in a Chris Waddle-like haze of non-league football. Not Giggs. He started at the top and has remained a one club marvel. He hasn’t even taken a dignified step down to a Uefa Cup side. Instead he has risen to every challenge that the best team of the age could throw at him. As Manchester United have tried to outspend Blackburn, Newcastle and Chelsea in turn, and out think Arsenal in between, he has been constant.
Sir Alex Fergusson has won only two trophies with Manchester United that Giggs didn’t win as well, so if you think winning is everything then Giggs is clearly the greatest. But some people need more.
So think of him swerving through the Arsenal defence to win the FA Cup semi-final. Think of him with ‘Sharpe’ written across the chest of his red shirt volleying home a right hand cross from 15 yards. Think of him stepping over, jinking, turning and halting so quickly and cleverly that he left a thousand defenders floored.
There may not be many 50 year olds reminiscing about seeing Giggs when they were little and football was better. But there will be soon. Just give it 15 years.
Articles on the best footballers through history are usually an excuse to do two things. One is to court controversy to push up the readership of a blog site with little else to report at that moment. The other is to give the writer and enjoyable trip down memory lane. The first of those is entirely fine by me, but the second leads to a problem.
It is seemingly too easy to fondly recall players who hung up their boots years ago, rather than those still playing today. It seems natural to assume the best player of the last fifty years played fifty years ago, not last year. But surely football like most things improves over time, or at least shows little sign that it is inherently less now than once it was.
And so having recalled Dave Mackay, who joined Spurs fifty years ago this summer, it is now time to champion Ryan Giggs, who has played for Manchester United’s first team for a full third of the fifty years in question, and will play on longer still.
Firstly the medals - Giggs has won ten league titles. TEN. I’ll restate that in case it hasn’t hit home. TEN! Double figures! More titles in fact than any club in England has ever wracked up except three. And one of those is Manchester United who had only had seven before Ryan showed up. Then there are four FA Cups, two League Cups, six Charity Shields, two European Cups, a Uefa Super Cup, and an Intercontinental Cup.
Next up longevity: His first trophy was a League Cup win that came before the Premier League formed. Now read that again and take it in this time so I don’t need to repeat myself. Done that? Good. He lifted his tenth title and second European Cup two months ago.
Finally the stats - Giggs has played in 759 games for by far and away the best team in England of his era. So far he has scored 144 goals and created 371. He was the first player to be awarded the PFA Young Player of the Year award in consecutive seasons. And he is the only player ever to score in twelve consecutive European Cup tournaments.
I hope that has opened a few eyes to Ryan Giggs. This is a man who was lauded as the next George Best when he first emerged. Then the cult of Beckham relegated him to the role of just another player who wasn’t the next George Best after all. And then he carried on being brilliant for over fifteen years until finally people realised he was the next Bobby Charlton, who by coincidence also started on the left wing only to move to the middle later on.
Normally longevity comes at a price. To extend a career a player steps down a level and eventually disappears in a Chris Waddle-like haze of non-league football. Not Giggs. He started at the top and has remained a one club marvel. He hasn’t even taken a dignified step down to a Uefa Cup side. Instead he has risen to every challenge that the best team of the age could throw at him. As Manchester United have tried to outspend Blackburn, Newcastle and Chelsea in turn, and out think Arsenal in between, he has been constant.
Sir Alex Fergusson has won only two trophies with Manchester United that Giggs didn’t win as well, so if you think winning is everything then Giggs is clearly the greatest. But some people need more.
So think of him swerving through the Arsenal defence to win the FA Cup semi-final. Think of him with ‘Sharpe’ written across the chest of his red shirt volleying home a right hand cross from 15 yards. Think of him stepping over, jinking, turning and halting so quickly and cleverly that he left a thousand defenders floored.
There may not be many 50 year olds reminiscing about seeing Giggs when they were little and football was better. But there will be soon. Just give it 15 years.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Best of British: John Charles - Ebren
Pseuds regulars offer their take on the best five British footballers of the last 50 years
There's a problem when trying to pick the five best British players. Even when limiting it to the last 50 years. Even after taking out the five "best" another list has provided.
It's a simple problem, there are too many "greats" to include.
I famously once tried to list the five greatest players ever. I started with seven players and argued my way down to 11.
There are simply too many that demand inclusion – was George Best better than Jimmy Johnstone? And how would you compare either with later players?
Sometimes you just have to look overseas for inspiration – and if you are doing that then there is only one player that HAS to be included in a list of best Britons.
John Charles - 'Il Buon Gigante'.
Few of us have seen him play in his pomp – he signed for Juventus in 1958 – but those that did are unequivocal.
In the cathedral of cattanacio that was Italian football in the 1950s and early 1960s Charles scored 93 times in 155 games. He led Wales to their only appearance at a World Cup in 1958 and was absent with injury when a young lad named Pele scored the only goal in a 1-0 quarter-final defeat – they beat Hungary to get there.
Charles started life as a central defender – a position he played in for almost his entire international career even after moving to striker as a club player. In his first season as a forward he scored 27 goals in 30 matches. The next season he set the current record for goals in a season by a Leeds United player at 42 from 39 games. Leeds were promoted on the back of this and in his first season in the top flight he scored 38 goals. A move to Turin and 28 goals followed the next year.
But the bare facts do not convey the esteem in which he is held.
In his first season he was voted Serie A player of the year and the most valuable player in Europe – ahead of Puskas and Di Stefano. It wasn't the only time he beat legends to trophies.
In 1997 Juventus fans rated him higher than Michael Laudrup (who was voted Spain's greatest-ever player) Andreas Möller, and Michel Platini as Juventus' greatest-ever foreign player. In 2001 he was inducted to Italian football's hall of fame – the first foreigner to be so honoured, beating Van Basten, Gullit, Maradona, Zinedine Zidane, Ronaldo, and even Ian Rush to the honour. In 2004, Wales nominated him as their finest player in the last 50 years.
Quite simply, Charles was world class and a player for the ages – as one friend said after his death in 2004: "John lacked the one gift needed to get by in a world of wolves - cynicism
Quotes on Charles from people who saw him play:
Bobby Robson: "Incomparable."
Jimmy Greaves: "If I were picking my all-time great British team, or even a world eleven, John Charles would be in it."
Danny Blanchflower: "Everything he does is automatic. When he moves into position for a goal chance it is instinctive. My feet do not do my thinking for me as they do for a player like John Charles. That is why I can never be as great a footballer as he."
Jack Charlton: "A team unto himself - quick, he was a very, very strong runner and he was the greatest header of the ball I ever saw. His power in the air was phenomenal."
Dennis Law: "The best centre-half in Europe. Mind you, when he plays up front, he's one of the best three centre-forwards I've ever seen play the game."
Bruno Garzena, Juventus teammate: "He wasn't a normal footballer; he was an extraordinary one. Even now, he's still considered a god in Turin"
Pele: "Unfortunately for Wales, the great John Charles was absent because of injury. He was the one we really feared."
Tom Holley, Leeds teammate: "Nat Lofthouse was asked who was the best centre-half he had played against and without hesitation named John Charles. The same week Billy Wright was asked who was the greatest centre-forward he had faced, and he too answered 'John Charles'."
There's a problem when trying to pick the five best British players. Even when limiting it to the last 50 years. Even after taking out the five "best" another list has provided.
It's a simple problem, there are too many "greats" to include.
I famously once tried to list the five greatest players ever. I started with seven players and argued my way down to 11.
There are simply too many that demand inclusion – was George Best better than Jimmy Johnstone? And how would you compare either with later players?
Sometimes you just have to look overseas for inspiration – and if you are doing that then there is only one player that HAS to be included in a list of best Britons.
John Charles - 'Il Buon Gigante'.
Few of us have seen him play in his pomp – he signed for Juventus in 1958 – but those that did are unequivocal.
In the cathedral of cattanacio that was Italian football in the 1950s and early 1960s Charles scored 93 times in 155 games. He led Wales to their only appearance at a World Cup in 1958 and was absent with injury when a young lad named Pele scored the only goal in a 1-0 quarter-final defeat – they beat Hungary to get there.
Charles started life as a central defender – a position he played in for almost his entire international career even after moving to striker as a club player. In his first season as a forward he scored 27 goals in 30 matches. The next season he set the current record for goals in a season by a Leeds United player at 42 from 39 games. Leeds were promoted on the back of this and in his first season in the top flight he scored 38 goals. A move to Turin and 28 goals followed the next year.
But the bare facts do not convey the esteem in which he is held.
In his first season he was voted Serie A player of the year and the most valuable player in Europe – ahead of Puskas and Di Stefano. It wasn't the only time he beat legends to trophies.
In 1997 Juventus fans rated him higher than Michael Laudrup (who was voted Spain's greatest-ever player) Andreas Möller, and Michel Platini as Juventus' greatest-ever foreign player. In 2001 he was inducted to Italian football's hall of fame – the first foreigner to be so honoured, beating Van Basten, Gullit, Maradona, Zinedine Zidane, Ronaldo, and even Ian Rush to the honour. In 2004, Wales nominated him as their finest player in the last 50 years.
Quite simply, Charles was world class and a player for the ages – as one friend said after his death in 2004: "John lacked the one gift needed to get by in a world of wolves - cynicism
Quotes on Charles from people who saw him play:
Bobby Robson: "Incomparable."
Jimmy Greaves: "If I were picking my all-time great British team, or even a world eleven, John Charles would be in it."
Danny Blanchflower: "Everything he does is automatic. When he moves into position for a goal chance it is instinctive. My feet do not do my thinking for me as they do for a player like John Charles. That is why I can never be as great a footballer as he."
Jack Charlton: "A team unto himself - quick, he was a very, very strong runner and he was the greatest header of the ball I ever saw. His power in the air was phenomenal."
Dennis Law: "The best centre-half in Europe. Mind you, when he plays up front, he's one of the best three centre-forwards I've ever seen play the game."
Bruno Garzena, Juventus teammate: "He wasn't a normal footballer; he was an extraordinary one. Even now, he's still considered a god in Turin"
Pele: "Unfortunately for Wales, the great John Charles was absent because of injury. He was the one we really feared."
Tom Holley, Leeds teammate: "Nat Lofthouse was asked who was the best centre-half he had played against and without hesitation named John Charles. The same week Billy Wright was asked who was the greatest centre-forward he had faced, and he too answered 'John Charles'."
Best of British: Dave Mackay - Margin
Pseuds regulars offer their take on the best five British footballers of the last 50 years
It can be hard to explain to a younger generation what Dave Mackay was. He was a hard man in the middle of the park who led his teams with instinct, guile and guts. He was physical, powerful, fast and inventive. And his vision and technical ability has yet to be surpassed.
He won titles in England and Scotland; was the heart beat of Spurs’ double winning side; and he was bought and made captain by both Sir* Bill Nicholson’s and Sir* Brian Clough.
But none of that quite gets across what Dave Mackay was.
So imagine for a moment all that is best about English football. No not the modern cosmopolitan game where tree trunks of men like Drogba flail around in pain when people sneeze. Not the inspirational game where visionaries like Gerrard athletically leap to their backs with their arms in the air as they enter the box at pace. And no, not the passionate game where superstars join ten team mates in berating the ref at close range for not giving Rooney a free-kick.
Instead think of the mythical English game or yore that we know in our less innocent moments never really existed. Revel in the gritty, bloody, sweaty, muddy, hard fought honourable never-say-die game of yesteryear. Feel that determination to overcome each set back and claim glorious victory against the odds. Worship those heroes of the pitch who were so much more than men and carried themselves with a justified aura of grandeur.
Have you done that? Good. That’s Dave Mackay.
The player of the last fifty years who most established in English minds the worship of a battling hard nosed but honourable midfield general who’d fight against the odds to save his side was the very Scottish Dave Mackay. He won the Scottish League and Cup with Hearts. Then like so many Scots of his age, he left home for the bigger stage in England.
Everyone knows the picture of him terrifying Leeds United’s Billy Bremner with a fearsome hold of his shirt. But another picture deserves to be remembered just as well. That picture shows Dave Mackay playing for Derby County in an unspecified game not long after signing for Clough. His shirt and face are caked in mud and his chin is locked square with defiance as he looks forward and marches onwards.
Of course Dave Mackay was not the game’s only determined midfield general. But he was also one of the most gifted footballers ever to play the game. Terry Venables recalled a training session decades later in which ‘Mr Nicholson’ had told his players to each take a ball, flick it up onto the yellow line on the wall, volley it onto the red line above, then the blue one below, and then repeat the order backwards before trapping it. Everyone looked blankly at the boss except Mackay who looked at the wall, flicked the ball up onto the yellow line, volleyed against each next line in order, trapped the ball dead, and asked “Like that boss?”
He was the heartbeat of Spurs’ double winning side but it was his fight back from two broken legs that cemented the legend. In 1963 he broke his left leg in a Cup Winners Cup game against Manchester United, or as he maintains to this day, Noel Cantwell broke it.
Some months later he started his gradual comeback and broke it again in a reserve match. This time the same left leg broke in two places instead of one and his career was over. In those days Players struggled back after one such injury, and to come back after a simultaneous second and third break was almost unthinkable. But this was Dave Mackay, and after a year out he stepped out to face Leeds United at White Hart Lane to rapturous applause.
Hence the photo with Bremner. That game the pair tussled for a ball that Mackay won, and so Bermner took a petulant swing at Mackay’s left leg. Mackay had never yet resorted to such petty outbursts, but his opponent had ignored the nearer and more convenient right leg to attack the one he knew was broken. Because of that Mackay put the vicious little bully in his place.
Bremner never kicked Mackay again, or so the story goes. But more important than that was that Mackay played on for years afterwards. He became synonymous with honour and strength and the determined fight back along with everything else people admired in the man’s game of English football.
Not bad going for a Scot!
* Neither Sir Bill nor Sir Brian were ever summoned to the palace for Knighting despite their remarkable achievements and characters. However, since Spurs and Forest fans are a higher authority than the monarchy, their long declared fan knighthoods are respected by this writer.
It can be hard to explain to a younger generation what Dave Mackay was. He was a hard man in the middle of the park who led his teams with instinct, guile and guts. He was physical, powerful, fast and inventive. And his vision and technical ability has yet to be surpassed.
He won titles in England and Scotland; was the heart beat of Spurs’ double winning side; and he was bought and made captain by both Sir* Bill Nicholson’s and Sir* Brian Clough.
But none of that quite gets across what Dave Mackay was.
So imagine for a moment all that is best about English football. No not the modern cosmopolitan game where tree trunks of men like Drogba flail around in pain when people sneeze. Not the inspirational game where visionaries like Gerrard athletically leap to their backs with their arms in the air as they enter the box at pace. And no, not the passionate game where superstars join ten team mates in berating the ref at close range for not giving Rooney a free-kick.
Instead think of the mythical English game or yore that we know in our less innocent moments never really existed. Revel in the gritty, bloody, sweaty, muddy, hard fought honourable never-say-die game of yesteryear. Feel that determination to overcome each set back and claim glorious victory against the odds. Worship those heroes of the pitch who were so much more than men and carried themselves with a justified aura of grandeur.
Have you done that? Good. That’s Dave Mackay.
The player of the last fifty years who most established in English minds the worship of a battling hard nosed but honourable midfield general who’d fight against the odds to save his side was the very Scottish Dave Mackay. He won the Scottish League and Cup with Hearts. Then like so many Scots of his age, he left home for the bigger stage in England.
Everyone knows the picture of him terrifying Leeds United’s Billy Bremner with a fearsome hold of his shirt. But another picture deserves to be remembered just as well. That picture shows Dave Mackay playing for Derby County in an unspecified game not long after signing for Clough. His shirt and face are caked in mud and his chin is locked square with defiance as he looks forward and marches onwards.
Of course Dave Mackay was not the game’s only determined midfield general. But he was also one of the most gifted footballers ever to play the game. Terry Venables recalled a training session decades later in which ‘Mr Nicholson’ had told his players to each take a ball, flick it up onto the yellow line on the wall, volley it onto the red line above, then the blue one below, and then repeat the order backwards before trapping it. Everyone looked blankly at the boss except Mackay who looked at the wall, flicked the ball up onto the yellow line, volleyed against each next line in order, trapped the ball dead, and asked “Like that boss?”
He was the heartbeat of Spurs’ double winning side but it was his fight back from two broken legs that cemented the legend. In 1963 he broke his left leg in a Cup Winners Cup game against Manchester United, or as he maintains to this day, Noel Cantwell broke it.
Some months later he started his gradual comeback and broke it again in a reserve match. This time the same left leg broke in two places instead of one and his career was over. In those days Players struggled back after one such injury, and to come back after a simultaneous second and third break was almost unthinkable. But this was Dave Mackay, and after a year out he stepped out to face Leeds United at White Hart Lane to rapturous applause.
Hence the photo with Bremner. That game the pair tussled for a ball that Mackay won, and so Bermner took a petulant swing at Mackay’s left leg. Mackay had never yet resorted to such petty outbursts, but his opponent had ignored the nearer and more convenient right leg to attack the one he knew was broken. Because of that Mackay put the vicious little bully in his place.
Bremner never kicked Mackay again, or so the story goes. But more important than that was that Mackay played on for years afterwards. He became synonymous with honour and strength and the determined fight back along with everything else people admired in the man’s game of English football.
Not bad going for a Scot!
* Neither Sir Bill nor Sir Brian were ever summoned to the palace for Knighting despite their remarkable achievements and characters. However, since Spurs and Forest fans are a higher authority than the monarchy, their long declared fan knighthoods are respected by this writer.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Australia 1: GB 4 A Review of Le Tour – by Mimitig
In the week that Brett Lancaster talks to the press about how the Aussies are going to whop us on the track in the Olympics, it’s quite comforting to gloat – just a little – on how we whopped them on the road.
Now I am well aware that the world no longer holds its breath for Le Tour de France and many are still convinced that every cyclist involved is a hideous drug cheat and it is quite possible that what happens for three weeks in July in France is less than a minor backdrop to transfer rumours in the Premiership.
However I consider the (al)most famous sporting event of all time still to be fairly important and given the efforts that most teams, organisers and participants are now prepared to go to in order to be proven clean, I think the achievements of this year’s Tour riders to be worth applauding.
Before I review the whole three weeks, I shall offer an explanation of my headline. Simon Gerrans (born Melbourne, raised in Mansfield, Victoria, riding for Credit Agricole) won Stage 15 of this year’s Tour. The Manx Express, Team GB’s very own Mark Cavendish won Stages 5, 8, 12 and 13. And to rub salt into the Aussie wound (I did rather enjoy this bit) was acclaimed by the kings of cycling commentary Phil Liggett (34 Tours, commentating) and Paul Sherwen (raced seven Tours, finished five) as The New Robbie McEwen.
Must hurt a bit, if you’re an Aussie, for the new wonder not to be another Aussie but a Manxman. I did like that.
Anyway after that little bit of running around happily with hands in the air etc, let’s get calm and have a look at the race overall.
Well first, several drug cheats got found out, bigtime, and got chucked off the Tour. Starting with some fairly insignificant Spaniards, the fight contre le Dopage got very serious with Ricco, Piepoli and in fact the whole of the Saunier Duval team. Who exited stage left swiftly – a faster depart could only have been induced by a bear entering stage right with teeth and claws very much on show.
Next – how did it go overall? I was proved ridiculously naïve and hopeful before the start stating it would be clean. I guess Christian Prudhomme would be in my club there. But he did put together a fabulous route – starting with a proper road stage rather than the traditional Prologue meant Stage One was truly exciting. Three days in troublesome Breton weather added to the tension and we felt their pain. There were crashes galore in the first few days – some resulting in abandonnments – and it all added to the slightly gruesome fun of watching Le Tour.
As always, the organisers, The ASO, had produced a superb guide, and so Paul and Phil were able to give us details of every chateau and ville and village through which the Tour passed. It really is the most massive advert for France. Not a lot was made of the Tour being “Rogue” ie not run within the auspices of the UCI. Which was a shame. Quite frankly a gloves off full on contest between Christian and Pat McQuaid is something I’d have paid good money to see.
Still, never mind the bollocks (as someone once said), what happened? Truth is, it all really happened in the mountains. We had the Pyrenees before the Alps and in all honesty, we learned little. Cadel was confirmed, yet again, as a wheel-sucker. He did have a crash which may have hurt him more than we currently know, but he just didn’t attack. We thought he’d have gained time on the others then, but not really. He did enough to wear the Maillot Jaune for a while but was never convincing.
The Schlecks, on the other hand, were impressive. Andy took White and Frank had a moment when he lost the chance of yellow by a mere second. All the more impressive as Team CSC were putting all their strength behind Madrileno Carlos Sastre. With hindsight it is easy to see how they gave up their individual hopes in this year’s Tour to support Carlos.
Apres les Pyrenees, Cav was strong enough to get his fourth sprint win, and, to be honest, in the huge excitement of that, I lost touch with the GC – also because I went on holiday.
With my eye off the wheel, as it were, they trolled on for many more of Phil’s “killermetres” and then suddenly it was the final Time Trial. This was when Evans was supposed to knock the opposition into a cocked hat and win the Tour. I missed this crucial day – too busy willing Middlesex on to a win at The Rosebowl – but I caught highlights, and to my surprise, no yellow for the Aussie.
Carlos Sastre had spent much of the off-season working on his time-trialling – including hours and hours in a wind-tunnel – and it paid off. Evans didn’t excel and Carlos did brilliantly. He set off on the final day in yellow and only a hideous crash could have changed the outcome. Another win for Spain in a year when they seem bullet-proof in sport.
The rolling first ks on Sunday were typical. Champagne and a great team lead-out for CSC Saxo Bank. One of the few teams that had all starters heading to the Champs Elysees. Sastre didn’t have to win – just finish with the bunch.
Job done and the man known as Don Limpio (Mr Clean) took the honours on the podium and the Tour is over for another year.
As a writer far cleverer than I has said, this will be known as the Interim Tour. The one which was won by a clean rider at the end of his career, and one in which, hopefully, the last of the drug cheats were caught, thrown off and sacked.
Next year will be a new chapter in cycling history. Many names will not be at Le Depart in 2009, some teams probably won’t be, but we are edging ever closer to a completely clean sport and Tour.
Keep the faith and join me next July for my reports – sometimes interesting, always interested and always hopeful. I can’t help myself – I love the boys in lycra and year on year I keep hoping and believing that this time it’s a good thing.
I was devastated by Ricco and in fact Saunier Duval, but I was inspired by Cav and by Team Columbia. There is enough to make next year a thrill.
And bring on the Olympics and let’s see whether the Aussies can deliver what Lancaster promises or whether Cav and Brad, Chris Hoy and Vicky leading the women’s attack can whop those sodding loud-mouthed colonials in the Velodrome. Done ‘em on the road so COME ON BOYS AND GALS. Go for Gold and whop’em!
Now I am well aware that the world no longer holds its breath for Le Tour de France and many are still convinced that every cyclist involved is a hideous drug cheat and it is quite possible that what happens for three weeks in July in France is less than a minor backdrop to transfer rumours in the Premiership.
However I consider the (al)most famous sporting event of all time still to be fairly important and given the efforts that most teams, organisers and participants are now prepared to go to in order to be proven clean, I think the achievements of this year’s Tour riders to be worth applauding.
Before I review the whole three weeks, I shall offer an explanation of my headline. Simon Gerrans (born Melbourne, raised in Mansfield, Victoria, riding for Credit Agricole) won Stage 15 of this year’s Tour. The Manx Express, Team GB’s very own Mark Cavendish won Stages 5, 8, 12 and 13. And to rub salt into the Aussie wound (I did rather enjoy this bit) was acclaimed by the kings of cycling commentary Phil Liggett (34 Tours, commentating) and Paul Sherwen (raced seven Tours, finished five) as The New Robbie McEwen.
Must hurt a bit, if you’re an Aussie, for the new wonder not to be another Aussie but a Manxman. I did like that.
Anyway after that little bit of running around happily with hands in the air etc, let’s get calm and have a look at the race overall.
Well first, several drug cheats got found out, bigtime, and got chucked off the Tour. Starting with some fairly insignificant Spaniards, the fight contre le Dopage got very serious with Ricco, Piepoli and in fact the whole of the Saunier Duval team. Who exited stage left swiftly – a faster depart could only have been induced by a bear entering stage right with teeth and claws very much on show.
Next – how did it go overall? I was proved ridiculously naïve and hopeful before the start stating it would be clean. I guess Christian Prudhomme would be in my club there. But he did put together a fabulous route – starting with a proper road stage rather than the traditional Prologue meant Stage One was truly exciting. Three days in troublesome Breton weather added to the tension and we felt their pain. There were crashes galore in the first few days – some resulting in abandonnments – and it all added to the slightly gruesome fun of watching Le Tour.
As always, the organisers, The ASO, had produced a superb guide, and so Paul and Phil were able to give us details of every chateau and ville and village through which the Tour passed. It really is the most massive advert for France. Not a lot was made of the Tour being “Rogue” ie not run within the auspices of the UCI. Which was a shame. Quite frankly a gloves off full on contest between Christian and Pat McQuaid is something I’d have paid good money to see.
Still, never mind the bollocks (as someone once said), what happened? Truth is, it all really happened in the mountains. We had the Pyrenees before the Alps and in all honesty, we learned little. Cadel was confirmed, yet again, as a wheel-sucker. He did have a crash which may have hurt him more than we currently know, but he just didn’t attack. We thought he’d have gained time on the others then, but not really. He did enough to wear the Maillot Jaune for a while but was never convincing.
The Schlecks, on the other hand, were impressive. Andy took White and Frank had a moment when he lost the chance of yellow by a mere second. All the more impressive as Team CSC were putting all their strength behind Madrileno Carlos Sastre. With hindsight it is easy to see how they gave up their individual hopes in this year’s Tour to support Carlos.
Apres les Pyrenees, Cav was strong enough to get his fourth sprint win, and, to be honest, in the huge excitement of that, I lost touch with the GC – also because I went on holiday.
With my eye off the wheel, as it were, they trolled on for many more of Phil’s “killermetres” and then suddenly it was the final Time Trial. This was when Evans was supposed to knock the opposition into a cocked hat and win the Tour. I missed this crucial day – too busy willing Middlesex on to a win at The Rosebowl – but I caught highlights, and to my surprise, no yellow for the Aussie.
Carlos Sastre had spent much of the off-season working on his time-trialling – including hours and hours in a wind-tunnel – and it paid off. Evans didn’t excel and Carlos did brilliantly. He set off on the final day in yellow and only a hideous crash could have changed the outcome. Another win for Spain in a year when they seem bullet-proof in sport.
The rolling first ks on Sunday were typical. Champagne and a great team lead-out for CSC Saxo Bank. One of the few teams that had all starters heading to the Champs Elysees. Sastre didn’t have to win – just finish with the bunch.
Job done and the man known as Don Limpio (Mr Clean) took the honours on the podium and the Tour is over for another year.
As a writer far cleverer than I has said, this will be known as the Interim Tour. The one which was won by a clean rider at the end of his career, and one in which, hopefully, the last of the drug cheats were caught, thrown off and sacked.
Next year will be a new chapter in cycling history. Many names will not be at Le Depart in 2009, some teams probably won’t be, but we are edging ever closer to a completely clean sport and Tour.
Keep the faith and join me next July for my reports – sometimes interesting, always interested and always hopeful. I can’t help myself – I love the boys in lycra and year on year I keep hoping and believing that this time it’s a good thing.
I was devastated by Ricco and in fact Saunier Duval, but I was inspired by Cav and by Team Columbia. There is enough to make next year a thrill.
And bring on the Olympics and let’s see whether the Aussies can deliver what Lancaster promises or whether Cav and Brad, Chris Hoy and Vicky leading the women’s attack can whop those sodding loud-mouthed colonials in the Velodrome. Done ‘em on the road so COME ON BOYS AND GALS. Go for Gold and whop’em!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Half way almost in Le Tour – The Phil and Paul Show - mimitig
As Gertrude Stein should have said “Le Tour est Le Tour est Le Tour” and no doubt if lycra had been invented in her day, she no doubt would have. The sight of nearly 200 fit young men straining their hearts and minds, let alone their muscles, for three weeks through the French countryside would have been enjoyable art for La Grande Dame.
Well, she’s not with us, but thankfully the Phil and Paul Show is going strong, with the usual fabulous support from Gary Imlach, Ned Boulting and the utterly amazing World Famous King of the Hour, Britain’s Most Famous Cyclist Chris Boardman.
For our pleasure, these top dogs of commentary and presentation are working their little sweaty socks off to bring us the best of the action in the world’s biggest and best bike race. Chris has revisited the scene of his awful crash and managed to smile about it. Ned has ridden up a mountain and managed not to be sick in front of the cameras. Gary has avoided saying anything legally actionable about “le dopage” while letting us all know exactly what he thinks about certain riders. Paul and Phil have resolutely remained with some of their extraordinary but very welcome pronunciations – my personal favourite being the killermeter.
The “killermeter” is a particularly apt description of almost any specific duration of Le Tour. In the long flat stages when the breakaway looks like they might hold off til the end, then those last few ks when the peloton starts to hunch over the leaders like an eagle with the claws out, must feel like death to the leaders. “They will be caught, within the last few killermeters” say Paul and Phil, and sure enough, they almost always are.
The last 200 metres of the sprint must feel like death to the legs for the mad fuckers like Mark Cavendish who live and die in the wet and dry to get over the line.
On a sprint they are saying about Mark – got to have the doors wide open, got to keep the sprint wide open, but here is Zabal then the champion of France has found some power in those pistons we call legs as he races to the finish, but Kim Kirchen is leading them out, we can feel the pressure, Quickstep on the front, and Cav bursts out – Look at the speed of Mark Cavendish. He clearly is the fastest man over 200 metres.
FANTASTIC.
In the mountains, most of the day must feel like torture as the riders attempt to drag tired bodies over ridiculous heights. It is a strange type – such as The Cobra Riccardo Ricco – who can find strength to sprint up an almost vertical mountain side.
So, where are we half-way through? Paul and Phil haven’t quite decided whether Evans is Cad-del or Cad-ell – if you know what I mean. But we have seen Cadel attack in the mountains despite a nasty fall (blood on the elbow and knee) and take yellow. We have seen Ricco spookily remind us all of Marco Pantani (and we didn’t need Phil telling us that he rides with a picture of “The Pirate” in his jersey).
We had a short time trial early on – just stage 4 round Cholet and won by Gerolsteiner’s Stefan Schumacher. This brought the first hints of controversy to this year’s Tour. Quickstep’s Sprint Specialist, Belgian Hero Tom Boonen had been refused entry to Le Tour a cause de an out of competition drug thingie (allegedly he took cocaine in a nightclub). Schumacher was also subject to some police interest prior to the Tour – as he said to journalists after his win in Cholet: “It was only a little bit of these substance [amphetamines] and I did not consume.” Yeah?
The French papers took perhaps as much interest in this as Herr Schumacher did in the substances – or maybe not. We must be careful.
“En Jaune Pale” was a headline in L’Equipe – as Gary Imlach said – “A couple of shades short of the full egg yolk”. A delightful translation, and one very very short of insinuation. Not.
But there we go – nothing proved, Schumacher rode on. We’ll follow his progress with as much interest as anyone else. Not.
To cleaner things – or anyway things of interest to GB Cycling fans who know exactly what the drug testing is for the cyclists riding under the GB banner.
We have seen two remarkable wins for The Manx Express. Not yet 24 years-old, this young man is a Commonwealth and World Gold Medallist. He’s decided to go road-racing (though if he gets through Le Tour without injury he’ll be in Beijing with our Brad going for gold in the Madison) and so far this year he’s got two wins in the Giro.
Matched now by his two Tour Stages. Respect. And if he can make it through the mountains there’s one more chance for a win next week.
With these four wins in Grand Tours, we may have seen the crown of sprinting pass from Robbie McEwen to Cavendish – and it would be apt as they are so physically similar. In fact, I cannot think of another young sprinter more fitted to take Robbie’s crown. I confidently predict many Green Jerseys for Mark Cavendish in the years to come.
We have seen the tiny wee country of Luxembourg punch way above its weight. Where most of its countrymen are busy doing banking things, three men have been really giving it beans in The Tour. Kim Kirchen has had yellow on his shoulders for days – and thus been given lots of those cuddly lions – and the Schleck Brothers have been up where it counts. Andy has had the White Jersey and Franck was within a second of yellow today.
Two teams have been outstanding in this half of the Tour. Team Columbia, formerly High Road, formerly T-Mobile, have their two stages with the Cav and in Toulouse they got a 1-2 with Ciolek following sprint-meister Cavendish home.
Saunier-Duval is my other star team: Ricardo Ricco has two wins and the team had a 1-2 on the Hautacam yesterday with Piepoli and Juan Jose Cobo Acebo.
Team CSC are working hard, but Alejandro Valverde is falling away – maybe the first of the really big names in the GC to do so.
Cadel has taken Yellow, Franck Schleck is second (Andy sacrificed himself on the mountains today), the surprise is to see Christian Vandevelde up there in third (though not to me – I had a bet on a year ago, but sssshhh!). Denny Menchov is in contention still and you never know. We have the Alps to get through and maybe, just maybe Alejandro can find a way back.
Personally I doubt it.
I’m not sure Cadel can get to Paris – he looked pretty banged about before the Rest Day, so if ain’t him, where would my money go?
Not being a betting woman I really don’t know.
Maybe Denny, Evans and Schleck on the podium, but don’t know what order. If Cav makes it all the way, I wouldn’t put it past him to win the sprint on the Champs d’Elysees. And if that happens, it’ll be an absolute bugger cos I’ll be away and not see it!!
Grrr! Oh and bad grrrr – there has been one positive drug test and an old Spanish cyclist has been chucked off Le Tour.
And the next day we hear of a cricketer testing positive for some substance so cycling is not the only villainous sport.
Enjoy the rest of a clean Tour.
Well, she’s not with us, but thankfully the Phil and Paul Show is going strong, with the usual fabulous support from Gary Imlach, Ned Boulting and the utterly amazing World Famous King of the Hour, Britain’s Most Famous Cyclist Chris Boardman.
For our pleasure, these top dogs of commentary and presentation are working their little sweaty socks off to bring us the best of the action in the world’s biggest and best bike race. Chris has revisited the scene of his awful crash and managed to smile about it. Ned has ridden up a mountain and managed not to be sick in front of the cameras. Gary has avoided saying anything legally actionable about “le dopage” while letting us all know exactly what he thinks about certain riders. Paul and Phil have resolutely remained with some of their extraordinary but very welcome pronunciations – my personal favourite being the killermeter.
The “killermeter” is a particularly apt description of almost any specific duration of Le Tour. In the long flat stages when the breakaway looks like they might hold off til the end, then those last few ks when the peloton starts to hunch over the leaders like an eagle with the claws out, must feel like death to the leaders. “They will be caught, within the last few killermeters” say Paul and Phil, and sure enough, they almost always are.
The last 200 metres of the sprint must feel like death to the legs for the mad fuckers like Mark Cavendish who live and die in the wet and dry to get over the line.
On a sprint they are saying about Mark – got to have the doors wide open, got to keep the sprint wide open, but here is Zabal then the champion of France has found some power in those pistons we call legs as he races to the finish, but Kim Kirchen is leading them out, we can feel the pressure, Quickstep on the front, and Cav bursts out – Look at the speed of Mark Cavendish. He clearly is the fastest man over 200 metres.
FANTASTIC.
In the mountains, most of the day must feel like torture as the riders attempt to drag tired bodies over ridiculous heights. It is a strange type – such as The Cobra Riccardo Ricco – who can find strength to sprint up an almost vertical mountain side.
So, where are we half-way through? Paul and Phil haven’t quite decided whether Evans is Cad-del or Cad-ell – if you know what I mean. But we have seen Cadel attack in the mountains despite a nasty fall (blood on the elbow and knee) and take yellow. We have seen Ricco spookily remind us all of Marco Pantani (and we didn’t need Phil telling us that he rides with a picture of “The Pirate” in his jersey).
We had a short time trial early on – just stage 4 round Cholet and won by Gerolsteiner’s Stefan Schumacher. This brought the first hints of controversy to this year’s Tour. Quickstep’s Sprint Specialist, Belgian Hero Tom Boonen had been refused entry to Le Tour a cause de an out of competition drug thingie (allegedly he took cocaine in a nightclub). Schumacher was also subject to some police interest prior to the Tour – as he said to journalists after his win in Cholet: “It was only a little bit of these substance [amphetamines] and I did not consume.” Yeah?
The French papers took perhaps as much interest in this as Herr Schumacher did in the substances – or maybe not. We must be careful.
“En Jaune Pale” was a headline in L’Equipe – as Gary Imlach said – “A couple of shades short of the full egg yolk”. A delightful translation, and one very very short of insinuation. Not.
But there we go – nothing proved, Schumacher rode on. We’ll follow his progress with as much interest as anyone else. Not.
To cleaner things – or anyway things of interest to GB Cycling fans who know exactly what the drug testing is for the cyclists riding under the GB banner.
We have seen two remarkable wins for The Manx Express. Not yet 24 years-old, this young man is a Commonwealth and World Gold Medallist. He’s decided to go road-racing (though if he gets through Le Tour without injury he’ll be in Beijing with our Brad going for gold in the Madison) and so far this year he’s got two wins in the Giro.
Matched now by his two Tour Stages. Respect. And if he can make it through the mountains there’s one more chance for a win next week.
With these four wins in Grand Tours, we may have seen the crown of sprinting pass from Robbie McEwen to Cavendish – and it would be apt as they are so physically similar. In fact, I cannot think of another young sprinter more fitted to take Robbie’s crown. I confidently predict many Green Jerseys for Mark Cavendish in the years to come.
We have seen the tiny wee country of Luxembourg punch way above its weight. Where most of its countrymen are busy doing banking things, three men have been really giving it beans in The Tour. Kim Kirchen has had yellow on his shoulders for days – and thus been given lots of those cuddly lions – and the Schleck Brothers have been up where it counts. Andy has had the White Jersey and Franck was within a second of yellow today.
Two teams have been outstanding in this half of the Tour. Team Columbia, formerly High Road, formerly T-Mobile, have their two stages with the Cav and in Toulouse they got a 1-2 with Ciolek following sprint-meister Cavendish home.
Saunier-Duval is my other star team: Ricardo Ricco has two wins and the team had a 1-2 on the Hautacam yesterday with Piepoli and Juan Jose Cobo Acebo.
Team CSC are working hard, but Alejandro Valverde is falling away – maybe the first of the really big names in the GC to do so.
Cadel has taken Yellow, Franck Schleck is second (Andy sacrificed himself on the mountains today), the surprise is to see Christian Vandevelde up there in third (though not to me – I had a bet on a year ago, but sssshhh!). Denny Menchov is in contention still and you never know. We have the Alps to get through and maybe, just maybe Alejandro can find a way back.
Personally I doubt it.
I’m not sure Cadel can get to Paris – he looked pretty banged about before the Rest Day, so if ain’t him, where would my money go?
Not being a betting woman I really don’t know.
Maybe Denny, Evans and Schleck on the podium, but don’t know what order. If Cav makes it all the way, I wouldn’t put it past him to win the sprint on the Champs d’Elysees. And if that happens, it’ll be an absolute bugger cos I’ll be away and not see it!!
Grrr! Oh and bad grrrr – there has been one positive drug test and an old Spanish cyclist has been chucked off Le Tour.
And the next day we hear of a cricketer testing positive for some substance so cycling is not the only villainous sport.
Enjoy the rest of a clean Tour.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
The Eve of Le Tour - mimitig
So finally, after months of anticipation, we are on the verge of the 2008 Tour de France. For many this is an occasion to be savoured – casual fans only hear of cycling’s dark days, but this year, thanks to the authorities and national bodies that run cycling, we look to a Tour cleaner, and provenly cleaner than for many years.
Sadly, when cycling gets minimal coverage at any time in the media, today the big articles are still about doping and also about the politics that run rife in the organising bodies. Instead of acres of print about the great riders who, tomorrow, will be setting off from Brest in the greatest of all bike races, the papers dwell on whether the ASO will set up a separate tour from the UCI. This is nonsense.
It cheapens and demeans a sport that has done more than any other in trying, and mostly succeeding, in addressing problems with performance-enhancing drug-taking.
What the papers should have said today is that we are about to see the most open and drug-tested Tour de France that has ever been. Dodgy teams have not even been allowed to enter – that’s Astana – meaning that last year’s winner is not going to be able to defend his win. Not that he, Contador, has been found guilty of any infringement, but ASO don’t want to taint the Tour by letting a team with “history” be there.
In my view, the mainstream media would do well to stop picking up second-hand stories about what is wrong with Professional Road Cycling, and spend the next three weeks watching a peloton (that has pretty much whole-heartedly signed up to the bio-passports for proving itself to be drug free), and that has, collectively ridden brilliantly this season, prove itself.
This may be the last chance for cycling to show the world that it has cleaned up its act – something athletics manifestly hasn’t done (cf Dwaine Chambers and his last ditch chance to go the Olympics by taking his case to the High Court of Lawyers with Lots of Money vs Those Who Want Drug Cheats to be Banned for Life).
Eagle-eyed readers will recognise a dichotomy there. I have publicly supported the return to cycling of “former drug-cheat” David Millar, and it is a position I find hard to justify. BUT, and there is a big but. Not only did Millar admit his guilt straightaway, but then did all he could to expose suppliers and the system that had led him into his errors. Chambers has not.
But I did not intend this to be an article about performance-enhancement – I had to take that small diversion to explain why I am prepared to accept Millar riding the Tour this year.
My intention, and thank you if you’ve stuck with me this far, was to whet your appetites for the biggest sporting event of the year. That’s a fact. Even in the most troubled years, Le Tour attracts more spectators than any other event (live). The football, at its highest point, only gets maybe 100,000 in an arena. Le Tour has several million throughout its route through France and neighbouring countries. Last year that included Britain – more than three million turned out to watch the men in lycra duel in the opening Time Trial Prologue and then watch them on Stage One through Greater London and Kent.
I don’t think anyone has added up the television audience for Le Tour. But one of the amazing things about the people who line the routes from Prologue to the finale in Paris, is that so many are actual cyclists. Loads of people either do the pre-Tour ride, taking the same route as the Pros, but quite possibly walking their bikes up the steepest parts in the Alps and Pyrenees or follow the peloton. It is unprecedented in sport.
A pal of mine warmed up for watching Le Tour this year by riding from John O’Groats to Lands End and back to Elgin in a week. A team of four, with one support vehicle, did this in a week. Yes, just seven days. Today Gary told me that he had pushed it further than he thought possible. With terrible weather in Cumbria, the Borders and motorists swearing at them as they traversed the dual-carriageways around Glasgow, they kept going. And for why? Yes for charity, but also because each and every one of those four men had grown up with the legends of Jacques Anquetil, the cannibal Eddy Merckx, the badger Bernard Hinault, Tommy Simpson (RIP) and the inimitable Big Mig Indurain.
Lance Armstrong was mentioned, but in a different breath. He is, unarguably, the most successful Tour rider ever. There is no question about that. However, he sacrificed being great in other races to his Tour dream and so in my mind, he is not as great as some earlier greats, and obviously not to such as my pal.
Well, less than 24 hours to go, and yet again Le Tour’s first day will be competing with tennis at Wimbledon, qualifying for the British Grand Prix and Essex v Yorks in the second semi-final of the Friends Provident Trophy.
Thank Dog there’s no football then!
Me – I’ll go for a gentle warm-up ride along the coastal cycle path, have a little bit of tennis on a home-made court and read a lot of cricinfo. Then I’ll settle in for Brest to Plumelec – 197.5 km on the flat and have no clue who will either win Stage One, or be the favourite. It’ll be Tuesday before anyone shows their hand, and what other sporting event keeps you on those sort of tenterhooks?
Join me next week to see if we have a race or a political intrigue. My money is on the race and I wouldn’t bet against the Manx Express, Mark Cavendish, taking the sprint win on Day One.
Sadly, when cycling gets minimal coverage at any time in the media, today the big articles are still about doping and also about the politics that run rife in the organising bodies. Instead of acres of print about the great riders who, tomorrow, will be setting off from Brest in the greatest of all bike races, the papers dwell on whether the ASO will set up a separate tour from the UCI. This is nonsense.
It cheapens and demeans a sport that has done more than any other in trying, and mostly succeeding, in addressing problems with performance-enhancing drug-taking.
What the papers should have said today is that we are about to see the most open and drug-tested Tour de France that has ever been. Dodgy teams have not even been allowed to enter – that’s Astana – meaning that last year’s winner is not going to be able to defend his win. Not that he, Contador, has been found guilty of any infringement, but ASO don’t want to taint the Tour by letting a team with “history” be there.
In my view, the mainstream media would do well to stop picking up second-hand stories about what is wrong with Professional Road Cycling, and spend the next three weeks watching a peloton (that has pretty much whole-heartedly signed up to the bio-passports for proving itself to be drug free), and that has, collectively ridden brilliantly this season, prove itself.
This may be the last chance for cycling to show the world that it has cleaned up its act – something athletics manifestly hasn’t done (cf Dwaine Chambers and his last ditch chance to go the Olympics by taking his case to the High Court of Lawyers with Lots of Money vs Those Who Want Drug Cheats to be Banned for Life).
Eagle-eyed readers will recognise a dichotomy there. I have publicly supported the return to cycling of “former drug-cheat” David Millar, and it is a position I find hard to justify. BUT, and there is a big but. Not only did Millar admit his guilt straightaway, but then did all he could to expose suppliers and the system that had led him into his errors. Chambers has not.
But I did not intend this to be an article about performance-enhancement – I had to take that small diversion to explain why I am prepared to accept Millar riding the Tour this year.
My intention, and thank you if you’ve stuck with me this far, was to whet your appetites for the biggest sporting event of the year. That’s a fact. Even in the most troubled years, Le Tour attracts more spectators than any other event (live). The football, at its highest point, only gets maybe 100,000 in an arena. Le Tour has several million throughout its route through France and neighbouring countries. Last year that included Britain – more than three million turned out to watch the men in lycra duel in the opening Time Trial Prologue and then watch them on Stage One through Greater London and Kent.
I don’t think anyone has added up the television audience for Le Tour. But one of the amazing things about the people who line the routes from Prologue to the finale in Paris, is that so many are actual cyclists. Loads of people either do the pre-Tour ride, taking the same route as the Pros, but quite possibly walking their bikes up the steepest parts in the Alps and Pyrenees or follow the peloton. It is unprecedented in sport.
A pal of mine warmed up for watching Le Tour this year by riding from John O’Groats to Lands End and back to Elgin in a week. A team of four, with one support vehicle, did this in a week. Yes, just seven days. Today Gary told me that he had pushed it further than he thought possible. With terrible weather in Cumbria, the Borders and motorists swearing at them as they traversed the dual-carriageways around Glasgow, they kept going. And for why? Yes for charity, but also because each and every one of those four men had grown up with the legends of Jacques Anquetil, the cannibal Eddy Merckx, the badger Bernard Hinault, Tommy Simpson (RIP) and the inimitable Big Mig Indurain.
Lance Armstrong was mentioned, but in a different breath. He is, unarguably, the most successful Tour rider ever. There is no question about that. However, he sacrificed being great in other races to his Tour dream and so in my mind, he is not as great as some earlier greats, and obviously not to such as my pal.
Well, less than 24 hours to go, and yet again Le Tour’s first day will be competing with tennis at Wimbledon, qualifying for the British Grand Prix and Essex v Yorks in the second semi-final of the Friends Provident Trophy.
Thank Dog there’s no football then!
Me – I’ll go for a gentle warm-up ride along the coastal cycle path, have a little bit of tennis on a home-made court and read a lot of cricinfo. Then I’ll settle in for Brest to Plumelec – 197.5 km on the flat and have no clue who will either win Stage One, or be the favourite. It’ll be Tuesday before anyone shows their hand, and what other sporting event keeps you on those sort of tenterhooks?
Join me next week to see if we have a race or a political intrigue. My money is on the race and I wouldn’t bet against the Manx Express, Mark Cavendish, taking the sprint win on Day One.
Friday, June 20, 2008
The Dressing Room Tapes June 17 2008 - as transcribed by mimi
Paul Collingwood gathers the troops, and sets the iPod going with a bit of a song:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v
PC: Hey boyos: how do you think we went today, can you read my mind?
KP: Quarter of a mill, there, chief?
PC: Don’t even think about fucking Stanford. We’re so, so not close to making it into to the top two of one-day cricket. Look, I know we had a bloody good time in the Twenty 20, and hammered the Kiwis today, but it might be a one off.
KP: I don’t think so. We fucking smacked them today – well I did, and you all know how fucking good I am
IRB: Kev – you didn’t do it on your own …. [bit tearful]
OS: No he fucking didn’t – Ian, you were fucking ace, and kept the innings going, Kev thinks he’s the man, and he is the Big Man, but he needs us. Fuck, in those last overs, he got shite while I scored off every fucking ball. Man, I won that match for England.
SB: Sorry, mate, don’t you think the bowlers had a bit to do with it? Everyone calls me the highlight blond who has to deliver. Well, I think I did a bit today. I’m the new Glenn McGrath!!!!
[KP wanders away, giggling almost insanely, I got a ton, I got a ton, I’m gonna earn a fucking million, left hand, right hand, what does it matter, I’m Ronnie O’Sullivan, ha, ha, ha]
In the back room, conversations:
Michael Vaughan: look, some of these guys are doing really well in the short form, but they’re not Test players (except Stuarty – cos we love him) but these are the guys going for the Stanford millions. We’ve got to make it fair.
Aggers: Well, is it all about the money then?
MV: We have to have an agreement in the dressing room. It’s not going to work if some guys get to earn a fucking huge ton for one match.
Blowers: There’s a helicopter overhead – wonder what that is? Oh Stanford dropping a few more millions. Well, I don’t care – rather watch for a few cranes.
Aggers: Look: this is the deal: gamble on a few hundred grand, in one match, or keep your souls intact playing a season for your country. Can’t we get them to see that?
MV: Not a fucking chance. Why do you think I’m back doing county Twenty20? They’ll say anything to the press, but money has the biggest mouth.
… the Tape fades, we’re losing contact with the dressing room and the back room. Aggers has his head in his hands, whispering – this is the death of cricket as we know it. Blowers has lost all grip on reality and is trying to count bees.
MPV gets up, straightens his shoulders, gives a despising look to the moribund BBC commentators and looks in the mirror.
“Who is the most beautiful of them all?” he says, and to his horror, the image in the mirror changes and looking back at him IS [duh, duh, duh, duh]: KEVIN PIETERSEN.
… sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
Saturday, June 14, 2008
River Plate recover from self destruction to win Argentine Championship - Clack
That old football cliche; it's more difficult to play against ten men. Does it therefore follow that it's even harder to play against nine? Diego Simeone's River Plate certainly put the theories to the test over the last month, and the answer would appear to be a resounding yes.
River Plate versus San Lorenzo in the last 16 of La Copa de Libertadores on the 9th May was a massive match; two top Argentine clubs, both with serious aspirations of winning the trophy (South America's equivalent of the Champions league), and a number intriguing sub-plots aswell:
San Lorenzo manager Ramon Diaz was a legendary ex-River Plate player and manager, at the helm during 'Los Millionarios' last golden era when they won the Libertadores in 96. But he was sacked by current River president, Jose Maria Aguilar, in 2002, only to be invited back at the beginning of this season. An offer Diaz rejected.
Ditto Andres D'Alessandro. The former River Plate playmaker also turned down a return to his former club, prefering, like Diaz, the lucrative salaries of San Lorenzo, who are bankrolled by millionaire TV presenter and king of tack, Marcelo Tinelli. "River didn't try hard enough to sign me", said D'Allesandro on the eve of the big match, adding fuel to an already potentially inflammatory encounter.
San Lorenzo won 2 1 at home in the first leg, leaving the tie perfectly in the balance. A week later, Simeone's side came out all guns ablazing in front of their 70,000 capacity home crowd, sweeping San Lorenzo aside in an impressive first half display of attacking and cohesive football, while pyro-technics lit up the terraces. Fans and team in harmony, Abelairas scored for River after 12 minutes and San Lorenzo's Rivero was sent off just before half-time.
Then Botinelli stupidly, and blatantly, elbowed River Plate's Uruguayan striker Sebastian Abreu in the face, conceding a penalty 13 minutes into the second half, which was neatly dispatched by Abreu himself. 2-0 to River (3-2 on aggregate), and San Lorenzo down to nine men.
What happened next is beyond explanation. River Plate seemed to freeze, unable to cope with the change in circumstances. Their defenders looked lost and nervous as if their whole game plan had been thrown off course by their numerical advantage. San Lorenzo's nine men scored twice in three minutes in front of stunned, and now silent, River Plate fans.
With a somewhat tragi-comic display of long range spooners, scuffed shots and miscued headers, River lost all their first half fluidity and were unable to break the nine men down. There were no more goals and San Lorenzo ran out winners over the two legs.
Highlights of the match here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGrw6jRlHk8&feature=related
How does it happen? Surely footballers of this level ought to be able to make an extra man, or in this case, two extra men, count? But we have seen it so many times in every league in the world - why can't the team with superior numbers just simply out-pass their opponents? Shouldn't the manager be able to make telling substitutions? eg. take off a redundant defender, who is marking noone, and replace him with a more attacking player? In this age of prozone and attention to detail, do team's not prepare and practise playing against ten men. Or less? Especially considering how regularly sending offs occur?
In fairness to Simeone, he did make a substitution, and it could be argued that the change unsettled his team? "The only person responsible for what happened tonight is myself, thank you gentleman, that is all", he said in his post match conference that lasted all of 10 seconds. 'Increible' was the single word headline in many of the papers the next day, in the true essence of the adjective - 'beyond belief'.
River Plate as an institution was destoyed, but worse was to follow in the aftermath. Midfielder Oscar Ahumada blamed the crowd."There was a silence after the first San Lorenzo goal and that affected the players", he said, "it's not like at Boca where the fans continue to sing and cheer the team". Blasphemy. River Plate fan forums, aswell as some directors, demanded Ahumada left the club forthwith for this act of treason.
River had lost to Boca in the league a week beforehand, an insipid performance, and the Boca fans had thrown 'maiz' (chicken-feed) at the River players as they descended the team bus, a reference to 'Chickens' as River are historically called by other clubs for supposedly bottling big occasions. But now, in an unprecedented incident, River Plate fans themselves threw chicken feed at their own players at the first home match after the San Lorenzo defeat. "The club is self-destructing", said President Aguilar in a resigned, but frankly honest, assessment of the situation.
The only player exempt from criticism in the eyes of the fans was Ariel Ortega, who hadn't appeared against San Lorenzo due to yet another bout of alcoholism. Stories emanating from the club suggested that the rest of the squad were tired of his behaviour and the number of training sessions he missed. Even River Plate's Barras Bravas (hooligans) had split into two factions, fighting among themselves in pre-planned armed battles that had lead to a murder last year. Disasterous times for the club both on and off the pitch, and, as if all this wasn't enough, things seemed to be going quite smoothly at Boca Juniors, where Riquleme and Palermo's goals had seen them through to the semi-final of the Libertadores.
However, in what can only be a testament to Simeone's excellent man-management skills, River Plate somehow have managed to turn it all around over the last few weeks, perhaps helped by Boca and San Lorenzo concentrating on the Libertadores and fielding reserves in crucial league games.
The key match came away at Colon where River's defensive king-pin Ponzio received a red card after only 19 mins. Like the San Lorenzo match, but in reverse, the sending off seemed to galvanise River Plate's remaining ten men. Recalled Ariel Ortega, rolling back the years at 34 and pulling the strings behind the strikers, set up Villagra for a quite brilliant opeing goal in the 2 1 victory.
Despite the boos, Ahumada has played like a man possessed ever since he made his unfortunate remarks, turning the jeers from his own fans into silence, and then eventually into cheers, an outstanding player in River's run in.
While San Lorenzo went onto lose to La Liga (Ecuador) in the Libertadores, amidst squad squabbling over the Tinelli bonus money and the resignation of Ramon Diaz, Boca lost their semi -final to Fluminense (Brazil), and suddenly it is only River Plate who have ended up with something to celebrate.
"River Plate Campeon - I can hardly believe we're saying it", said the commentator on Sunday afternoon as River sealed the Argentine championship, their first trophy in four years, "but that's what it says on the screen - it just shows the contadictory nature of football", he pondered.
By then, the festival was in full-swing in the Monumental after the 2 1 victory over Olympo. Once again, Ortega and 'the Dwarf', who scored both goals, had been the outstanding pair (at 1 metre 60 is Buonanotte the smallest player in world football?). Together they produced some sublime moments, Ortega setting up the championship winning goal with a perfect defence-splitting pass to ten minutes from the end.
River v Olympo goals here.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LdZOpfrHGLM&feature=related
Suddenly, it all looks rosy for River Plate and manager Simeone. It's a team full of 'pibes' (young players) that could be on the cusp of another successful era - providing their opponents don't have too many players sent off, of course!!
River Plate versus San Lorenzo in the last 16 of La Copa de Libertadores on the 9th May was a massive match; two top Argentine clubs, both with serious aspirations of winning the trophy (South America's equivalent of the Champions league), and a number intriguing sub-plots aswell:
San Lorenzo manager Ramon Diaz was a legendary ex-River Plate player and manager, at the helm during 'Los Millionarios' last golden era when they won the Libertadores in 96. But he was sacked by current River president, Jose Maria Aguilar, in 2002, only to be invited back at the beginning of this season. An offer Diaz rejected.
Ditto Andres D'Alessandro. The former River Plate playmaker also turned down a return to his former club, prefering, like Diaz, the lucrative salaries of San Lorenzo, who are bankrolled by millionaire TV presenter and king of tack, Marcelo Tinelli. "River didn't try hard enough to sign me", said D'Allesandro on the eve of the big match, adding fuel to an already potentially inflammatory encounter.
San Lorenzo won 2 1 at home in the first leg, leaving the tie perfectly in the balance. A week later, Simeone's side came out all guns ablazing in front of their 70,000 capacity home crowd, sweeping San Lorenzo aside in an impressive first half display of attacking and cohesive football, while pyro-technics lit up the terraces. Fans and team in harmony, Abelairas scored for River after 12 minutes and San Lorenzo's Rivero was sent off just before half-time.
Then Botinelli stupidly, and blatantly, elbowed River Plate's Uruguayan striker Sebastian Abreu in the face, conceding a penalty 13 minutes into the second half, which was neatly dispatched by Abreu himself. 2-0 to River (3-2 on aggregate), and San Lorenzo down to nine men.
What happened next is beyond explanation. River Plate seemed to freeze, unable to cope with the change in circumstances. Their defenders looked lost and nervous as if their whole game plan had been thrown off course by their numerical advantage. San Lorenzo's nine men scored twice in three minutes in front of stunned, and now silent, River Plate fans.
With a somewhat tragi-comic display of long range spooners, scuffed shots and miscued headers, River lost all their first half fluidity and were unable to break the nine men down. There were no more goals and San Lorenzo ran out winners over the two legs.
Highlights of the match here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGrw6jRlHk8&feature=related
How does it happen? Surely footballers of this level ought to be able to make an extra man, or in this case, two extra men, count? But we have seen it so many times in every league in the world - why can't the team with superior numbers just simply out-pass their opponents? Shouldn't the manager be able to make telling substitutions? eg. take off a redundant defender, who is marking noone, and replace him with a more attacking player? In this age of prozone and attention to detail, do team's not prepare and practise playing against ten men. Or less? Especially considering how regularly sending offs occur?
In fairness to Simeone, he did make a substitution, and it could be argued that the change unsettled his team? "The only person responsible for what happened tonight is myself, thank you gentleman, that is all", he said in his post match conference that lasted all of 10 seconds. 'Increible' was the single word headline in many of the papers the next day, in the true essence of the adjective - 'beyond belief'.
River Plate as an institution was destoyed, but worse was to follow in the aftermath. Midfielder Oscar Ahumada blamed the crowd."There was a silence after the first San Lorenzo goal and that affected the players", he said, "it's not like at Boca where the fans continue to sing and cheer the team". Blasphemy. River Plate fan forums, aswell as some directors, demanded Ahumada left the club forthwith for this act of treason.
River had lost to Boca in the league a week beforehand, an insipid performance, and the Boca fans had thrown 'maiz' (chicken-feed) at the River players as they descended the team bus, a reference to 'Chickens' as River are historically called by other clubs for supposedly bottling big occasions. But now, in an unprecedented incident, River Plate fans themselves threw chicken feed at their own players at the first home match after the San Lorenzo defeat. "The club is self-destructing", said President Aguilar in a resigned, but frankly honest, assessment of the situation.
The only player exempt from criticism in the eyes of the fans was Ariel Ortega, who hadn't appeared against San Lorenzo due to yet another bout of alcoholism. Stories emanating from the club suggested that the rest of the squad were tired of his behaviour and the number of training sessions he missed. Even River Plate's Barras Bravas (hooligans) had split into two factions, fighting among themselves in pre-planned armed battles that had lead to a murder last year. Disasterous times for the club both on and off the pitch, and, as if all this wasn't enough, things seemed to be going quite smoothly at Boca Juniors, where Riquleme and Palermo's goals had seen them through to the semi-final of the Libertadores.
However, in what can only be a testament to Simeone's excellent man-management skills, River Plate somehow have managed to turn it all around over the last few weeks, perhaps helped by Boca and San Lorenzo concentrating on the Libertadores and fielding reserves in crucial league games.
The key match came away at Colon where River's defensive king-pin Ponzio received a red card after only 19 mins. Like the San Lorenzo match, but in reverse, the sending off seemed to galvanise River Plate's remaining ten men. Recalled Ariel Ortega, rolling back the years at 34 and pulling the strings behind the strikers, set up Villagra for a quite brilliant opeing goal in the 2 1 victory.
Despite the boos, Ahumada has played like a man possessed ever since he made his unfortunate remarks, turning the jeers from his own fans into silence, and then eventually into cheers, an outstanding player in River's run in.
While San Lorenzo went onto lose to La Liga (Ecuador) in the Libertadores, amidst squad squabbling over the Tinelli bonus money and the resignation of Ramon Diaz, Boca lost their semi -final to Fluminense (Brazil), and suddenly it is only River Plate who have ended up with something to celebrate.
"River Plate Campeon - I can hardly believe we're saying it", said the commentator on Sunday afternoon as River sealed the Argentine championship, their first trophy in four years, "but that's what it says on the screen - it just shows the contadictory nature of football", he pondered.
By then, the festival was in full-swing in the Monumental after the 2 1 victory over Olympo. Once again, Ortega and 'the Dwarf', who scored both goals, had been the outstanding pair (at 1 metre 60 is Buonanotte the smallest player in world football?). Together they produced some sublime moments, Ortega setting up the championship winning goal with a perfect defence-splitting pass to ten minutes from the end.
River v Olympo goals here.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LdZOpfrHGLM&feature=related
Suddenly, it all looks rosy for River Plate and manager Simeone. It's a team full of 'pibes' (young players) that could be on the cusp of another successful era - providing their opponents don't have too many players sent off, of course!!
Bless - Chanelle
Umpire Darrell Hair takes good care of Stuart Broad
This pic of the, like, totally hot Stuart Broad is just so, totally, awesome.
But, like, if you have a better caption - go for it.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Presenting the latest flying burrito brother…Diego Buonanotte - Pipita
When Ariel Arnaldo “el burrito” Ortega made his explosive impact in River Plate’s first team in 1992, he was immediately regarded as a typical product of the club’s youth policy. He combined the essential blend of outstanding technique, skill, and flair that had characterized the likes of other illustrious products of the River “school of football” such as Labruna, Di Stefano, Moreno, Loustau, Sívori, Onega, Alonso, and many others. Plus, his “gambeta” was regarded as the most impressive since the mid-eighties appearance of Claudio Caniggia in River’s line-up. His memorable performances in both of River’s successive triumphs against Boca at the latter’s Bombonera stadium during 1994 immortalized him as a hero of the fans.
By that time Ortega was part of a tremendously powerful forward line that also included the likes of the 34 year old Uruguayan and former River super-idol Enzo Francescoli, back from a long sojourn in France and Italy, and the very promising centrefoward Hernán Crespo. These forwards were assisted from midfield by two other youngsters that had also just broken into the first team from the youth ranks: the pint-sized Marcelo “el muñeco” Gallardo, tremendously skillful number ten, and Matías Almeyda, a very aggressive and versatile defensive midfield player. This team was coached by former River glories such as Daniel Passarella and “el tolo” Gallego, who eventually left River to become part of the Argentine national team staff. They were replaced by Ramón “el pelado” Díaz another River Plate legend.
Under Díaz’s guidance River won the 1996 Libertadores Cup and also the Apertura tournament during that same year. After this success, Ortega was transferred to Valencia. Although he played alongside Romario there, he never really adapted to Spanish football and left to the Italian Serie A to join Sampdoria a year later. In spite of the fact that this team was relegated during his first season there, “el burrito” managed to outshine the rest of that team, alongside the team’s goalscoring number nine Vincenzo Montella, and was sold to the then high riding Parma outfit. Here, despite teaming up with Crespo again, Ortega seriously went off the boil in the second half of the season and, after a succession of interminable rows with coach Malesani, decided to head back to his beloved River in 2000. His arrival created a commotion at the club where he began his first steps as a professional footballer, as he linked up with two new prodigies of the club’s youth policy, Aimar and Saviola.
Although River produced some delightful football with the “cuatro fantásticos”, the fourth in contention being the Colombian striker Juan Pablo Angel, the team failed to pick up a trophy during “el burrito’s” first two years back home. However, Aimar and Saviola, who both left to play in Spain by 2001, declared to have profited enormously as a result of playing alongside Ortega. By 2002, Ortega was linking up with two new promises that had been promoted to the first team, largely as a consequence of Aimar and Saviola’s departures: attacking midfielder Andrés D’alessandro and centrefoward Fernando Cavenaghi. With this new powerful attacking trio, plus the invaluable assistance of other quality players such as Demichelis, Coudet and Cambiasso, River won the Clausura of 2002 playing some delightful attacking football.
It was clear that “el burrito” had become a referent for the young skillful players emerging from River’s junior ranks. Ortega departed from River again after playing for the national team in the 2002 World Cup, and began a most traumatic experience playing for Turkey’s Galatasaray. In the mean time, however, River had clearly profited with the maturity acquired by Ortega’s latest “disciple” D’alessandro the main commander of the team that won the Clausura again in 2003 alongside Cavenaghi, who in turn became the main referent, after D’alessandro was sold to Germany that same year, when River clinched yet another Clausura trophy in 2004. It was precisely at the end of that season that Ortega returned to Argentina, after his nightmarish Turkish experience that cost him a two year FIFA suspension for breach of contract, but this time to join Rosario club Newels Old Boys.
It would only be a matter of time, however, for Ortega to rejoin River for a second time. After a year and a half at Newels, where he obtained an Apertura trophy under the guidance of former coach Gallego, the man who promoted him to River’s first team in the early nineties, Passarella, was back at River eager to reunite Ortega with Gallardo, who had returned to River in 2003. In mid-2006, Passarella finally achieved this ambition but would rapidly be confronted by Ortega’s ever increasing personal problems, especially related with his drinking. Somehow “el burrito” managed to sustain himself after being in and out of the team during his first year, and produced some outstanding personal performances in the second half of 2007, especially in a 2-0 victory against Boca.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDx385c9FaY&NR=1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wtJCRL_nes&feature=related
Nevertheless, Ortega’s impressive form was not enough to elevate River to the top level, and Passarella received the sack at the end of 2007. By the time Cholo Simeone took over as coach at the beginning of the following year, a diminutive and very frail looking offensive midfielder had erupted into the first team and would rapidly begin to score goals by way of his dribbling skill and powerful shots. The nineteen year old Diego Buonanotte proved to be a perfect new “compadre” for Ortega and, after traumatic defeats against Boca in the league and San Lorenzo in the Libertadores cup, these two players enabled River to clinch the Clausura league after four years without winning trophies of any sort. A new “burrito” disciple had yet again emerged.
By that time Ortega was part of a tremendously powerful forward line that also included the likes of the 34 year old Uruguayan and former River super-idol Enzo Francescoli, back from a long sojourn in France and Italy, and the very promising centrefoward Hernán Crespo. These forwards were assisted from midfield by two other youngsters that had also just broken into the first team from the youth ranks: the pint-sized Marcelo “el muñeco” Gallardo, tremendously skillful number ten, and Matías Almeyda, a very aggressive and versatile defensive midfield player. This team was coached by former River glories such as Daniel Passarella and “el tolo” Gallego, who eventually left River to become part of the Argentine national team staff. They were replaced by Ramón “el pelado” Díaz another River Plate legend.
Under Díaz’s guidance River won the 1996 Libertadores Cup and also the Apertura tournament during that same year. After this success, Ortega was transferred to Valencia. Although he played alongside Romario there, he never really adapted to Spanish football and left to the Italian Serie A to join Sampdoria a year later. In spite of the fact that this team was relegated during his first season there, “el burrito” managed to outshine the rest of that team, alongside the team’s goalscoring number nine Vincenzo Montella, and was sold to the then high riding Parma outfit. Here, despite teaming up with Crespo again, Ortega seriously went off the boil in the second half of the season and, after a succession of interminable rows with coach Malesani, decided to head back to his beloved River in 2000. His arrival created a commotion at the club where he began his first steps as a professional footballer, as he linked up with two new prodigies of the club’s youth policy, Aimar and Saviola.
Although River produced some delightful football with the “cuatro fantásticos”, the fourth in contention being the Colombian striker Juan Pablo Angel, the team failed to pick up a trophy during “el burrito’s” first two years back home. However, Aimar and Saviola, who both left to play in Spain by 2001, declared to have profited enormously as a result of playing alongside Ortega. By 2002, Ortega was linking up with two new promises that had been promoted to the first team, largely as a consequence of Aimar and Saviola’s departures: attacking midfielder Andrés D’alessandro and centrefoward Fernando Cavenaghi. With this new powerful attacking trio, plus the invaluable assistance of other quality players such as Demichelis, Coudet and Cambiasso, River won the Clausura of 2002 playing some delightful attacking football.
It was clear that “el burrito” had become a referent for the young skillful players emerging from River’s junior ranks. Ortega departed from River again after playing for the national team in the 2002 World Cup, and began a most traumatic experience playing for Turkey’s Galatasaray. In the mean time, however, River had clearly profited with the maturity acquired by Ortega’s latest “disciple” D’alessandro the main commander of the team that won the Clausura again in 2003 alongside Cavenaghi, who in turn became the main referent, after D’alessandro was sold to Germany that same year, when River clinched yet another Clausura trophy in 2004. It was precisely at the end of that season that Ortega returned to Argentina, after his nightmarish Turkish experience that cost him a two year FIFA suspension for breach of contract, but this time to join Rosario club Newels Old Boys.
It would only be a matter of time, however, for Ortega to rejoin River for a second time. After a year and a half at Newels, where he obtained an Apertura trophy under the guidance of former coach Gallego, the man who promoted him to River’s first team in the early nineties, Passarella, was back at River eager to reunite Ortega with Gallardo, who had returned to River in 2003. In mid-2006, Passarella finally achieved this ambition but would rapidly be confronted by Ortega’s ever increasing personal problems, especially related with his drinking. Somehow “el burrito” managed to sustain himself after being in and out of the team during his first year, and produced some outstanding personal performances in the second half of 2007, especially in a 2-0 victory against Boca.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDx385c9FaY&NR=1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wtJCRL_nes&feature=related
Nevertheless, Ortega’s impressive form was not enough to elevate River to the top level, and Passarella received the sack at the end of 2007. By the time Cholo Simeone took over as coach at the beginning of the following year, a diminutive and very frail looking offensive midfielder had erupted into the first team and would rapidly begin to score goals by way of his dribbling skill and powerful shots. The nineteen year old Diego Buonanotte proved to be a perfect new “compadre” for Ortega and, after traumatic defeats against Boca in the league and San Lorenzo in the Libertadores cup, these two players enabled River to clinch the Clausura league after four years without winning trophies of any sort. A new “burrito” disciple had yet again emerged.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Ode to joy - byebyebadman
For a good half a century Britain has been divided on the question of whether to go into Europe. The four national football teams that make up these islands have perhaps made a bold stance for the naysayers in that regard this summer as none of them will cross the Alps to Switzerland and Austria for this years European Championships. Scotland and Northern Ireland played above expectations and missed by a whisker, whilst the decline of Wales continues. In teeming rain England were played off the park by Croatia in their final match of a doomed campaign, Steve McClaren lost his job and the FA brought in a crack team of Italians in his place.
So there are thirty-one games in this summer’s European Championships in which the British folk will not have their own national team to side with. The drop off in media interest is noticeable, with the BBC running an embarrassingly tokenistic series of adverts asking ‘Who will you support?’ that are so clunky you half expect a drunken yob to stagger out of a kebab shop claiming the lukewarm doner in his hand is the reason he’ll get behind Greece.
I must admit to a certain level of bemusement at the whole England-aren’t-there-so-just-enjoy-the-jamboree attitude sweeping my nation. Do people here not engage with the tournament regardless? In the last World Cup England only participated in five of the sixty-four games played. That’s an awful lot of World Cup to have turned a blind eye to if you concerned yourself only with matters Anglo-Saxon. My soul is a far richer place for having seen amongst other delights that summer Zidane glide imperiously around his Brazilian opponents and Esteban Cambiasso score maybe the greatest goal I’ve ever seen.
Yet the cynic in me wonders how much the national mood was summed up by Ian Wright (whom, this time, we are mercifully spared). When asked in his role as a BBC pundit to analyse the action between Holland and Serbia & Montenegro at half-time in that tournament he said “I don’t care about this to be honest, I’m just interested in England.”
The last time any British side failed to qualify for a tournament was the World Cup in the USA in 1994. My GCSE exams finished the very day Diana Ross missed her penalty at the opening ceremony and with that freedom I watched and loved every second of that tournament which, when spared any jingoistic coverage of the Three Lions, showed England what a ‘World’ Cup was. It was Russian forwards scoring five and forty-six year old Cameroonians replying; Saudi Arabian playmakers dribbling in goals from their own half; Colombian full-backs showing the true definition of tragedy; my boyhood idol, Argentina’s captain, failing a drugs test; balding Bulgarians and flying headers; Buddhist Italians shooting high over the bar.
When asked what he intended to do during this period England’s captain at the time David Platt told reporters he would not watch it, prompting numerous Disgruntled of Tunbridge Wells types to write in to the national press and complain that as his team weren’t capable of this level of football perhaps he should watch and learn. The disappointment of England’s failure to qualify that time was tempered by the presence of Geordie Jack Charlton’s Republic of Ireland and his squad peppered with hastily assimilated Englishmen with Irish ancestry, a horse on the back of which English fans were only too happy to hitch their (band) wagon. As a Manchester United fan I not only had one eye on the fortunes of Denis Irwin and Roy Keane but also Andrei Kanchelskis, a Ukranian who had decided to play for Russia that summer.
With the multinational make-up these days of what some would argue is the greatest league in the world one would think that should be enough to hook people in. The Premiership might not be able to produce an England team fit to qualify for Euro 2008 but it currently houses forty-six players, two whole squads worth of talent, selected for these championships across all but three of the competing nations.
Personally I will lend my armchair support to France. Not only am I a card-carrying Francophile as a result of their food, wine, cinema and midfield of the eighties, but my sister’s partner is French and in Provence just eighteen months ago I became an uncle. With a fusion of the stereotypes of English grit and French flair I have the idle dream that one day she’ll be the girl that breaks through into the male elite of professional football. Naturally, she’d opt to represent Les Blues; the maverick showMAN struggles to make the bench for England, let alone the woman.
Others of course will not bother and I overheard in our office a few days a go a man say he couldn’t be bothered entering the sweepstake for a tournament England weren’t playing in. Plus ca change as my adopted nation might say, but I hope his pull-up-the-drawbridge attitude is not representative of our island nation. Even without a tenuous reason to support one team or another there is still plenty to tune in for. Good football is still good football, even if it is played out on a foreign field without England.
So there are thirty-one games in this summer’s European Championships in which the British folk will not have their own national team to side with. The drop off in media interest is noticeable, with the BBC running an embarrassingly tokenistic series of adverts asking ‘Who will you support?’ that are so clunky you half expect a drunken yob to stagger out of a kebab shop claiming the lukewarm doner in his hand is the reason he’ll get behind Greece.
I must admit to a certain level of bemusement at the whole England-aren’t-there-so-just-enjoy-the-jamboree attitude sweeping my nation. Do people here not engage with the tournament regardless? In the last World Cup England only participated in five of the sixty-four games played. That’s an awful lot of World Cup to have turned a blind eye to if you concerned yourself only with matters Anglo-Saxon. My soul is a far richer place for having seen amongst other delights that summer Zidane glide imperiously around his Brazilian opponents and Esteban Cambiasso score maybe the greatest goal I’ve ever seen.
Yet the cynic in me wonders how much the national mood was summed up by Ian Wright (whom, this time, we are mercifully spared). When asked in his role as a BBC pundit to analyse the action between Holland and Serbia & Montenegro at half-time in that tournament he said “I don’t care about this to be honest, I’m just interested in England.”
The last time any British side failed to qualify for a tournament was the World Cup in the USA in 1994. My GCSE exams finished the very day Diana Ross missed her penalty at the opening ceremony and with that freedom I watched and loved every second of that tournament which, when spared any jingoistic coverage of the Three Lions, showed England what a ‘World’ Cup was. It was Russian forwards scoring five and forty-six year old Cameroonians replying; Saudi Arabian playmakers dribbling in goals from their own half; Colombian full-backs showing the true definition of tragedy; my boyhood idol, Argentina’s captain, failing a drugs test; balding Bulgarians and flying headers; Buddhist Italians shooting high over the bar.
When asked what he intended to do during this period England’s captain at the time David Platt told reporters he would not watch it, prompting numerous Disgruntled of Tunbridge Wells types to write in to the national press and complain that as his team weren’t capable of this level of football perhaps he should watch and learn. The disappointment of England’s failure to qualify that time was tempered by the presence of Geordie Jack Charlton’s Republic of Ireland and his squad peppered with hastily assimilated Englishmen with Irish ancestry, a horse on the back of which English fans were only too happy to hitch their (band) wagon. As a Manchester United fan I not only had one eye on the fortunes of Denis Irwin and Roy Keane but also Andrei Kanchelskis, a Ukranian who had decided to play for Russia that summer.
With the multinational make-up these days of what some would argue is the greatest league in the world one would think that should be enough to hook people in. The Premiership might not be able to produce an England team fit to qualify for Euro 2008 but it currently houses forty-six players, two whole squads worth of talent, selected for these championships across all but three of the competing nations.
Personally I will lend my armchair support to France. Not only am I a card-carrying Francophile as a result of their food, wine, cinema and midfield of the eighties, but my sister’s partner is French and in Provence just eighteen months ago I became an uncle. With a fusion of the stereotypes of English grit and French flair I have the idle dream that one day she’ll be the girl that breaks through into the male elite of professional football. Naturally, she’d opt to represent Les Blues; the maverick showMAN struggles to make the bench for England, let alone the woman.
Others of course will not bother and I overheard in our office a few days a go a man say he couldn’t be bothered entering the sweepstake for a tournament England weren’t playing in. Plus ca change as my adopted nation might say, but I hope his pull-up-the-drawbridge attitude is not representative of our island nation. Even without a tenuous reason to support one team or another there is still plenty to tune in for. Good football is still good football, even if it is played out on a foreign field without England.
Bad editing - Ebren
My fullest apologies to all concerned. I have been shocking recently at getting stuff on the site, there are three things that should be on and aren't (yet).
I will upload forthwith – and apologies again for being crap.
it's now set up so they drop onto the system over the next couple of days. I love that blogger now lets me schedule content...
Post abuse - both personal and professional - below.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Formula One v MotoGP - Mimitig
It is a rare weekend when the bike boys go head to head with the F1 drivers – well sort of. On Sunday 8 June the calendars coincided but due to the time difference between Spain and Canada, fans of both forms of motorsport did not have to make a choice of which race to follow.
By the time the cars came to the grid at the circuit Gilles Villeneuve in Montreal, the boys in leather were partying (or licking their wounds) in Barcelona. It’s hard to imagine the race winner – Dani Pedrosa – being life and soul even at his home race although for once he did display some excitement and enjoyment on the podium and in the post-race interview. He is well-known in the paddock and amongst the fans of MotoGP as being more than a little dour. In contrast, Valentino Rossi could not have been more thrilled with his second place.
A race-long battle with Australian Casey Stoner had provided almost as much entertainment for the crowd as Valle’s unbelievably tasteless new leathers and helmet design. “I cannot ride a bike race in T-shirt and shorts” Rossi said, so in tribute to his beloved Azzurri, he sported Euro 2008 leathers mimicking the kit and topped off with a lid painted like a football. “I even have the footballer’s tattoo” he told us, showing off the XLVI on the right inner forearm of his leathers.
It’s hard to imagine any single one of Formula One’s drivers expressing their personalities in the way that Rossi does, and it’s one of the reasons why he has so many fans and why they are all hoping that he signs another two-year contract with Yamaha.
As far as the rest of the race went, well Pedrosa stormed into the start as soon as the lights went out and went on to ride a peerless race – at one point leading by over seven seconds before easing off to stroke it round and win by just over four seconds. It was a faultless performance, but despite the fact that this was a Spanish rider winning in Spain, the race director showed respect for the fans and the other competitors and allowed us to see not only the battle for second between Rossi and Stoner – which was a cracker, but also tussles further down the field.
Rookie James Toseland had a great race fighting with his team mate Colin Edwards, Honda’s Nicky Hayden and Suzuki’s Chris Vermuelen to take his third sixth place – a great taster for the next race at Donington where JT will be racing for the first time on a track he knows.
There were crashes galore as de Angelis and Capirossi tangled and de Puniet took himself out. Elias was black-flagged for a jump-start and with so many down, Marco Melandri, perhaps in his last race for the factory Ducati team after a disastrous start to the season found himself in the points.
It was a cracking race, exciting right down to the last lap. Rossi had stalked Stoner for eight laps before making his move for second, and even then there was no feeling that Casey had given up. No surprise that over 115,000 people had turned up to watch this show, and they sure got their money’s worth.
Across the pond then for part two of the day’s motor fun. Plenty for Brits to get excited about as Lewis Hamilton had stolen pole off Pole Robert Kubica in the dying moments of Saturday’s qualifying, and last year’s World Champion Kimi Raikkonen was in third, looking almost as off colour as he’d been in Monaco.
As the cars assembled on the grid, it was almost unbelievable that the track was still being mended – problems with the surface at turn 10 – the Hairpin. In the sport that commands multi-millions of pounds it is scarcely credible that the organisers had not provided a fully functioning track. Before the start there were warnings that the safety car might have to be deployed, not for the normal reasons of accidents to the cars, but because the track might not hold up.
But this is Formula One and let not the state of the track get in the way of the commercial need for the race to get underway. On the grid only Ferrari’s Felipe Massa was prepared to talk to ITV’s Martin Brundle and he was refreshingly frank, saying that it was a bit of an adventure into the unknown. So they did their formation lap and then with Jensen Button and Sebastian Vettel starting from the pitlane, they all set off, following Lewis Hamilton’s clean lead away from the lights. Nico Rosberg made up a place but apart from that it was a crawl round and nothing could have been more of a contrast to the fast and furious place-changing first lap of the GP boys.
Lap five and still nothing had happened. The leaders were in their original starting places and strung out by two or three seconds per place. The mid-field provided a bit of action – Heidfeld fighting Barrichello and Glock and Piquet having a little fight for position – but for pride only.
A third of the way into the race and unless someone fucked up, it would be all about pit stops and strategy. A far cry from out and out racing as we’d seen in Barcelona.
On lap 15 we had an incident. Luckless Adrian Sutil, punted out of a fine fourth place in Monaco by Kimi Raikkonen, had a mechanical failure in his Force India car and parked it. In a bad place.
Brought out the safety car and Hamilton’s lead was neutralised and ironically it was Kimi Raikkonen who benefited the most. Or should have done. All the front-runners piled into the pits but as they pulled away, for some reason, unsighted maybe, Hamilton smashed into the back of Kimi while the red light was still on and that was race over for the pair of them. The innocent – there’s always one – was Nico Rosberg who had been doing a grand job but had his afternoon ruined. A new nose required and bye bye podium or points.
Nick Heidfeld, out played all season by team mate Kubica, made hay and took the lead from Barrichello and Nakajima. With the big guns either out or compromised it looked as though we might have a bit of a race on.
But no. Unlike a bike race where you can guarantee that once on the track it’s all down to rider skill, with a bit of rubber wear to worry about, this was F1 and so far from a race, what we had for the final laps was strategy.
There was one genuine fight. At half distance, David Coulthard held fourth ahead of Jarno Trulli, Timo Glock and Sebastian Vettel. On the same strategy this was about pace. Barring accident this was how the race would finish. Alonso had third behind the BMWs until he binned it – whether that was driver error or the same brake problem that saw Renault retire Piquet I don’t know. It could have been the same sort of error that saw Nakajima on the marbles and … gonski.
22 laps to go and Kubica had enough time to make a pitstop and rejoin in the lead. Coulthard was buzzing around happily in third and the only excitement was what Massa could do. The Ferrari was obviously faster than the cars ahead and as Kovalainen put a move on Barrichello, Massa just drifted into the slipstream and took them both in the overtaking manoeuvre of the day. He was up to fourth and chasing Coulthard down.
Then Fisichella lost it into the first chicane – driver error or mechanical problem, doesn’t matter. Brought out not the safety car, but double waved yellows and almost everyone dived into the pits for a final stop.
The three leaders, Kubica, Heidfeld, Coulthard came out still ahead. Barrichello lost places to Trulli and Glock which was bad news for Honda but good for Toyota. Massa somehow nicked a place off Trulli but this was minor stuff.
BMW had come through the chaos for Robert to take a maiden F1 win, and the first for a Pole (not surprisingly as he is the first Pole to compete in F1!) and moreover make it a one-two with Heidfeld taking second spot.
Coulthard, in the evening of his F1 career confounded all critics, yet again, by being on the podium and the Big Two – Ferrari and McLaren scarcely garnered a point.
However, despite this unexpected and rather delightful result of the Canadian Grand Prix, it had none of the genuine excitement of Barcelona. The results were more to do with errors and team strategy than genuine driver skill and utter courage.
In the post-race interviews no-one was “very ‘appy” and no-one wore repulsive pink and blue Azzurri race overalls with roman numerals on their forearm.
Look – I have no doubt that F1 drivers are immensely skilled and brave, but they don’t race elbow to elbow like the boys and they just don’t seem to care as much about what they do and what the fans think.
So come the weekend this season when MotoGP goes head to head with F1, and it will happen, always does, I know what I’ll be watching and I know where my heroes are.
In leather, on two wheels, and the main man is the one whose name begins with a big fat V.
By the time the cars came to the grid at the circuit Gilles Villeneuve in Montreal, the boys in leather were partying (or licking their wounds) in Barcelona. It’s hard to imagine the race winner – Dani Pedrosa – being life and soul even at his home race although for once he did display some excitement and enjoyment on the podium and in the post-race interview. He is well-known in the paddock and amongst the fans of MotoGP as being more than a little dour. In contrast, Valentino Rossi could not have been more thrilled with his second place.
A race-long battle with Australian Casey Stoner had provided almost as much entertainment for the crowd as Valle’s unbelievably tasteless new leathers and helmet design. “I cannot ride a bike race in T-shirt and shorts” Rossi said, so in tribute to his beloved Azzurri, he sported Euro 2008 leathers mimicking the kit and topped off with a lid painted like a football. “I even have the footballer’s tattoo” he told us, showing off the XLVI on the right inner forearm of his leathers.
It’s hard to imagine any single one of Formula One’s drivers expressing their personalities in the way that Rossi does, and it’s one of the reasons why he has so many fans and why they are all hoping that he signs another two-year contract with Yamaha.
As far as the rest of the race went, well Pedrosa stormed into the start as soon as the lights went out and went on to ride a peerless race – at one point leading by over seven seconds before easing off to stroke it round and win by just over four seconds. It was a faultless performance, but despite the fact that this was a Spanish rider winning in Spain, the race director showed respect for the fans and the other competitors and allowed us to see not only the battle for second between Rossi and Stoner – which was a cracker, but also tussles further down the field.
Rookie James Toseland had a great race fighting with his team mate Colin Edwards, Honda’s Nicky Hayden and Suzuki’s Chris Vermuelen to take his third sixth place – a great taster for the next race at Donington where JT will be racing for the first time on a track he knows.
There were crashes galore as de Angelis and Capirossi tangled and de Puniet took himself out. Elias was black-flagged for a jump-start and with so many down, Marco Melandri, perhaps in his last race for the factory Ducati team after a disastrous start to the season found himself in the points.
It was a cracking race, exciting right down to the last lap. Rossi had stalked Stoner for eight laps before making his move for second, and even then there was no feeling that Casey had given up. No surprise that over 115,000 people had turned up to watch this show, and they sure got their money’s worth.
Across the pond then for part two of the day’s motor fun. Plenty for Brits to get excited about as Lewis Hamilton had stolen pole off Pole Robert Kubica in the dying moments of Saturday’s qualifying, and last year’s World Champion Kimi Raikkonen was in third, looking almost as off colour as he’d been in Monaco.
As the cars assembled on the grid, it was almost unbelievable that the track was still being mended – problems with the surface at turn 10 – the Hairpin. In the sport that commands multi-millions of pounds it is scarcely credible that the organisers had not provided a fully functioning track. Before the start there were warnings that the safety car might have to be deployed, not for the normal reasons of accidents to the cars, but because the track might not hold up.
But this is Formula One and let not the state of the track get in the way of the commercial need for the race to get underway. On the grid only Ferrari’s Felipe Massa was prepared to talk to ITV’s Martin Brundle and he was refreshingly frank, saying that it was a bit of an adventure into the unknown. So they did their formation lap and then with Jensen Button and Sebastian Vettel starting from the pitlane, they all set off, following Lewis Hamilton’s clean lead away from the lights. Nico Rosberg made up a place but apart from that it was a crawl round and nothing could have been more of a contrast to the fast and furious place-changing first lap of the GP boys.
Lap five and still nothing had happened. The leaders were in their original starting places and strung out by two or three seconds per place. The mid-field provided a bit of action – Heidfeld fighting Barrichello and Glock and Piquet having a little fight for position – but for pride only.
A third of the way into the race and unless someone fucked up, it would be all about pit stops and strategy. A far cry from out and out racing as we’d seen in Barcelona.
On lap 15 we had an incident. Luckless Adrian Sutil, punted out of a fine fourth place in Monaco by Kimi Raikkonen, had a mechanical failure in his Force India car and parked it. In a bad place.
Brought out the safety car and Hamilton’s lead was neutralised and ironically it was Kimi Raikkonen who benefited the most. Or should have done. All the front-runners piled into the pits but as they pulled away, for some reason, unsighted maybe, Hamilton smashed into the back of Kimi while the red light was still on and that was race over for the pair of them. The innocent – there’s always one – was Nico Rosberg who had been doing a grand job but had his afternoon ruined. A new nose required and bye bye podium or points.
Nick Heidfeld, out played all season by team mate Kubica, made hay and took the lead from Barrichello and Nakajima. With the big guns either out or compromised it looked as though we might have a bit of a race on.
But no. Unlike a bike race where you can guarantee that once on the track it’s all down to rider skill, with a bit of rubber wear to worry about, this was F1 and so far from a race, what we had for the final laps was strategy.
There was one genuine fight. At half distance, David Coulthard held fourth ahead of Jarno Trulli, Timo Glock and Sebastian Vettel. On the same strategy this was about pace. Barring accident this was how the race would finish. Alonso had third behind the BMWs until he binned it – whether that was driver error or the same brake problem that saw Renault retire Piquet I don’t know. It could have been the same sort of error that saw Nakajima on the marbles and … gonski.
22 laps to go and Kubica had enough time to make a pitstop and rejoin in the lead. Coulthard was buzzing around happily in third and the only excitement was what Massa could do. The Ferrari was obviously faster than the cars ahead and as Kovalainen put a move on Barrichello, Massa just drifted into the slipstream and took them both in the overtaking manoeuvre of the day. He was up to fourth and chasing Coulthard down.
Then Fisichella lost it into the first chicane – driver error or mechanical problem, doesn’t matter. Brought out not the safety car, but double waved yellows and almost everyone dived into the pits for a final stop.
The three leaders, Kubica, Heidfeld, Coulthard came out still ahead. Barrichello lost places to Trulli and Glock which was bad news for Honda but good for Toyota. Massa somehow nicked a place off Trulli but this was minor stuff.
BMW had come through the chaos for Robert to take a maiden F1 win, and the first for a Pole (not surprisingly as he is the first Pole to compete in F1!) and moreover make it a one-two with Heidfeld taking second spot.
Coulthard, in the evening of his F1 career confounded all critics, yet again, by being on the podium and the Big Two – Ferrari and McLaren scarcely garnered a point.
However, despite this unexpected and rather delightful result of the Canadian Grand Prix, it had none of the genuine excitement of Barcelona. The results were more to do with errors and team strategy than genuine driver skill and utter courage.
In the post-race interviews no-one was “very ‘appy” and no-one wore repulsive pink and blue Azzurri race overalls with roman numerals on their forearm.
Look – I have no doubt that F1 drivers are immensely skilled and brave, but they don’t race elbow to elbow like the boys and they just don’t seem to care as much about what they do and what the fans think.
So come the weekend this season when MotoGP goes head to head with F1, and it will happen, always does, I know what I’ll be watching and I know where my heroes are.
In leather, on two wheels, and the main man is the one whose name begins with a big fat V.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Who is the GOAT? - Mimitig
Sunday morning. I woke, suddenly, uncomfortably, the cold dread hand of fate grasping greedily at my heart. Saturday afternoon had gone too well. With no discernible drama, Valentino Rossi had taken pole position for his home race – the Italian Grand Prix at Mugello and all the commentators seemed sure that he would win the race and make it seven from seven at home.
I didn’t share their confidence. It is many a long race, too many for me to remember the exact number, since Rossi had turned a pole into a win, and not since 2005 had he strung together three consecutive victories. The day, I felt, would be one of bitter disappointment and my feelings of doom seemed mirrored by the unremitting gloom of grey skies and drizzle outside my window.
To pass the time until the main event, I watched, sort of, the 125cc and 250cc races but couldn’t pay attention although it did sink in that Italians won both. A bad omen was all I thought. No way could it be three from three.
As the tension mounted, no-one else seemed to share my concern – least of all Rossi himself who was sporting quite possibly the best and funniest helmet décor ever seen in motor racing. It featured a picture of Rossi’s own face, mouth wide, eyes wider – apparently his expression as he brakes into San Donato, the first corner after the long fast straight.
Rossi shared the front row with Dani Pedrosa and friend and compatriot Loris Capirossi (kindly towed there yesterday by the pole-sitter). Reigning World Champion Casey Stoner was on the second row and the badly-damaged (still suffering from two broken ankles) but irrepressible Jorge Lorenzo was on the third row alongside Britain’s only MotoGP representative, the talented James Toseland.
Pedrosa got the jump and led off as Stoner stormed through and even with THAT helmet, I couldn’t spot where Rossi was in the melee of third to eighth places. My nerves, already half-way shredded, were disintegrating at a rate of knots. Then things settled, a bit. By the end of lap 2, the Ducati was in the lead (pleasing a good fair proportion of the Italian crowd) and Rossi was vying with Pedrosa for second (pleasing almost everyone else). Rossi didn’t take long to dispatch the Spaniard and then appropriately made the smoothest of moves on Stoner cutting underneath at Casanova Corner – where the stands were entirely yellow with his fans – and took the lead.
Meanwhile in the following group, James Toseland, on his first visit to the circuit, battled for seventh place with Alex de Angelis and at the back poor Marco Melandri’s nightmare season got even worse as he tangled with de Puniet and ended up in the tyre barrier. It’s more than likely that we won’t see Marco on a factory Ducati again.
The carnage continued as John Hopkins crashed out as did poor old Jorge Lorenzo. Quite frankly it’s a miracle that Jorge had made it through the previous two races, and although a DNF doesn’t help his Championship chances, as long as he hasn’t done more damage to his poor old ankles, a truncated race might be the best thing for him.
At the front, Rossi seemed to be serenely pulling out a lead with Stoner, the slowest of the top three, riding a superbly defensive race keeping Pedrosa tucked safely behind him. This could be nothing but good for Valle, then just as my heartbeat was returning to something like normal, the Ducati ran wide and Dani was through. The chase was on – or maybe not. Like a terrier after a rat, Casey harried the Honda, riding as well as I’ve ever seen him, displaying that well-known Aussie attitude of never-say-die, and with 10 laps to go they were side-by-side down the straight. Taking second place back off Pedrosa had nothing to do with superior horse-power – it was sheer bravery and derring-do and seemed to knock the stuffing out of Dani.
By this stage Rossi was two and a half seconds down the road and under normal circumstances, I would have begun to relax. Instead, on this most nerve-wracking and anxiety-ridden of afternoons, I immediately began to worry about tyre-wear. Bridgestone had never won at Mugello, there had hardly been any dry running over the weekend so how could the teams know whether they’d made the right choice? Last year Rossi was on Michelins so could even he, the master, judge whether there was enough left in the rubber to push again if Casey began to close?
I felt sick, sweating, shaking. When Steve Parrish pointed out that there was no place to relax around the Mugello circuit, I shouted “Try being on my sofa!” at the screen.
I needed the race director to focus on the Edwards/Toseland battle for fifth to distract me but no, the Italian director (not unreasonably) kept the cameras relentlessly on first Rossi on the track then on the Yamaha team in the pits.
The last few laps, as Valentino glided round the track, seemed to last forever and it wasn’t until he took the chequered flag, two seconds ahead of Stoner, that I began to breathe normally and believe that The Doctor had done the business.
Even now, several hours later, I find it hard to explain even to myself why this race provoked such anxiety. Perhaps, unlike Valentino who seemed totally relaxed all weekend, I felt the weight of expectation on my shoulders. Rossi was, after all, chasing a seventh victory at Mugello.
Well, he did it and so Charlie Cox was able to end the commentary informing us that no-one else in MotoGP except Valentino Rossi has ever won at Mugello.
So does this answer the question in the title of this piece? Is Rossi the Greatest Of All Time? Colin Edwards, Rossi’s team mate at Yamaha from 2005 to 2007 and the one who coined the phrase, obviously thinks so.
Rossi goes to next week’s race at the Catalunya Circuit in Spain leading by 12 points, on the back of three consecutive victories and a fine chance of taking the Championship for the first time since 2005. Should he do so, there will be no doubt about his place in the pantheon of greats on two wheels.
Today, he has taken a great step towards that position at the very top of the table.
I didn’t share their confidence. It is many a long race, too many for me to remember the exact number, since Rossi had turned a pole into a win, and not since 2005 had he strung together three consecutive victories. The day, I felt, would be one of bitter disappointment and my feelings of doom seemed mirrored by the unremitting gloom of grey skies and drizzle outside my window.
To pass the time until the main event, I watched, sort of, the 125cc and 250cc races but couldn’t pay attention although it did sink in that Italians won both. A bad omen was all I thought. No way could it be three from three.
As the tension mounted, no-one else seemed to share my concern – least of all Rossi himself who was sporting quite possibly the best and funniest helmet décor ever seen in motor racing. It featured a picture of Rossi’s own face, mouth wide, eyes wider – apparently his expression as he brakes into San Donato, the first corner after the long fast straight.
Rossi shared the front row with Dani Pedrosa and friend and compatriot Loris Capirossi (kindly towed there yesterday by the pole-sitter). Reigning World Champion Casey Stoner was on the second row and the badly-damaged (still suffering from two broken ankles) but irrepressible Jorge Lorenzo was on the third row alongside Britain’s only MotoGP representative, the talented James Toseland.
Pedrosa got the jump and led off as Stoner stormed through and even with THAT helmet, I couldn’t spot where Rossi was in the melee of third to eighth places. My nerves, already half-way shredded, were disintegrating at a rate of knots. Then things settled, a bit. By the end of lap 2, the Ducati was in the lead (pleasing a good fair proportion of the Italian crowd) and Rossi was vying with Pedrosa for second (pleasing almost everyone else). Rossi didn’t take long to dispatch the Spaniard and then appropriately made the smoothest of moves on Stoner cutting underneath at Casanova Corner – where the stands were entirely yellow with his fans – and took the lead.
Meanwhile in the following group, James Toseland, on his first visit to the circuit, battled for seventh place with Alex de Angelis and at the back poor Marco Melandri’s nightmare season got even worse as he tangled with de Puniet and ended up in the tyre barrier. It’s more than likely that we won’t see Marco on a factory Ducati again.
The carnage continued as John Hopkins crashed out as did poor old Jorge Lorenzo. Quite frankly it’s a miracle that Jorge had made it through the previous two races, and although a DNF doesn’t help his Championship chances, as long as he hasn’t done more damage to his poor old ankles, a truncated race might be the best thing for him.
At the front, Rossi seemed to be serenely pulling out a lead with Stoner, the slowest of the top three, riding a superbly defensive race keeping Pedrosa tucked safely behind him. This could be nothing but good for Valle, then just as my heartbeat was returning to something like normal, the Ducati ran wide and Dani was through. The chase was on – or maybe not. Like a terrier after a rat, Casey harried the Honda, riding as well as I’ve ever seen him, displaying that well-known Aussie attitude of never-say-die, and with 10 laps to go they were side-by-side down the straight. Taking second place back off Pedrosa had nothing to do with superior horse-power – it was sheer bravery and derring-do and seemed to knock the stuffing out of Dani.
By this stage Rossi was two and a half seconds down the road and under normal circumstances, I would have begun to relax. Instead, on this most nerve-wracking and anxiety-ridden of afternoons, I immediately began to worry about tyre-wear. Bridgestone had never won at Mugello, there had hardly been any dry running over the weekend so how could the teams know whether they’d made the right choice? Last year Rossi was on Michelins so could even he, the master, judge whether there was enough left in the rubber to push again if Casey began to close?
I felt sick, sweating, shaking. When Steve Parrish pointed out that there was no place to relax around the Mugello circuit, I shouted “Try being on my sofa!” at the screen.
I needed the race director to focus on the Edwards/Toseland battle for fifth to distract me but no, the Italian director (not unreasonably) kept the cameras relentlessly on first Rossi on the track then on the Yamaha team in the pits.
The last few laps, as Valentino glided round the track, seemed to last forever and it wasn’t until he took the chequered flag, two seconds ahead of Stoner, that I began to breathe normally and believe that The Doctor had done the business.
Even now, several hours later, I find it hard to explain even to myself why this race provoked such anxiety. Perhaps, unlike Valentino who seemed totally relaxed all weekend, I felt the weight of expectation on my shoulders. Rossi was, after all, chasing a seventh victory at Mugello.
Well, he did it and so Charlie Cox was able to end the commentary informing us that no-one else in MotoGP except Valentino Rossi has ever won at Mugello.
So does this answer the question in the title of this piece? Is Rossi the Greatest Of All Time? Colin Edwards, Rossi’s team mate at Yamaha from 2005 to 2007 and the one who coined the phrase, obviously thinks so.
Rossi goes to next week’s race at the Catalunya Circuit in Spain leading by 12 points, on the back of three consecutive victories and a fine chance of taking the Championship for the first time since 2005. Should he do so, there will be no doubt about his place in the pantheon of greats on two wheels.
Today, he has taken a great step towards that position at the very top of the table.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Football is over, bring on the whites and Lycra - Mimitig
Welcome to MY summer!
Hello readers. As May races to its conclusion, the thoughts (and lusts) of all well-adjusted sports fans hasten to the sunshine domination of men in pristine whites and lots and lots of lycra – hopefully plenty of it pink.
Thanks to the inevitably pitiful performances of the Home Countries' badly-dressed football players, there is nothing to distract you all now from the glories of Test Cricket and Pro-Cycling. Well, yes I know there’s still Euro 2008 and some of you may have teams to support, but let’s face it, you lot have all had a long season with your home leagues to be keen on, and it’s time to embrace the PROPER summer sports.
And it is starting now. Well, not really – cricket has been underway for a month. The county season is almost a quarter of the way through, and my local season began on a freezing cold Saturday a month ago when Lossie played a triangular Twenty20 against Elgin and Fochabers at the really pretty (when the trees have leaves) Fochabers ground beside the Spey. We’ve even had the first Test match – last week at Lord’s, but the weather cost two days of play and England the win, so we forget that and start again at Old Trafford tomorrow with the second New Zealand Test.
For the men in lycra, they’ve done some of the hardest kilometres (outwith Le Tour) already. They warmed up as usual with the stuff like Qatar, Langkawi, California (that one was a little bit silly this year as Michael Ball – no not the singing one – attempted to make cycling the new rock and roll but it all went wrong and Cipo went off in a huff), and the Tour Downunder. Actually that wasn’t a bad show – except for wet weather round Adelaide way, but it will be a long time, maybe even a lifetime, before any of these races are regarded as anything other than warm-ups for some or desperate attempts at publicity for some others.
If that seems a harsh judgement on colonial/out-of-Europe racing, well, it is and there’s a reason for it. Cycling is desperately reaching out for new global markets, but its heart and soul will always belong in the north. Will belong on the harsh, unforgiving paves of Belgium and northern France, will suffer the desperate weather so often flung at the Paris-Roubaix (The Hell of the North) and no early season races in clement climes will ever change that.
So, we had the skirmishes. Astana’s Levi Leipheimer won in the US of A, Tom “Beloved of the Belgians” Boonen took honours in Qatar, and Cadel Evans attacked, yes attacked, at the Ruta del Sol. Moving back to Europe Philippe Gilbert took the Het Volk, Fabian Cancellara triumphed in Italy (twice) and one of my favourites, Alejandro Valverde, won the tour of Murcia and Liege-Bastogne. Tom triumphed at Paris-Roubaix and his team-mate at Quick Step, Stijn Devolder, took the Tour of Flanders. Oscar Freire won at Ghent and Kim Kirchen was splendid winning the Fleche Wallonne.
In all, the proper season has started, well, properly. Boonen is back on form, with some pomp, and Quick Step are right there in the team standings. For those with a GB interest, Mark Cavendish (The Manx Express) has come out of the blocks all guns blazing with stage wins in the Three Days of De Panne, an outright win at the Scheldeprijs Vlaanderen, and a stage at the Giro. Times look good for High Road.
New team, Slipstream – the boys in Argyll - David Millar’s boys, haven’t had wins yet, but Martin Maaskant rode to 12th on the Tour of Flanders and fourth in Paris-Roubaix like an old pro and yet no-one has ever really heard of him. Boss Jonathan Vaughters has nicked him from Rabobank, and nobody noticed! Look out for him in years to come. He’s only 24 years old.
For anyone who cares about cycling, the best news is that we are mostly not seeing the same old names at the top of the sheets and the races so far have been unpredictable. And exciting, and most likely drug-free. Noticeably in the Classics, no team has been able to dominate in the way we have seen over the past decade or so. Individual skill and strength has determined results far more than the old predictable pattern.
The only old names hitting the headlines in a bad way are Alexandre Vinokourov – banned from the Pro Tour for doping but allegedly training now for Beijing, and Ivan Basso – signed by Liquigas but not allowed to ride in France, or Germany, or probably Britain or Spain. Doesn’t leave much for a Pro-cyclist, does it?
It’s way too early to make predictions about cycling’s most important event, Le Tour, but one prediction I’m happy to make is that this is going to be the most open and exciting Tour that we’ve seen in years. The Giro is drawing to its conclusion and unless I’m much mistaken in reading results, Cav is second in the standings as I write. An incredibly unexpected result, not withstanding his earlier stage win.
For the cricket-interested, we go into Test Two against New Zealand with an unchanged side from Lord’s, but on a ground far more suited to the England attack. Monty Panesar has a superb record there (18 or so wickets in the meagre handful of matches he has played) and unless the weather plays a bad fairy role, I’d be looking for an England win come next Tuesday.
All in all, my summer is looking good, in white and in lycra. Not sure I’d want the boys to swap sporting disciplines or dress. Kevin Pietersen in pink lycra is an image I can well do without!
And I can truly declare Football to be over as I learn that Celtic has won the SPL – and that is a worthy tribute to Tommy Burns. I’m glad Celtic won by beating Dundee – I hate to think what is happening on the streets of Aberdeen right now as I read that Rangers were beaten 2-0 by the Dons.
Hello readers. As May races to its conclusion, the thoughts (and lusts) of all well-adjusted sports fans hasten to the sunshine domination of men in pristine whites and lots and lots of lycra – hopefully plenty of it pink.
Thanks to the inevitably pitiful performances of the Home Countries' badly-dressed football players, there is nothing to distract you all now from the glories of Test Cricket and Pro-Cycling. Well, yes I know there’s still Euro 2008 and some of you may have teams to support, but let’s face it, you lot have all had a long season with your home leagues to be keen on, and it’s time to embrace the PROPER summer sports.
And it is starting now. Well, not really – cricket has been underway for a month. The county season is almost a quarter of the way through, and my local season began on a freezing cold Saturday a month ago when Lossie played a triangular Twenty20 against Elgin and Fochabers at the really pretty (when the trees have leaves) Fochabers ground beside the Spey. We’ve even had the first Test match – last week at Lord’s, but the weather cost two days of play and England the win, so we forget that and start again at Old Trafford tomorrow with the second New Zealand Test.
For the men in lycra, they’ve done some of the hardest kilometres (outwith Le Tour) already. They warmed up as usual with the stuff like Qatar, Langkawi, California (that one was a little bit silly this year as Michael Ball – no not the singing one – attempted to make cycling the new rock and roll but it all went wrong and Cipo went off in a huff), and the Tour Downunder. Actually that wasn’t a bad show – except for wet weather round Adelaide way, but it will be a long time, maybe even a lifetime, before any of these races are regarded as anything other than warm-ups for some or desperate attempts at publicity for some others.
If that seems a harsh judgement on colonial/out-of-Europe racing, well, it is and there’s a reason for it. Cycling is desperately reaching out for new global markets, but its heart and soul will always belong in the north. Will belong on the harsh, unforgiving paves of Belgium and northern France, will suffer the desperate weather so often flung at the Paris-Roubaix (The Hell of the North) and no early season races in clement climes will ever change that.
So, we had the skirmishes. Astana’s Levi Leipheimer won in the US of A, Tom “Beloved of the Belgians” Boonen took honours in Qatar, and Cadel Evans attacked, yes attacked, at the Ruta del Sol. Moving back to Europe Philippe Gilbert took the Het Volk, Fabian Cancellara triumphed in Italy (twice) and one of my favourites, Alejandro Valverde, won the tour of Murcia and Liege-Bastogne. Tom triumphed at Paris-Roubaix and his team-mate at Quick Step, Stijn Devolder, took the Tour of Flanders. Oscar Freire won at Ghent and Kim Kirchen was splendid winning the Fleche Wallonne.
In all, the proper season has started, well, properly. Boonen is back on form, with some pomp, and Quick Step are right there in the team standings. For those with a GB interest, Mark Cavendish (The Manx Express) has come out of the blocks all guns blazing with stage wins in the Three Days of De Panne, an outright win at the Scheldeprijs Vlaanderen, and a stage at the Giro. Times look good for High Road.
New team, Slipstream – the boys in Argyll - David Millar’s boys, haven’t had wins yet, but Martin Maaskant rode to 12th on the Tour of Flanders and fourth in Paris-Roubaix like an old pro and yet no-one has ever really heard of him. Boss Jonathan Vaughters has nicked him from Rabobank, and nobody noticed! Look out for him in years to come. He’s only 24 years old.
For anyone who cares about cycling, the best news is that we are mostly not seeing the same old names at the top of the sheets and the races so far have been unpredictable. And exciting, and most likely drug-free. Noticeably in the Classics, no team has been able to dominate in the way we have seen over the past decade or so. Individual skill and strength has determined results far more than the old predictable pattern.
The only old names hitting the headlines in a bad way are Alexandre Vinokourov – banned from the Pro Tour for doping but allegedly training now for Beijing, and Ivan Basso – signed by Liquigas but not allowed to ride in France, or Germany, or probably Britain or Spain. Doesn’t leave much for a Pro-cyclist, does it?
It’s way too early to make predictions about cycling’s most important event, Le Tour, but one prediction I’m happy to make is that this is going to be the most open and exciting Tour that we’ve seen in years. The Giro is drawing to its conclusion and unless I’m much mistaken in reading results, Cav is second in the standings as I write. An incredibly unexpected result, not withstanding his earlier stage win.
For the cricket-interested, we go into Test Two against New Zealand with an unchanged side from Lord’s, but on a ground far more suited to the England attack. Monty Panesar has a superb record there (18 or so wickets in the meagre handful of matches he has played) and unless the weather plays a bad fairy role, I’d be looking for an England win come next Tuesday.
All in all, my summer is looking good, in white and in lycra. Not sure I’d want the boys to swap sporting disciplines or dress. Kevin Pietersen in pink lycra is an image I can well do without!
And I can truly declare Football to be over as I learn that Celtic has won the SPL – and that is a worthy tribute to Tommy Burns. I’m glad Celtic won by beating Dundee – I hate to think what is happening on the streets of Aberdeen right now as I read that Rangers were beaten 2-0 by the Dons.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
History through Hiddink - byebyebadman
The all-English final is almost upon us. In Moscow the Russian owned Chelsea and American owned Manchester United will pit their multi-national playing and coaching staff against each other for victory in the biggest club game ever played between two, in name and home at least, English clubs.
They began their association with this competition some time ago. Chelsea were champions of England when Gabriel Hanot sent out the invites to the first jamboree back in 1955, and declined the offer. Matt Busby’s RSVP was more positive the following year, openly defying the FA to drag English football kicking and screaming into the twentieth century.
In this twenty-first century alone the revamped version of the old continents’ premier competition has provided an all Spanish, all-Italian and now an all English final. Since it became no longer the preserve of League champions only the door was always open to this kind of big league domination and La Liga, Serie A and the Premier League have greedily taken over.
As coach of the Russian national team Gus Hiddink will be present in Moscow on Wednesday, and whilst in charge of PSV Eindhoven in 2005 he was responsible for providing the only Champions League semi-finalist from outside of Spain, Italy and England in the last four seasons. And if we go back further into Hiddinks history, twenty years ago this month he was winning the trophy during a previous stint with the Dutch club in a footballing era never to be seen again.
It was only five years away from becoming the Champions League, but in the 1987-88 season the European Cup was still contested as Hanot had originally intended – the champions of each European association go into a hat, are drawn at random and play over two legs until two are left to contest a one-off game in May for that glorious captain-obscuring trophy. No coefficients, no four places, no self-perpetuating glory. It was short, sweet and unique. The novelty value of European football always lay in its rarity, something that evaporates when you play Roma six times in one calendar year.
If you played at all that is. English champions Everton were absent that season as the clubs of fair albion were still banned from all European competition post Heysel. The open draw format would however ensure a first round tie that the current Champions League was set up to avoid. Whilst Lillestrom played Linfield, Shamrock Rovers took on Omonia Nicosia and Neuchatel Xamax did battle with FC Kuusyi, the champions of Italy and Spain – Maradona’s Napoli and the Real Madrid of Hugo Sanchez – were forced to compete for the right to stay in the competition longer than September 20th.
If that was surreal, Maradona’s debut in the elite European competition took him back to the Bernabeu to be watched by precisely no fans at all. After crowd trouble the previous season Madrid had to play their first home game behind closed doors, and one wonders if UEFA would have the cahones to mete out that punishment to a giant of the game for such a prestigious fixture these days. Would they in fact hand out anything similar to the draconian punishment they imposed on KS Partizani? After having four players sent off against Benfica, the Albanian champions were expelled from the competition before they could play the second leg.
El Diego’s first of only two cracks at the European Cup ended swiftly, with Real winning two-nil at the deserted Bernebeu and earning a one-all draw in Naples. The Spanish champions did make it to the semi-finals before running into Hiddink’s PSV and losing on away goals. Waiting for them in the final in Stuttgart were Benfica, who having survived the ordeal of KS Partizani got the better of Steaua Bucharest in the semi-finals. From communist eastern Europe, Steaua had been champions of Europe just two years earlier. Hiddink’s team would eventually triumph on penalties, capping a fairly incredible first year in full-time management in which he also won the Dutch first division title and the KNVB Cup.
I wonder if Hiddink will reflect upon how the competition has changed since those heady days when he witnesses the wealth and power of the Premier League’s finest on Wednesday. For much of the Champions League era Hiddink has concerned himself with international management rather than club management, taking Holland and South Korea to the World Cup semi-finals and last time pushing eventual winners Italy to the brink of elimination in round two. The shift from European Cup to Champions League, from level playing field to big club love-in, took place largely in his absence.
When he sees John Terry tackling Wayne Rooney, Joe Cole skipping past Rio Ferdinand or Owen Hargreaves and Frank Lampard contesting the midfield, he may also get a sense of what might have been. As many people’s favourite for the England job post-Eriksson they could and should have been his players, but Hiddink was eventually overlooked on grounds of nationality rather than talent as the FA plumped for Steve McClaren, with horrendous results. In a delicious irony Hiddink instead went to manage Russia, who nipped in ahead of England to qualify from group E.
An all-English Champions League Final weeks before a European Championships for which the England national team could not qualify is quite a paradox. When the game is decided on Wednesday Rooney, Terry and Lampard will go on holiday for the summer and Gus Hiddink will go to work. The Premier League might boast enough riches to make Solomon blush but not everything is as rosy in the garden of English football as the stature of her clubs may lead you to believe.
They began their association with this competition some time ago. Chelsea were champions of England when Gabriel Hanot sent out the invites to the first jamboree back in 1955, and declined the offer. Matt Busby’s RSVP was more positive the following year, openly defying the FA to drag English football kicking and screaming into the twentieth century.
In this twenty-first century alone the revamped version of the old continents’ premier competition has provided an all Spanish, all-Italian and now an all English final. Since it became no longer the preserve of League champions only the door was always open to this kind of big league domination and La Liga, Serie A and the Premier League have greedily taken over.
As coach of the Russian national team Gus Hiddink will be present in Moscow on Wednesday, and whilst in charge of PSV Eindhoven in 2005 he was responsible for providing the only Champions League semi-finalist from outside of Spain, Italy and England in the last four seasons. And if we go back further into Hiddinks history, twenty years ago this month he was winning the trophy during a previous stint with the Dutch club in a footballing era never to be seen again.
It was only five years away from becoming the Champions League, but in the 1987-88 season the European Cup was still contested as Hanot had originally intended – the champions of each European association go into a hat, are drawn at random and play over two legs until two are left to contest a one-off game in May for that glorious captain-obscuring trophy. No coefficients, no four places, no self-perpetuating glory. It was short, sweet and unique. The novelty value of European football always lay in its rarity, something that evaporates when you play Roma six times in one calendar year.
If you played at all that is. English champions Everton were absent that season as the clubs of fair albion were still banned from all European competition post Heysel. The open draw format would however ensure a first round tie that the current Champions League was set up to avoid. Whilst Lillestrom played Linfield, Shamrock Rovers took on Omonia Nicosia and Neuchatel Xamax did battle with FC Kuusyi, the champions of Italy and Spain – Maradona’s Napoli and the Real Madrid of Hugo Sanchez – were forced to compete for the right to stay in the competition longer than September 20th.
If that was surreal, Maradona’s debut in the elite European competition took him back to the Bernabeu to be watched by precisely no fans at all. After crowd trouble the previous season Madrid had to play their first home game behind closed doors, and one wonders if UEFA would have the cahones to mete out that punishment to a giant of the game for such a prestigious fixture these days. Would they in fact hand out anything similar to the draconian punishment they imposed on KS Partizani? After having four players sent off against Benfica, the Albanian champions were expelled from the competition before they could play the second leg.
El Diego’s first of only two cracks at the European Cup ended swiftly, with Real winning two-nil at the deserted Bernebeu and earning a one-all draw in Naples. The Spanish champions did make it to the semi-finals before running into Hiddink’s PSV and losing on away goals. Waiting for them in the final in Stuttgart were Benfica, who having survived the ordeal of KS Partizani got the better of Steaua Bucharest in the semi-finals. From communist eastern Europe, Steaua had been champions of Europe just two years earlier. Hiddink’s team would eventually triumph on penalties, capping a fairly incredible first year in full-time management in which he also won the Dutch first division title and the KNVB Cup.
I wonder if Hiddink will reflect upon how the competition has changed since those heady days when he witnesses the wealth and power of the Premier League’s finest on Wednesday. For much of the Champions League era Hiddink has concerned himself with international management rather than club management, taking Holland and South Korea to the World Cup semi-finals and last time pushing eventual winners Italy to the brink of elimination in round two. The shift from European Cup to Champions League, from level playing field to big club love-in, took place largely in his absence.
When he sees John Terry tackling Wayne Rooney, Joe Cole skipping past Rio Ferdinand or Owen Hargreaves and Frank Lampard contesting the midfield, he may also get a sense of what might have been. As many people’s favourite for the England job post-Eriksson they could and should have been his players, but Hiddink was eventually overlooked on grounds of nationality rather than talent as the FA plumped for Steve McClaren, with horrendous results. In a delicious irony Hiddink instead went to manage Russia, who nipped in ahead of England to qualify from group E.
An all-English Champions League Final weeks before a European Championships for which the England national team could not qualify is quite a paradox. When the game is decided on Wednesday Rooney, Terry and Lampard will go on holiday for the summer and Gus Hiddink will go to work. The Premier League might boast enough riches to make Solomon blush but not everything is as rosy in the garden of English football as the stature of her clubs may lead you to believe.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Ligue 1 Roundup - offsideintahiti
For the first time in seven years, the title was undecided going into the last day of the season as Lyon (1st, 76 pts) held only a two-point lead over Bordeaux (2nd, 74 pts). [standings and points going into the last game] In fact, the suspense was global, with a "duel à distance" between Nancy (3rd, 60 pts) and Marseille (4th, 59 pts) for third place and the preliminary round of the Champions' League, a three- way race between Lille (5th, 56 pts), St-Étienne (6th, 55 pts), and Rennes (7th, 55 pts) for the other UEFA Cup spot, and another three-way race (of the hair-raising, don't-look-down, vertigo-inducing variety) between Paris Saint-Germain (16th, 40 pts), Toulouse (17th, 39 pts), and Lens (18th, 39 pts) to avoid the last relegation spot.
Ligue 1 has a reputation for being a low-scoring, cagey, boringly tactical league which Lyon invariably win anyway. Well, this time it was going to be massively different, at least with regard to the "low-scoring" tag. Those last ten games produced 43 goals, and with a modicum of research I might even be able to tell you whether it's a record or not, or how it compares with the season's average. Let's just say that it was a hell of a lot better than day 27, in which all of 13 goals were scored and four games ended nil-nil. And the suspense? It was incredible. Let's begin at the top.
Under so much pressure, would Lyon manage to get the draw they needed at Auxerre (15th, 44 pts)? Would they? The country was on the edge of its sofa, and it took Karim Benzema no less than 24 seconds to throw millions of French viewers slumping backwards under the weight of inevitability and earn himself the title of top scorer with his twentieth of the season. Fred, Lyon's Brazilian striker, wrapped it up in the 9th minute, thus making sure that Bordeaux's efforts at Lens would prove entirely futile and that the title would be heading back to the capital of the Rhône region for the seventh consecutive time.
And no one really wants to dwell on that so let's give credit to Bordeaux who, under the tutelage of rookie manager Laurent Blanc, and with a mix of youth (Bellion, Ducasse, Obertan) and experience (Micoud, Jurietti, Ramé), managed to push Lyon almost all the way. In the end, even though Bordeaux finished four points behind, it could be argued that they had a better season than the Champions. Over 36 games against all the other teams, they collected 75 points to Lyon's 73. It was only in the head-to-head that they were undone, beaten home and away by Alain Perrin's men. We will now find out whether Laurent Blanc is as good in the transfer market as he was as a centre-half, but if he can keep hold of his Argentine and Brazilian duo of Cavenaghi and Wendel (27 goals between them) and reinforce an ageing defense, he might put pressure on Lyon again next year. At least, this season's qualification for the Champion's League will give him the funds necessary for such a challenge.
And the suspense? Oh yeah. Elsewhere, Paris Saint-Germain and Toulouse both scored early, thus making sure Lens's efforts to avoid the drop against Bordeaux would prove entirely futile. And so the club with the large neo-nazi element in their support stays up, while the club with the friendliest, noisiest fans in the country go down, and no one really wants to dwell on that. What Toulouse don't want to dwell on is the embarrasment of starting the season facing Liverpool in the preliminary round of the Champions' League and finishing it escaping relegation by way of a narrow, nervous 2-1 win over Valenciennes. So let's move on.
And yes, I did promise suspense. But there wasn't much of that on offer in the fight for fifth place. As Lille couldn't do better than a draw at Lorient and St-Étienne went on a 4-0 rampage against a desperately out of sorts Monaco (12th, 47 pts), "Les Verts" clinch it and will taste European football again for the first time in 26 years. The last time they travelled abroad, their number 10 was one Michel Platini and their current coach, Laurent Roussey, spearheaded their attack.
So what are we left with? 3rd place, the Champions' League preliminary round and the right to start next season with a heroic defeat against the likes of Arsenal, Barcelona, Juventus, or Liverpool. Marseille and Nancy really did fall over themselves to earn that privilege. Nancy, whose only claim to fame is a couple of domestic cups and bringing a young Michel Platini through their ranks, had been on the podium since day 5 and were unbeaten at home this season. If they could just get a draw at home to Rennes, their young Uruguayan coach, Pablo Correa, would equal the club's best ever finish. All Marseille could do was beat an already relegated Strasbourg at the Stade Vélodrome and hope for a little help in Lorraine.
Amazingly, it came through the unlikely source of Mickaël Pagis, whose goals had helped Marseille clinch a CL spot last season, only to be told his contract would not be renewed. The brace he scored for Rennes on Saturday proved just as important, as the club from Brittany ended Nancy's unbeaten home record, winning 3-2 and handing it over to Marseille on a plate. All the southerners had to do was help themselves. An opponent with nothing to play for. A sixty-thousand stong home support. No injury or suspension worries. How easy can it get?
Marseille duly took an early lead through their Senegalese striker, Mamadou Niang, and then quietly collapsed. Strasbourg scored twice in 20 minutes, handing back to Nancy. Marseille could be forgiven for their slumber. On day 12, they were in 19th place, and the long climb back up under newly appointed coach and ex Belgium international, Éric Gerets, had taken its toll. It took something out of the ordinary to revive them. A couple of minutes before half-time, Niang and the Strasbourg keeper both went for a high ball. The ensuing clash of heads meant play was held for long minutes and the visiting keeper eventually had to go off. His replacement's first intervention, in the third minute of stoppage time, was to bring Djibril Cissé down and give away a penalty. His second intervention was to save it, only to see the rebound hit the ex-Liverpool star in the head and go in. In the fith minute of stoppage time, Samir Nasri rifled in the sweetest left-foot volley from 12 yards to make it 3-2.
With the Nancy boys floundering, and Marseille cruising through the second half on auto-pilot, it looked all set. Until 20 minutes from time, when Strasbourg, who still had nothing to play for but were determined to enjoy themselves, scored again to level at 3-3. Nancy pushed everyone forward in search of an equaliser, but, with a few minutes left on the clock, it was Djibril Cissé who raced on a through ball and, with his 16th goal of a long, long season, sent the Vélodrome faithful into raptures and Marseille into the Champions' League.
In short: Lyon for the title, Bordeaux and Marseille for the CL, Nancy and St-Étienne for UEFA, Metz, Strasbourg and Lens down to Ligue 2, Le Havre, Nantes, and Grenoble coming up to replace them, PSG and Lyon to meet in the final of the Coupe de France next week, and my job is a lot easier than Premcorr's, who does it every week.
Ligue 1 has a reputation for being a low-scoring, cagey, boringly tactical league which Lyon invariably win anyway. Well, this time it was going to be massively different, at least with regard to the "low-scoring" tag. Those last ten games produced 43 goals, and with a modicum of research I might even be able to tell you whether it's a record or not, or how it compares with the season's average. Let's just say that it was a hell of a lot better than day 27, in which all of 13 goals were scored and four games ended nil-nil. And the suspense? It was incredible. Let's begin at the top.
Under so much pressure, would Lyon manage to get the draw they needed at Auxerre (15th, 44 pts)? Would they? The country was on the edge of its sofa, and it took Karim Benzema no less than 24 seconds to throw millions of French viewers slumping backwards under the weight of inevitability and earn himself the title of top scorer with his twentieth of the season. Fred, Lyon's Brazilian striker, wrapped it up in the 9th minute, thus making sure that Bordeaux's efforts at Lens would prove entirely futile and that the title would be heading back to the capital of the Rhône region for the seventh consecutive time.
And no one really wants to dwell on that so let's give credit to Bordeaux who, under the tutelage of rookie manager Laurent Blanc, and with a mix of youth (Bellion, Ducasse, Obertan) and experience (Micoud, Jurietti, Ramé), managed to push Lyon almost all the way. In the end, even though Bordeaux finished four points behind, it could be argued that they had a better season than the Champions. Over 36 games against all the other teams, they collected 75 points to Lyon's 73. It was only in the head-to-head that they were undone, beaten home and away by Alain Perrin's men. We will now find out whether Laurent Blanc is as good in the transfer market as he was as a centre-half, but if he can keep hold of his Argentine and Brazilian duo of Cavenaghi and Wendel (27 goals between them) and reinforce an ageing defense, he might put pressure on Lyon again next year. At least, this season's qualification for the Champion's League will give him the funds necessary for such a challenge.
And the suspense? Oh yeah. Elsewhere, Paris Saint-Germain and Toulouse both scored early, thus making sure Lens's efforts to avoid the drop against Bordeaux would prove entirely futile. And so the club with the large neo-nazi element in their support stays up, while the club with the friendliest, noisiest fans in the country go down, and no one really wants to dwell on that. What Toulouse don't want to dwell on is the embarrasment of starting the season facing Liverpool in the preliminary round of the Champions' League and finishing it escaping relegation by way of a narrow, nervous 2-1 win over Valenciennes. So let's move on.
And yes, I did promise suspense. But there wasn't much of that on offer in the fight for fifth place. As Lille couldn't do better than a draw at Lorient and St-Étienne went on a 4-0 rampage against a desperately out of sorts Monaco (12th, 47 pts), "Les Verts" clinch it and will taste European football again for the first time in 26 years. The last time they travelled abroad, their number 10 was one Michel Platini and their current coach, Laurent Roussey, spearheaded their attack.
So what are we left with? 3rd place, the Champions' League preliminary round and the right to start next season with a heroic defeat against the likes of Arsenal, Barcelona, Juventus, or Liverpool. Marseille and Nancy really did fall over themselves to earn that privilege. Nancy, whose only claim to fame is a couple of domestic cups and bringing a young Michel Platini through their ranks, had been on the podium since day 5 and were unbeaten at home this season. If they could just get a draw at home to Rennes, their young Uruguayan coach, Pablo Correa, would equal the club's best ever finish. All Marseille could do was beat an already relegated Strasbourg at the Stade Vélodrome and hope for a little help in Lorraine.
Amazingly, it came through the unlikely source of Mickaël Pagis, whose goals had helped Marseille clinch a CL spot last season, only to be told his contract would not be renewed. The brace he scored for Rennes on Saturday proved just as important, as the club from Brittany ended Nancy's unbeaten home record, winning 3-2 and handing it over to Marseille on a plate. All the southerners had to do was help themselves. An opponent with nothing to play for. A sixty-thousand stong home support. No injury or suspension worries. How easy can it get?
Marseille duly took an early lead through their Senegalese striker, Mamadou Niang, and then quietly collapsed. Strasbourg scored twice in 20 minutes, handing back to Nancy. Marseille could be forgiven for their slumber. On day 12, they were in 19th place, and the long climb back up under newly appointed coach and ex Belgium international, Éric Gerets, had taken its toll. It took something out of the ordinary to revive them. A couple of minutes before half-time, Niang and the Strasbourg keeper both went for a high ball. The ensuing clash of heads meant play was held for long minutes and the visiting keeper eventually had to go off. His replacement's first intervention, in the third minute of stoppage time, was to bring Djibril Cissé down and give away a penalty. His second intervention was to save it, only to see the rebound hit the ex-Liverpool star in the head and go in. In the fith minute of stoppage time, Samir Nasri rifled in the sweetest left-foot volley from 12 yards to make it 3-2.
With the Nancy boys floundering, and Marseille cruising through the second half on auto-pilot, it looked all set. Until 20 minutes from time, when Strasbourg, who still had nothing to play for but were determined to enjoy themselves, scored again to level at 3-3. Nancy pushed everyone forward in search of an equaliser, but, with a few minutes left on the clock, it was Djibril Cissé who raced on a through ball and, with his 16th goal of a long, long season, sent the Vélodrome faithful into raptures and Marseille into the Champions' League.
In short: Lyon for the title, Bordeaux and Marseille for the CL, Nancy and St-Étienne for UEFA, Metz, Strasbourg and Lens down to Ligue 2, Le Havre, Nantes, and Grenoble coming up to replace them, PSG and Lyon to meet in the final of the Coupe de France next week, and my job is a lot easier than Premcorr's, who does it every week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Stumble It!
