Tag Archives: soccer

Memory Match No. 3: Leeds United 3, Man U 1. 24.12.1995

Posted on 02/03/2013 | Leave a comment

1995-96 was the last full season of Sergeant Wilko’s eventful reign at Elland Road. His influence over the club was crumbling amid rumours of money problems, takeovers and dressing-room discontent, a tale that would doubtless strike a chord with Messrs. Grayson and Warnock of more recent vintage. This was a season that had started off with a flurry of Tony Yeboah thunderbolts and some impressive results and performances which appeared to promise much. Sadly though, it would peter out in a shocking late-season run following a League Cup Final humiliation at Wembley, courtesy of Aston Villa. Howard Wilkinson was a dead man walking from that time on.

Worrying signs of defensive frailty and general ineptitude had been all too obvious just the previous week at Hillsborough. United had succumbed spinelessly to a 6-2 defeat at the hands of an unremarkable Sheffield Wednesday side and – all bravado aside – there wasn’t much optimism in the hearts of the faithful as this fixture against the arch-enemy loomed.

It was certainly a different Christmas Eve for me. I hadn’t exactly led a sheltered life up to that point, but this was the first time – and the last, to date – I’d ever risen the day before Christmas to bacon sandwiches at 6 am, closely followed by numerous Budweisers with the Sunday papers in a fan-friendly pub, as we waited for our “Scum Match Special” mini-bus. The queasy feeling before any match against “Them” was therefore multiplied by unaccustomed early-morning grease and alcohol, and I was feeling several shades of not-too-good as we set off for Elland Road. It was an 11:30 kick-off, live on Sky, and it promised either to make or break the whole of Christmas for us fans, and for our hopeful families.

The situation between the Uniteds of Leeds and Salford is one of a legendary mutual animosity, even at the best of times. Let’s not mince words here, the two sets of fans hate loathe and detest each other, and open warfare is the norm. Revisionist football pundits would have us believe that this is strictly a one-way affair, but you only have to tune into one of Sky’s glitzy live TV love-ins for a Man U match, and whoever they are playing, our Home-Counties friends are in full voice with their “We all hate Leeds scum”. Even Alex Ferguson, the Red Devils’ not-altogether-likeable manager, makes no bones about it; some of his more coherent sound bites feature his opinion that Elland Road is “the most intimidating arena in Europe”. He’s also stated that going to Liverpool is nowhere near as bad as going to Leeds; clearly, he’s never been for a late-night pint in Old Swan or Dodge City.

So, Yuletide or not, the usual poisonous atmosphere was in evidence as the two teams walked out before a 39801 crowd that overcast morning. Just as Leeds were smarting from their Hillsborough debacle, so Man U were struggling to emerge from a poor run, winless for a month and dispatched by Liverpool the previous week. This seasonal fixture was a chance of redemption for both sides.

Macca slots the penalty home

By kick-off time, I was starting to feel properly ill, and in dire need of a pick-me-up. This arrived in a most unlikely form after a mere five minutes, when a Leeds corner swung over from the right. Richard Jobson rose on the edge of the area to head towards goal, where David Wetherall, lethal against Man U in the past, was challenging for a decisive touch. But that touch came instead from the upraised, red-sleeved arm of Nicky Butt – and referee Dermot Gallagher’s whistle sounded for a penalty.

Peering from the Kop at the other end of the ground, through an alcoholic fug, I could hardly believe my eyes. Leeds just didn’t get penalties against “Them”. It would happen the other way around alright, too often, and even from three yards outside the area but this was unprecedented, since our Title-winning year anyway. Steve Bruce evidently thought it was just too much to bear, and screamed his violent protests into Gallagher’s face, having to be restrained by Gary MacAllister, who appeared to be trying to explain the rules to the furious defender. The guilty look on Butt’s face, though, spoke volumes. MacAllister placed the ball on the spot, and sent it sweetly into the top right corner for 1-0, giving Peter Schmeichel not even the ghost of a chance. The celebrations were raucous and deafening as the Elland Road cauldron exploded with joy – and inside my skull, the trip-hammer of a beer-fuelled headache pounded away anew, utterly failing though to banish my smile of delight.

Leeds had the bit between their teeth now, and Brian Deane was suddenly clear for an instant outside the right corner of the Man U penalty area, played in by a cute pass from Carlton Palmer. Schmeichel was out swiftly to smother the chance, but Deane managed to dink the ball over him, only for it to clip the crossbar and bounce away to safety. A two-goal lead at that stage would have felt unlikely yet deserved, as Leeds United had been on the front foot right from the off. Soon, though, a lesson was to be delivered about what happens when you miss chances against this lot.

The unlikely culprit as Leeds were pegged back was Gary Speed. Receiving the ball in the left-back position, he tried to beat Butt instead of clearing long, and was robbed of possession. Butt looked up, and placed a neat pass inside to Andy Cole, whose efficient first-time finish levelled the match. Suddenly, my headache was even worse, and I was starting to wonder about the fate of my breakfast too. Time for another reviving injection of optimism as Leeds surged forward, and Speed so nearly made up for his defensive error, playing a one-two with Tomas Brolin which gave him space to put in a right-foot shot that went narrowly wide.

Yeboah beats Schmeichel for the second goal

The game had settled down by this time, and both sides were showing enough ambition to feel that they were in with a chance of victory. Leeds though had thrown off their Sheffield blues, and attacked with verve and purpose. Now, a defensive position was coolly handled by Gary Kelly, finding the time and space to launch a long clearance forward, where Brolin headed on. The ball was loose, and surely meat and drink for Man U’s international defender Paul Parker – but he inexplicably let it bounce over his foot. Yeboah pounced on it like a hound on a rat, and he was away, surging towards goal with ex-Leeds defender Denis Irwin backing off. Yeboah in this mood was usually irresistible, and sure enough none of Irwin’s careful jockeying could prevent him from finding that vital half-yard of space. The gap appeared, Schmeichel came out to block, and Yeboah clipped the ball sumptuously just out of the Danish ‘keeper’s reach, up and over to nestle in the far corner of the South Stand net.

Again, that explosion of noise and joy, again my fragile system was assailed by the rough-and-tumble of riotous celebration. 2-1 up against the team we loved to hate; the cockneys at the far end were suddenly silent and morose. “You’re not singing anymore!” we blasted at them, and indeed, little would be heard from the away fans for the rest of the game.

Brian Deane makes it 3

The second half was another tale of give and take, both sides able to cause trouble up front, but both seemingly capable of dealing with all that was thrown at them. The onus was on Man U to retrieve a losing situation, but Leeds were rarely in great trouble, and as the game entered its final quarter there was unprecedented optimism that we could close this one out, and enter Christmas on a real high. Leeds weren’t simply sitting back and absorbing pressure – and the maxim of attack being the best form of defence was to serve them well. On 73 minutes, Jobson made a foray down the left, and was fouled by Cole chasing back. The resulting free-kick was played to MacAllister in space in the middle of the park, and he swiftly moved it out to the right wing. Brolin picked up possession, and then slipped the ball to the overlapping Palmer, who surged into the box, and then turned past Irwin to set up Brolin again on the edge of the area. The much-maligned Swede, making the contribution I best remember him for, chipped the ball sweetly first-time, standing it up just around the penalty spot, where Deane’s exemplary movement had won him the space to rise and plant a firm header past a helpless Schmeichel into the net. 3-1 and finis.

After the game, and before the Yuletide celebrations could begin in earnest, other traditions had to be observed. Ferguson, naturally, had to moan about the penalty. “It was a very surprising decision, given in circumstances that were beyond me.” whinged the Purple-nosed One, in evident ignorance of the deliberate handball provisions – but perhaps aiming to justify Bruce’s undignified and almost psychotic protest at the time. And the massed ranks of the Kop Choir had to regale the departing Man U fans with victory taunts as they sulked away, silent and crestfallen, headed for all points south.

I can’t remember the journey home, or even how spectacularly ill I was when I got there, although I’m told I was the picture of ecstatic yet grossly hung-over ebullience. I just know it was my happiest Christmas Eve ever, ensuring a deliriously festive spirit for the whole holiday, much to the delight of my long-suffering wife and two-year-old daughter.

Merry Christmas, everybody! And God bless us, every one. Except Them, from There.

Next: Memory Match No. 4: Leeds United 4, Derby County 3. 1997-98 included a purple patch for Leeds United, and a series of “comeback wins”. Perhaps the best was this recovery from 3-0 down at Elland Road against the Rams.

The Worst Man U Manager Ever?

Posted on 28/12/2012 | 2 comments

I’m not inviting nominations here. I have but one candidate for this title, a man whose personal qualities and actions during his period of tenure put him, I would argue, clear ahead of the field as the worst Old Trafford boss of all time.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Sir Alex Ferguson.

Now, let’s not be simplistic about this. The worth of a football manager – who, let’s not forget, carries the responsibility for how his club is perceived by friends and foes alike across the globe – cannot be measured by a mere count-up of baubles won. What is the standing of the Football Club when he arrives? How will he leave that Club when he finally clears his office?

In Ferguson’s case, the answer is glaringly obvious. He has presided over the most horrendous degradation of a football club’s standing and image that I can bring to mind. Manchester United, thanks almost entirely to the stewardship of Sir Matt Busby, was once upon a time the Football Club most closely associated with honour, dignity and The Way Things Should Be Done. Only Arsenal, and later Liverpool would come anywhere close to matching the standards set by Sir Matt.

Busby did not have it easy. He arrived at a bombed-out Old Trafford in 1945, with a history as a Manchester City and Liverpool star behind him. This was hardly calculated to endear him to the devotees on the Stretford End. He also had to contend with the slightly shady influence of the ruling Edwards family over the club, and of course he suffered hideous personal injuries in the Munich air disaster, as well as losing the core of his second great team. Against this backdrop, he created a club that was known as “everyone’s second favourite team”, and beloved of their own massive following.

Looking back, it is sad to see how the legacy of Sir Matt Busby has been squandered. Manchester United these days are perhaps the most hated brand – I use the word advisedly – in the sporting world. Given the amount of trophies won under Ferguson’s ruthless management, it would be easy to ascribe this to envy. But there have been successful, dominant clubs before, and none have attracted quite the same level of opprobrium.

The Ferguson Factor is the difference here. Busby and Ferguson were both at the helm long enough to be completely identifiable with the club they represented. Busby stood for dignity and respect, Ferguson stands for arrogance and intimidation. His most recent rant is symptomatic of this. A playground taunt whereby he is manager of the most famous club in the world, and his opposite number is at “a wee club in the north-east”.

The small-mindedness of such language is mind-boggling in such a major sporting figure, and Ferguson has plenty of form in this regard. His club suffers more with every such outburst, and for all their fans claim they don’t care as long as the trophies roll in, I beg leave to doubt this. We all need to be loved, respected, admired. Manchester United has little of this now, outside of its own rabid support, but there was a time when the club was a byword for affection and respect among football lovers everywhere. This is the scale of the downfall; this is the measure of the negative effect of Ferguson’s reign.

Sir Alex Ferguson – the original Knight you wouldn’t send a dog out on. J’accuse.

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Posted in Football, Sport

Tagged football manager, Manchester United, Sir Alex Ferguson, Sir Matt Busby, soccer

The Key To England’s Quest For World Cup Glory – Could It Be LESS Money?

Posted on 17/12/2012 | Leave a comment

It’s not been a good year for England’s international football team. Of course, this is something that can be stated, quite accurately, most years. It’s a recurring problem, the way we always seem to fail to punch our weight in the big tournaments. The World Cup qualifiers this autumn 2012 were a case in point.

An over-riding concern, as far as the actual football goes, must be the depressing lack of quality in an England team made up, as usual, of multi-millionaires, millionaires, and perhaps two or three of the merely very rich.

Against San Marino, a motley crew of one lower-league pro and ten part-timers, the pride of England laboured mightily, but showed very little class or penetration, admittedly against opposition whose ambitions stretched no further forward than the halfway line. But still, the glass-half-full brigade will argue, we won by five – and so we did. But it could and should have been better, and we can’t avoid the question of why it wasn’t.

Poland provided a higher class of opponent, but having taken the lead, somewhat fortuitously, England couldn’t build on it, couldn’t stem the tide of red flowing towards them, and couldn’t hold their lead. Where, we are justified in asking, was the class and composure? Where were the passing skills, why was possession so hard to win and to retain?

With the money in the game, the long-established infrastructure, and the size of our nation relative, say, to a country like Holland which produces excellence as a matter of course, we should be doing better. Something is rotten in the state of England. What are the missing ingredients?

Allow me to propose an old-fashioned answer: pride and passion.

Now, I’m not suggesting that the players who represent England are lacking totally in either commodity, but I would venture the opinion that this is no longer the over-riding motivation. Money – oodles of it – looms far too large within the game. To clear the players’ heads, to rid them of competing considerations and leave them focused on the job in hand, to nurture the mindset that they are representing their country, and carrying the hopes of millions, I would propose – quite seriously – that we abandon henceforth the practice of paying players to play for England.

This is not a new idea, not by any means. Before World War Two, players selected for England were invited to choose a match fee or a souvenir medal – not both. They invariably opted for the medal – and this in an era when professional football wages were capped at a level not far above those of a skilled worker. But pride and passion motivated them.

Nowadays of course, footballers earn a vast amount, and some would say good luck to them – but do they really need to be paid over and above their club contracts for what is still a signal honour? How does this affect the way we see them?

As things stand, the emotional distance between the crowd and the players is magnified by a patently enormous gulf in financial status, which breeds resentment among the fans when things aren’t going well on the field (look at him, fifty grand a week, and he couldn’t trap a bag of cement). Would the frequently toxic nature of that crowd/team relationship not be improved if the players were really playing for the shirt and the cap, and nothing else?

Removal of monetary rewards would not be universally popular among the players – but might this not help sort out the committed from the opportunist, and thus – to risk an archaic phrase – engender a more positive team spirit?

There would be no unpalatable need for the FA to profit by the players’ noble sacrifice. The money that now goes on match fees and bonuses should instead be diverted to a charity of the players’ choice – and would this not only provide an additional incentive to win, but also enhance the team’s good-guy credentials?

They might feel, deep inside, that they’re a cut above the opposition – who are shamelessly, brazenly, doing it for the money. It might even give them that crucial edge. Success is, after all, about the steady accumulation of marginal gains.

No match fees or any bonus, not a red cent – just an international cap. No taint of lucre in the motivations of the players, who would in any case be set for life even if they never earned another penny. No charge of “mercenary footballers” from a disgruntled crowd – rather it would be: well done lads, you’re doing it for England and glory. If you didn’t win – well, we know you were giving of your best, for love of the shirt and charitable causes.

Can there be a better incentive than national pride and sheer altruism, uncluttered by the financial bottom line? Wouldn’t there just possibly be a whole new dynamic around the currently embattled England setup that might even take us onwards and upwards? Am I being hopelessly idealistic or even naïve? Perhaps – but I would humbly suggest that it’s got to be a better way, and is certainly worth a try.