A Tale of Two Davids

 

Remember when David De Gea turned up between the sticks for Manchester United? Of course you do. We all do. We all recall the regular horror shows we were subjected to in those first few months, as he was bullied and buffeted by bulging-veined opponents who preyed upon his glaring weaknesses and painful weediness. The memories of his hands, flapping inconsequentially through thin-air, still cause us to shudder. The cruel image of his anguished expression, as he turned his comically bum-fluffed face from his position, prone on the turf, to watch,impotently as the ball travelled beyond him and into his net, remain etched on our mind's eye.

This poor boy (for he was but a boy, back then), in a foreign land, amongst a crowd of strangers, thrust into the full, unforgiving glare of one of world football's biggest clubs. Each week, nay, each day, brought fresh, brutal scrutiny from the country's media, who circled like hungry sharks, twitching with unconcealed glee at the tantalising prospect of another error, then converging on him in a savage feeding frenzy when one was made.

Even many of the club's fans began to harbour doubts about his suitability to the role. Some vociferously voiced these concerns, while others whispered their fears in hushed tones in the pubs and bars of the city.

We'd seen it all before, of course. Who can forget such pretenders to the throne as Fabien Barthez and Mark Bosnich, not to mention the ludicrous Massimo Taibi? They had all tried, and failed, to replace the irreplaceable Peter Schmeichel. De Gea, for his part, was charged with the unenviable task of taking over from another United legend, the magnificent, serial Champions League finalist, Edwin van der Sar. Such a challenge would cause the knees of a far older, more experienced man, to knock and buckle under the weight, let alone one so raw.

Like De Gea, David Moyes is discovering, the hard way, what it means to replace a retired United legend. Only he is replacing Sir Alex Ferguson, arguably the United legend.

So far, Moyes has had a rocky ride. When he put pen to paper during those heady days of early summer, it must have seemed like all his footballing dreams had come true. He must have had visions of unending success, trophy-laden Mays, and limitless transfer funds. 

Then came the fixture list, and his ill-advised descent into conspiracy-mode. Followed by the most farcical transfer window escapades in United fans' collective living memory.

This would all have been swiftly forgotten had it not been for a series of drab performances, including a whimpering loss at Anfield, a 0-0 draw at home to Chelsea so mind-numbing it led one to question the very point of life itself, culminating in a deeply humiliating thrashing at the hands of United's noisy, and worryingly stronger, fitter, quicker, more skilful neighbours.

Cast in the light of all of this, Moyes has begun to lose some of his authority, at least in the eyes of the fans. He's seemed to visibly shrink in physical stature, taking on the air of a supply teacher who's frightened to make a wrong move for fear of the class descending into anarchy, subconsciously  apologising, in both his body language and his words, for not being Fergie.

After United's 1-0 League Cup victory over Liverpool on Wednesday night, he even informed the gathered press that people had been 'telling' him about Javier Hernàndez's qualities as a poacher of goals and tormentor of defences, as if he'd discovered the player  in an Old Trafford broom cupboard, covered in dust, a relic from a bygone age, and was unsure who he was or what was to be done with him.

 

David Moyes needs to realise that he is no longer manager of Everton, where it is, perhaps, acceptable to line up against the 'big boys' with play-it-safe, reliable grafters in the hope of grinding out backs-to-the-wall, bruising stalemates. He needs to 'bulk up' and grow into his new role, and remember that he was hand-picked by Sir Alex himself.

Just as a young Spaniard by the name of  David De Gea has done so admirably since those early days of his Manchester United career.

Tangled Up In Blue

For Manchester United fans, like myself, yesterday's 4-1 drubbing at the hands of Manchester City was a miserable and worrying ordeal. Ever since Howard Webb blew the final whistle, we have been staggering around in a daze, like survivors of an earthquake, gingerly climbing from the rubble, blinking in bleary-eyed confusion, terrorised by the atrocities we've witnessed, and unsure as to whether we can, or even want, to continue living in such a cruel and unforgiving world.

I've witnessed maulings by Manchester City before. I was at Old Trafford when they tore us a new one two seasons ago. I recall, as if it were yesterday, turning to my brother as the sixth goal went in. His face was ashen, his skin pallid, his wild, staring eyes desperately searching my own for some small crumb of comfort, some shred of solace or explanation. I knew that my own face bore the same corpse-like complexion as his because, looking around the Theatre of Dreams that day, every face I saw was a picture of shock and disbelief, except, of course, those in the away section, which were all gurning in monstrous glee.

Yet, even in the midst of such gut-wrenching agony, there was one monumental difference to what we felt yesterday, as the players trudged forlornly off the field of play. Namely, Sir Alex Ferguson. His presence on the touchline that day was, to us, the equivalent of a mother's warm bosom to a new-born baby. He was our comfort blanket in times of fear, our father figure when we sought calm assurance, our leader through the fog of war. Even after such humbling and humiliating defeats, we trusted him to lead us once more into the breach, and victoriously out the other side.

Yesterday was different. I'm no doom-monger, and I certainly have no time for those amongst our ranks already calling for David Moyes' head on a stick. The poor bloke needs time. He must have felt utterly wretched yesterday, without the added calls of 'Moyes Out' ringing in his ears. Still, the performance was bafflingly abject, whereas the performance in the 6-1 was more farcical than anything else.

Of course the loss of Robin van Persie was keenly felt, as it would be by any team. Yet it seemed his absence was more a psychological blow than anything else. The team chased the City players' shadows with an air of do-we-have-to sullenness, all puffy cheeks and childish finger-pointing as pass after woeful pass went hopelessly astray.

Then there was the reaction, or lack thereof, to the carnage unfolding on the pitch. We all watched, aghast, as Tom Cleverley stripped off. He was hardly the saviour we'd been hoping for, especially while Kagawa and Nani, two players capable, on their day, of moments of defence-unlocking brilliance, remained seated on the bench.

Marouane Fellaini's first big test as a United player was a stark reminder of the calamitous summer we've just endured in the transfer market. Oh for a Mesut Özil, or a Cesc Fàbregas, or anyone with a modicum of guile, pulling strings between midfield and attack. It's early days for Fellaini, and a huge step up from big-fishdom at Everton, to big pond-dom at United, but he was made to look weedy by Yaya Touré and painfully slow by Jesùs Navas.

Not that I wish to single out Fellaini. Other than the unhappy, want-away Wayne Rooney, the entire team were woeful, with Ashley Young knocking another few million pounds off the price we'll get when we come to sell him, which we surely will.

Yet the final blow to our collective dignity was made by Moyes himself, when he exhumed his fixture list conspiracy theory during his post-match interviews. Who knows, other than the man himself, why he chose to dredge this feeble argument up again? Perhaps he was trying to deflect attention from his players. Still, from where I was leaning, head in hands, it simply served to pile further embarrassment on an already sky-high pile of embarrassment.

David Moyes deserves our patience. It can't be easy replacing one of football's true Goliaths. It will take time, perhaps years, for him to grow into the role; to 'bulk up.' Yesterday's defeat though, and the manner of it, left United fans up and down the land feeling justifiably concerned about the future. Which is a deeply unfamiliar feeling after a quarter of a century with Fergie at the helm.

Football Tied Up In Knots

 

There’s been quite a furore about rainbow laces this last week. Not a big furore, I grant you. Nowhere near as vociferous as the furore over certain players refusing to don ‘Kick It Out’ t-shirts last season. Not even close to the furore that greets every incorrect goal-line decision, offside, handball or penalty claim made, in split-second-impossibility by referees, then dissected cruelly by couch-dwelling pundits . Lower, also, in the furore stakes, than one player viciously biting another. And certainly a fraction of the furore caused by a club’s star player reportedly itching for a transfer.

Come to think of it, perhaps ‘furore’ was a poor choice of adjective. Give me a moment. ’Outcry?’ No. ‘Inquisition,’ perhaps? Definitely not. Ah! I’ve got it! There’s been a (barely audible)…

…’Whimper!’

Right. I’ll start again.

So, there’s been a barely audible whimper about rainbow laces this last week. Indeed, you could be forgiven for failing to notice the story at all, so buttock-clenchingly apologetic the coverage has been. It’s come as something of a surprise to me just how childish the world of football is when it comes to the issue of (whisper it quietly and, please, feel free to snigger) homosexuality in the game.

We all know that there must be countless gay footballers playing the game professionally, many at the highest level. And we know this, not because some bespectacled nerd in some far-away office has crunched some numbers, correlated some figures and produced a set of statistics that prove that it must be the case. We know because we live in the real world, where homosexuality, to the overwhelming majority of us, is as natural-a part of our everyday lives as our morning brew. We know and like and love gay people, be they friend, family member, colleague, fucking milkman… who cares? We go to same-sex marriages and civil partnerships and experience the same joy and happiness as we would attending ‘conventional,’ heterosexual ceremonies. We drink in gay bars and revel in gay villages and enjoy gay festivals and listen to gay musicians and admire gay actors…I could go on.

The point is, to all but a few strange, stagnant, seemingly shit-scared people, who continue to harbour the delusion that they, and they alone, are keepers and protectors of the delicate strands of society’s ‘moral fibre’ (whatever the fuck that is), homosexuality ceased to be a big deal, or even a deal, many pink moons ago.

Which begs the question, why does football continue to dwell in the dark ages?  

Common answers tend to revolve around football’s ‘lad’ culture. Yet this strikes me as being woefully inadequate. Are we expected to accept that football’s history as a hooligan’s haven prevents it from, not promoting, for God’s sake, but at least accepting the existence of homosexuality within its ranks? Are the crowds that flock to bear witness to football matches up and down the land, week after week, made up solely of lagered up louts these days? No. They include women, children, old, young, black, white, Asian, Christian, Muslim and, yes, gay.

Then there’s the suggestion that ‘normal,’ heterosexual players, or real men, if you will, would feel uncomfortable if one of their team-mates came out. ‘It would alter the dynamics of the changing room and drive a stake into the heart of a team’s spirit,’ so the argument goes. Now, I know that footballers aren’t, generally, the sharpest tools in the box. But are they really so shallow, so ill-informed, so paranoid and vain, as to feel mortally threatened by a team mate that happens to fancy boys, as opposed to girls? I mean, really? Because, if so, they really are being paid too much. Yes, of course, there will, as in wider society, be those amongst them who have difficulty coming to terms with such a radical development; who will assume that the moment their hairy back is turned, they’ll find themselves being brutally rogered by a primal, demonic, insatiable queer but, surely, we have pandered long enough to the repressed fantasies of these mindless few?

Whether you describe the footballing world’s reaction to the rainbow laces debate as a furore, a whimper or a farce, the very fact that we’re fumbling about with such pathetic gimmicks in 2013 is a shameful and damning indictment on the world’s most watched and most popular sport.
I
t’s called the ‘beautiful game.’ Surely it should be enjoyed, and played, by all.