Just a Game

Every now and then, the bubble in which the football world exists is burst by an event that, while rooted in football, transcends football completely, and reminds us that football is, after all, just a game.

Football was left feeling very much like just a game on Tuesday 26th April, when a jury, having spent two years in a makeshift courtroom in Warrington hearing evidence, both factual and fictional, much of it deeply harrowing, deeply upsetting, deeply disturbing, found that the ninety-six people that died at Hillsborough on 15th April 1989 had been unlawfully killed.

I suspect that I am not alone in having, over the years, grown weary, not of, but by, the Hillsborough story, succumbing to a kind of Hillsborough-fatigue, emotionally saturated by tales too grim to bear, the reflected pain of others too much to take, unable - or perhaps unwilling - to deal with the overwhelming sense of powerlessness it made me feel. Like anyone else, I had my own everyday stuff going on, my own problems and worries, my own life to live. 

Pathetic, I know. 

Thank goodness the families of the ninety-six never gave in to such fear. Thank goodness they never gave in to despair or took refuge in denial. Thank goodness they, the ones that survived to see that momentous day, were never broken by the huge weight pressing down on them and attempting, with all its might, to destroy them. Thank goodness they never gave up.

For, goodness knows, most would have done.

It was on a train journey to Manchester on that Tuesday when it all hit home for me, in all its shocking, unfathomable, frightening magnitude. As the news of the victims' families long-awaited victory - if we can really call it that - broke, so the wall I had subconsciously erected around myself for years, to shield myself from a story too bleak to comprehend, crumbled, and all the unbelievable horror finally sunk in.

There I sat, reading a long, horrifying, magnificent article by David Conn, who has spent two decades covering the Hillsborough story in all its tragic detail. And there, in a crowded carriage, I cried.

In truth, almost every word, every line, delivered a crushing blow, such was its bleak power. The part that struck me most profoundly, however, was the poignant tale of the father who, being crushed to death at a football match, was last heard saying "My son, my son."

Two such simple words, yet ferociously moving in their beautiful, heartbreaking, human simplicity. A man, knowing his own end was nigh, and suffering untold agony, sending up a desperate, pleading prayer, the survival of his son, whom he had brought into this world and loved and nurtured and cherished, his final and all-consuming wish, even as he, himself, was gasping his final, tortured breath, and hoping against hope that his boy would somehow escape with his life. 

His prayer, it turned out, went unanswered and his son, too, died, in the same hellish manner in which he, through no fault of his own, met his end.

Reading those words - "My son, my son" - on that train, it was impossible not to think of my own little boy and the times I've taken him to Old Trafford. Kissing goodbye to my wife - his mum - and my daughter - his sister - "Love you. See you later..." Much, I suppose, as those ninety-six poor souls would have done that day, never suspecting that those goodbyes would be their last.

You may ask what gives me, a Manchester United fan, the right to comment on any of this.

Yet, this is a story that goes way beyond football rivalry, that goes way beyond football. It should make every fan of every football club, and everyone beyond, seethe with rage against the machine that spent over a quarter of a century trying to grind those it perceived as weak and defenceless into submission. 

They had only the love in their hearts for those they had lost, and their desperate desire to see their coldly, calculatedly besmirched reputations restored, to give them strength. That, it turns out, was more powerful than the might of a whole establishment - from an entire police force, to the most powerful and influential newspaper in the land, and even the government itself - all of them seemingly hell-bent on burying the truth that they are meant to uphold, in a chillingly detached attempt to protect themselves.

I don't know that I could cope with opening my eyes each morning for twenty-seven years and, in that moment when sleep's forgetfulness flits away and is replaced by the reality of wakefulness, remember the all-too familiar heartache, the dawning of another day groping in the darkness for the justice that would have been theirs long ago were it not for the wretchedness and cowardice and profound, self-serving cruelty of the people at the head of a system that was meant to protect and serve, but instead trampled and betrayed.

Forget about football rivalry. Forget about club allegiance. Forget about trophies and titles and records. Forget about football. For all of that pales into insignificance in the face of tragedy such as that seen that day at Hillsborough, and the courage and dignity such as that seen since. 

Bill Shankly once said that football is more important than life and death. But we all know, just as Shankly did, that it really isn't. It's just a game.

Unusual Suspects

Football, as they say, is a funny old game, though none of the Premier League's traditional top-four will be feeling particularly amused this season.

It's hard to believe but it really does look like Leicester City are going to win the title. Not only that, but their fiercest challenger appears to be Tottenham Hotspur, while West Ham United are battling it out with a hapless Arsenal, a toothless Manchester City, and a dreary Manchester United for a Champions League spot. 

Leicester City! Tottenham Hotspur! West Ham United!

Remarkable stuff.

United had been toiling away in the Europa League spots prior to their back-to-back victories over City and Everton and, let's face it, in the Europa League spots they will probably remain, a fallen giant plummeting further and further into the abyss, struck down by a strange lethargy they cannot shake off.

And this lack of vim is a big part of the problem, not just with United but with their city rivals, who are also having a season to forget, a jaded and often embarrassingly half-hearted joke of a team.

Leicester, in contrast, are a cracking side, a joy to watch, and few would begrudge their likeable manager, Claudio Ranieri, a Premier League winner's medal come May. Yet, Leicester's position at the Premier League's summit should cause the league's usual heavyweights to take a long hard look at themselves.

Pound for pound, do Leicester have that many better players than City or United, or Arsenal or Chelsea for that matter? You could argue the case both ways - and the likes of Riyad Mahrez, N'Golo Kanté and Jamie Vardy have been revelations this term - but what is irrefutable is that Leicester's players, along with those of Spurs and West Ham, have simply wanted it more, been better organised and, crucially, played with the kind of energy and enthusiasm that should make their more illustrious, better paid rivals hang their heads in shame.

Energy! United fans must have forgotten what that looks like in a football team. A club famed for attacking, intense football now stutters and wheezes through games. Ferguson's best teams would attack in irresistible waves. Van Gaal's barely cause a ripple. So often this season United will break out of defence but, instead of streaming forward in numbers, check back and ponder the meaning of life while their opponents regroup. So often they will send crosses into a penalty box with one solitary United player in it, surrounded by grateful defenders.

City, for their part, have pretty much collapsed since Pep Guardiola was announced as their knight in shining armour. The theory goes that this is because they are being led, in Manuel Pellegrini, by a dead man walking, but their form has, in truth, been at best sketchy all season. Like United, they seem incapable of putting a decent run together and, like United, whenever they face opponents who are up for the fight, they fall apart, unable or unwilling to put in the kind of shift Leicester and Spurs' players do on a weekly basis.

Energy is, of course, not enough to land silverware on its own. Still, without it, you may as well not turn up and, when you do not have the resources and financial muscle of the big boys, you have to compensate somehow. It may sound terribly English but, it turns out, such simple but effective attributes as spirit, heart and good old-fashioned sweat can make a huge difference.

Leicester, Spurs and West Ham have strained sinews and burst lungs in order to fill the void left by United and City's ineptitude and Chelsea's implosion. No doubt Arsenal fans will scratch their heads for years to come, wondering why it wasn't them but, let's face it, the story of their season is like a scratched record, their perennial late-winter/early spring crises comically predictable.

No, the fact of the matter is that Leicester, Spurs and West Ham, this season, have been like a group of garishly dressed dancers that have burst into a house-party, their vitality and lust for life too much for the old boys to handle. Chelsea long since passed out in the toilets, Arsenal are experiencing their usual queasiness after it all went to their heads back in January, while the two Manchester clubs keep waking occasionally from their slumbers to laugh at each other, before realising that they themselves are in an equally sorry state.

It's probably safe to assume that, with Guardiola on his way to City, Jose Mourinho tipped to take over at United in the summer, and Antonio Conte going to Chelsea, an injection of energy is the least we can expect from the big-hitters next term.

For now, however, we should probably just sit back and continue to marvel at the boundless energy of these three upstarts and, if Leicester really do go on to win the title, joined next season by Spurs and West Ham in the Champions League, give ourselves a pinch and wonder at what a simple, beautiful, funny old game this is.

Manchester United - another season in tatters

Louis van Gaal limps on. His limp United side limp out of another competition. His pathetic excuses never washed and still don't. His insipid football inspires only disgust. His tired philosophy sucks the joy out of the beautiful game.

Comparisons with his pitiful predecessor, David Moyes, are now wholly just, if not a little unfair on the Scot. Worse still, there are parallels with Moyes' darkest days at Manchester United appearing around every corner, haunting him like ghosts of failures past. 

Moyes, too, experienced a humiliation on the road in Europe, when his United side lost to Olympiakos. The trouble is, Moyes' team turned things around, something Van Gaal's sorry bunch have failed to do - unless you count their victory in the second leg against FC Midtjylland in their previous Europa League round, which no one serious about football could. 

No. Van Gaal's United, having lost 2-0 to Liverpool at Anfield after a performance so spineless, so bereft of spirit or fight, that Sir Matt Busby must have turned in his grave, and could only muster a few minutes of mildly meaningful football in the return leg at a packed but subdued, and ultimately bereft, Old Trafford.

Moyes, too, experienced the nightmare of defeat against United's most bitter rivals within the walls of the Theatre of Dreams - albeit Van Gaal's was over two legs. He, too, failed to grasp the magnitude of the loss, as Van Gaal did on Thursday night. He, too, failed to understand why United's fans continued to sing, despite the humiliation. 

Under Moyes, United fans sang 'Twenty Times' relentlessly for almost half an hour, drowning out Liverpool's travelling support who, deep down, must have marvelled at the outpouring of their enemy's emotion, though they would never admit it. Under Van Gaal, it was less heartfelt, less rousing, more defeated. 

The song was different on this night, the mood too. The United Calypso was sung with a sense of weary acceptance of the new world order. Still, the United fans that sung did so for their proud history, for Busby and his Babes, for past glories and future hopes, for the famous, fearless football of Ferguson, and as a means of lamenting what they see before them now - a club whose soul is being ripped out, whose identity is going up in smoke, whom no one fears any longer but who everyone mocks.

Van Gaal is by no means the only one to blame for United's shocking decline, but he is to blame for the deep sense of listlessness that has enveloped the club of late. Minds have been thoroughly numbed by the wretched football on show each and every week, to the point where fans, while deeply troubled by what they see, are at a loss as to what to do about it. They stopped looking forward to matches long ago, the sense of escapism football used to offer a thing of the past.

The contrast between the two managers on Thursday could not have been more stark. Louis van Gaal, pen and pad in hand, rooted to his seat, while Jurgen Klopp kicked every ball and lived every moment, a bundle of energy on the touchline. Such enthusiasm, however much of it is for show, must filter through a team and spur players on to give that little bit more. What on earth happened to the Van Gaal that once did Kung-fu kicks on the sideline and, as recently as the World Cup in Brazil, celebrated and gesticulated with gusto? 

Moyes faced Manchester City shortly after his home defeat to Liverpool, and lost. Van Gaal faces them on Sunday. United fans have no confidence whatsoever that their team will this time prevail, despite City suffering their own slump. Such is the mood around Old Trafford.

Fans will be around long after these current players are gone, and long after Van Gaal is a distant memory. It is they who keep the traditions of the club alive, despite the likes of Van Gaal betraying them with his bland brand of football.

United's lame duck of a manager should have been given his marching orders long ago. Alas, as with Moyes, Van Gaal has been left to limp on, leaving the club's season in tatters, and the fans in a state of despair once more.