Ah well. It wasn't to be tonight. And that's ok. Congratulations to them. The joy of sport is as much about being gracious in defeat as it is about being rampantly joyous in victory.
I was offered, in consolation, some scarier thoughts.
What if the new person is a Man. Utd. fan?
What if she supports Urawa Reds?
What if she likes baseball?
Allegedly there is a game of football on tonight.
In the end, I won't remember much. All that will last will be the grace and brilliance—and superb chest headbutt—of the genius Zidane, and the comic failure of the charlatan Eriksson and his perennially over-hyped English football team. Most lasting of all, though, will be the preconception proved true: like all the rest, it was condemned to live forever in the shadows of May 25, 2005—the day football died.
It didn't help being in Asia. I didn't watch much of the tournament, because of the crazy start times of most of the games if you happen to live here. I've become the eight-hours-sleep-at-all-costs stick-in-the-mud I used to laugh at in my twenties. The early game, which kicked off at 10pm or 11pm, was the only one within my feeble reach, and I don't remember many good games at that time. Japan and Australia was the one that meant most to me, but it was no feast of football. The Spanish turned it on early—before reverting to type. The much-fancied Argentineans gave a couple of masterful displays of total football—before falling foul to the kindergarden conservatism of their manager. The English coughed and spluttered like fat men running up a hill. The Brazilians loped, uninterested. And Zico's Japan just flopped.
It didn't help either that the refereeing was as comical as Mr. Eriksson. Graham Poll, for one, ruined his career and entered the record books at the same time for his post-modern rule interpretations. Three yellow cards. I'd feel sorry for Mr. Poll, but my memory is long. Poll's gaffes were just the most prominent of the kind of farcical refereeing we've come to expect from these tournaments.
It didn't help that the emerging footballing nations rolled over, for the most part, and never put up a fight. One obvious exception, I hear, is Australia, but their games were on too late for me.
It didn't help that diving marred the tournament yet again. Kurt, "flopping cheats" isn't the term you want. I think you'll find it's "diving bastards". In Christiano Ronaldo, we have the embodiment of all that is ugly about the modern game.
It didn't help that I had to listen to the Gulliver's Travels approach to football commentary adopted here in Japan. Every time a tall player gets the ball, the frenzied Japanese commentator screams out his height. Pi-taa Ku-rau-chi, shinchou 201 cen-chi. Over and over again. The Japanese football commentators weren't in the commentary box. They were at the top of the beanstalk.
But there were some good moments. Team England, for one, provided entertainment value beyond their means. And in the sending off of Rooney, they had their traditional big tournament defining cockup—and another name for the list of national scapegoats, alongside Pearce, Neville, Beckham and Seaman. That the sending off was an indirect consequence of the squad Eriksson initially picked—the squad that included an untried 16 year-old as a forward he never intended to use, at a time when his two main strikers were crocked anyway—is beyond reasonable doubt. This was another England sideshow—this time inspired by their manager. Its seems that a national tabloid media get the football—and the manager—they deserve.
Moving from the ridiculous to the sublime, Zidane decided from the Spain game on to show the world why he is still its best footballer, even at 34. This man has a gift for football beyond anything I've ever seen—and in that I include Maradona. The magnetic close-control, the instinctive knowledge of which way to turn, and a vision to pick out passes that makes Jan Molby look like Razor Ruddock. This man is Denis Bergkamp on cocaine.
But even after the joys of Zidane's performance of the tournament against a surprisingly subdued Brazil, I couldn't make myself stay up to watch the final. And it wasn't just the time difference. I had my mind made up about this World Cup from the start. Truth be told, I'm still living in the shadows of eight minutes of football in Istanbul on May 25, 2005. The greatest game of football I will ever watch. There's a sadness in that. A game that came when football was already on its death bed—beset by the illnesses of Abramovich, ridiculous player wages, and cynicism pervading all aspects of the game. The greatest game of our lives was one final death throe foretelling football's inevitable end.
And after highs like that, the rest would always mean nothing. World Cup 2006 was but a symptom—of a game whose final whistle had already been blown.
A memory from the second-most memorable night of last year.
File Boumsong's mistakes yesterday in the "Did that really happen?" category. Criminally, laughably bad defending. It's out of order: I felt sorry for him when I should have been celebrating.
I'm often wrong.
I thought Jamie Carragher would be at most a dependable big-hearted player who would never learn to pass. I thought we should have resigned Michael Owen when he became available. I thought Jean Arne Riise wasn't the right man for left-full. I thought goalkeepers should almost never punch the ball. I thought Stephen Gerrard was not a leader but a child. And I thought Momo Sissoko was lacking one vital area of his trade.
Jamie Carragher moved in from the wings and took on a central role, literally and figuratively, becoming in the process the undisputed hero of Merseyside and probably the best defender in the country.
Michael Owen transferred, perhaps fittingly, to Souness's Newcastle and has spent most of the season, as Pat predicted, not even on the bench, while Sven Goran Erikkson's idiocy, naivety and greed when faced with the hounds of the British tabloid press has exposed the true hometown of Owen's ambitions, a place, for better or for worse, far south from those sacred bastions of traditional northern football pride, Anfield in the east and St. James's Park in the west.
As Rafa Benitez finally saw the strobelight of why Djimi Traore should never ever be in a Liverpool starting lineup, and Stephen Warnock started to show that his lionhearted prowess in the tackle and gameness in getting forward is matched only by his utterly hopeless, "who's been messing around with the magnets", positional sense and total inability to read the game, Jean Arne Riise's returns to the left-back position started to coincide with clean sheets, unbeaten games and records being broken.
Somewhere along the course of this season the sight of the diminutive Jose Reina well off his line, one arm extended in a crowd bodies, stopped giving me the jitters.
Then Stephen Gerrard started to match his massively improved performances on the pitch (what a season he's had) with sensible, team-oriented interviews that deflected attention away from himself, "the man". After all the recent tantrums, ill-advised comments and debacles, this newfound captain's maturity is a credit to both Gerrard and his mentors, not to mention a welcome surprise.
And I didn't really understand the fuss about Momo Sissoko until last weekend's F.A. Cup victory over Man. Utd.
Most would agree the key area Sissoko needs to improve is his passing. Most would also say the ability to pass, if not with the visionary brilliance of an Alonso, Kaka or Bergkamp at least with the dour consistency of a Wilkins, Makelele or a Keane, is a vital element of the trade of a central midfielder.
Never mind the visionary. Until last weekend, I hadn't even seen the dour and dependable from Sissoko. I thought it was a case of not being able to put in what God's left out. I didn't believe Sissoko had it in him to pass the ball.
Until last weekend. The United game was the first time I've seen Sissoko pass consistently and successfully, and to one of our players. Even better, it was also the first glimpse I've had of vision and creativity, of thinking, waiting for the right moment and then finding the angle. Now I'm not saying he'll ever become an Alonso or a Kaka, because he won't, but I do now think he could equal, or even better, Makalele or Keane in the passing department. Is it the calming influence of understated master craftsman Didi Hamann, the exposure to the vision and genius of Alonso and Gerrard or just committed hard work by Sissoko himself? It's impossible to know. But the United game marked in my eyes a change for the better in Sissoko's game.
In fact, when it ended, Sissoko's performance pleased me more than the fact that we'd beaten United in the Cup for the first time in 85 years. It felt very good to be wrong again.
It started as the great upbeat rousing tune it has remained to this day, but the lyrics were hardly inspirational. In those days of the U.S. Civil War, it was called John Brody's Body, and it was sung to inspire the troops of the North in their battle against the Confederate South.
It starts like this:
John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
But his soul goes marching on.
Later it gets down to its true message, that's it good and holy to die for the North in its battle to free the slaves. Even in death, they'd nothing to worry about, a message most Irish people will know well from their own history.
John Brown died that the slaves might be free,
John Brown died that the slaves might be free,
His soul goes marching on.
A great tune, which may well be in your head by now, but certainly lacking something in the lyrics department.
Then along came a woman by the name of Julia Ward Howe. In 1861, while visiting a Union soldiers' encampment on the banks of the Potomac river in Washington DC, she heard the song and was impressed by its tune, so impressed that she decided to rewrite the lyrics.
What resulted was one of the most famous hymns ever written, beautifully named the Battle Hymn of the Republic, but which often goes by its legendary, often quoted first line. Sung at the funerals of Winston Churchill and Robert Kennedy, the Battle Hymn of the Republic is a truly amazing feat of words complementing music. And I say that without a organized religious bone in my body.
Here's the famous and incredibly poetic opening verse:
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword
His truth is marching on.
And you can be carried away by the rest of it here. Julia Ward Howe certainly had a way with words, and though countless others have tried to rewrite this tune's lyrics, nobody has come near to matching the beauty of her words.
But as I said, many have tried.
Remember the white supremacist anthem in American History X?
Oh, mine eyes have seen the glory of the trampling of the zoo
We have washed ourselves in niggers' blood and all the mongrels too
We're tearing down the ZOG machine, Jew by Jew by Jew
The white man marches on!
And now most recently, and the reason I'm giving you the history of the transformation of an old marching tune, has come a new football version. This version is inspired by Liverpool's heroic deeds in Istanbul last May. And with this Sunday's game against United on my mind this Friday afternoon, I thought I'd quote it for you in full. Non Liverpool fans should probably stop reading now. Nothing to see here. And lovers of the beauty of words will recognize that Julia Ward Howe has nothing to worry about. However, Liverpool fans indulging in reveries of magic nights of the recent past might disagree.
(If you've actually read this little Friday afternoon ramble through to the end, good luck getting that tune out of your head anytime soon.)
An army amassed just like centuries before,An army of thousands in livery of red,
Liverbirds on their chests and a dream in their heads,
With smiles on their faces and songs in their hearts,
Of hope a new era was waiting to start.
Stood on the North Tribune I looked all around,
A sea of red swamping 3 sides of the ground,
Flags, scarves and banners that covered the crowd,
A show of red strength to make Chairman Mao proud.
I surveyed the scene in awe and in bliss,
How could we fail on a stage such as this?
I reckoned without an AC Milan team,
With the class to make nightmares out of our dreams.
And so it transpired in a half straight from hell,
A Maldini sucker punch straight from the bell
With 2 blows from Crespo 5 minutes apart,
Milan drove a dagger through Liverpool's heart,
We staggered and reached the refuge of half time,
Our worst fears were realised, 3-0 behind,
Ashen-faced Reds with their heads in their hands,
Slumped in despair on the steps of the stand.
An anger rose in me, but not with the team,
Where was the 12th man? Was Chelsea a dream?
We had to show pride, try to lift them somehow,
We'd come much too far to give up on them now.
Somebody somewhere had shared the same thought,
My faith was restored in our famous support.
YNWA grew in strength, as did I,
And I sang.. as if it was for the last time.
Looking back now I can't honestly say,
That as I sang, I thought we would find a way
To come back, but I wanted the whole world to see,
We still had pride, we were still Liverpool FC.
That chorus will live on in legend and lore,
Cruyff said he had heard nothing like it before,
Maradona said it made him convert to a Red,
Luis said it spurred them to rise from the dead.
Then came the reverse of our first half ordeal,
6 minutes of mayhem that didn't seem real
6 glorious minutes that none will forget,
When Stevie and Xabi and Vlad found the net.
Milan came again but at each turn were foiled,
Once more a siege played out on Istanbul soil,
As the seconds ticked down, the Redmen stood tall,
Though their muscles screamed "stop" they ploughed on through it all.
Then came the moment God's will became known,
The ball fell to Shevchenko with Dudek left prone,
With the goal at his mercy, our Pole somehow saved,
Someone from above must have smiled on the brave.
It was then that it suddenly all became clear,
Milan realised that this wasn't their year,
Alongside the Reds stood an ally too great,
There was no resisting the power of fate.
So when the game entered it's final test then,
They bore the demeanour of half-beaten men,
Defeat after so much no player deserved,
But while Milan's men wilted the Red's kept their nerve.
And when Andrei's nemesis foiled him once more,
The night air was pierced by a deafening roar,
Destiny fulfilled all that was prophesised,
And I hugged all around me with tears in my eyes
The Redmen all met us, celebrations they led,
Carra The Lionheart, Gerrard The Red,
Sami The Mighty, the sturdy Hamann,
Dudek and all, heroes to a man.
And Rafa, our Moses, by his guiding hand,
He led us all back here to this Promised Land,
When the road became hard no excuse did he use,
And when all seemed lost here his genius shone through.
Emotion flowed down from the stands like a shower,
As we watched Stevie lift that old trophy of ours,
You'll Never Walk Alone once again we did sing,
As we all heralded the return of the Kings.
Now on the bus back to Taksim I went,
My voice was in tatters, all energy spent,
Utterly drained but smiling ear to ear,
I thought back to the road that had led me to here.
As a boy I had watched all the legends parade,
As they conquered all Europe and history was made,
As the years passed, now no longer watching a screen,
I thought I'd never see what my elders had seen.
I wondered if my eyes would yet see the glory,
And whether in years to come I could tell stories,
Of great Anfield nights and of crusades abroad,
When the Mighty Reds put Europe's best to the sword.
2004 then turned into 05,
And finally all of my hopes came to life,
It seemed fate was there with us right from the start,
It happened as if it was written in the stars.
I watched from the Kop on that December night,
The pivotal moment when dark turned to light,
4 minutes from failure, then hope was restored,
We all dared to dream, when Stevie G scored.
Echoes of the past rang as clear as a bell,
The late Kop end goal, the same scoreline as well,
My generation loved tales about way back when,
But we now had our very own St Etienne.
I was there against Juve when ghosts of the past,
20 years in the waiting confronted at last,
The Kop spelled out friendship in red and in white,
And in silence we remembered the fallen that night.
The whistle it blew and the silence gave way,
To a whirlwind of noise that blew Juve away,
I saw a red tide almost swallow them whole,
And I saw Luis Garcia's 30 yard goal.
I saw Chelsea get their come-uppence at last,
On a night at Anfield that might not be surpassed,
The primeval force of The Kop in full cry,
For 96 minutes the noise wouldn't die.
96 minutes for 96 souls,
They surely were watching the drama unfold,
For something divine intervened on our side,
'Cos I can't explain how Gudjohnsen shot wide.
The Kop danced long after the players had gone,
The glory of years passed remembered in song,
And when we were thrown out we danced on outside,
Around Shankly's statue long into the night.
And now I had witnessed a moment so rare,
It's drama and splendour were beyond compare,
A moment in Sport we may not see again,
A moment I'd waited so long to attain.
Istanbul was for one night, Heaven on Earth,
So special you can't put a price on it's worth,
I give thanks I was one of the privileged few,
I was there and I saw all of our dreams come true.
A banner I'd seen and there saw it again,
"My Eyes Have Seen The Glory" it proudly proclaimed,
Four symbolic stars were emblazoned thereon,
I could now say "me too" when the 5th one was won.
I¡Çve seen the Kop's legacy upheld and enhanced,
And seen us win when no one gave us a chance,
I've seen us rise up and be crowned Europe's best
If it's the last match I see I'd still think myself blessed
Not with a bang, but a whimper. Amid the empty seats and distracted Japanese schoolchildren up past their bedtime, a rare Egyptian fan supporting African club champions Al Ahly in Tokyo's National Stadium in tonight's opening game of the tournament against Asian representatives Al Ittihad of Saudi Arabia.
Snow threatened to fall throughout the "battle of the Als," but this was no Christmas feast of football. Frozen Liverpool fans lured there against better judgement with free tickets were seen to leave the ground early, again, muttering comparisons to the J-League. Fittingly for the season that's in it, the referee was a turkey. It's not every day you get to watch a match officiated by "Whistleless" Graham Poll.
Tottenham's Dutch manager Martin Jol is a funny character:
Heres an extract from an interview Jol gave last night. He was talking about
the Bolton game where the linesman ruled out a perfectly good goal by
Defoe.................
"When asked if he should be nastier a la Ferguson when decisions go against
us as they did at Bolton last week and Old Trafford in January and if it
would help us achieve more respect from referees and perhaps make them more
inclined to give us more decisions he explained his policy of behaving one
way for the cameras to keep his dignity and behaving another way when alone
with officials. He then repeated the conversation he had with the linesman
after the game.
Jol: I'm new to this country, am I allowed to call you a prick?
Linesman: No.
Jol: Am I allowed to think you're a prick?
Linesman: It's a free country, I can't tell you what you're allowed to
think.
Jol: If that's the case, I think you're a prick. "
via Mick
On a dark November night in Tokyo, an Irishman slinks sneakily out of work and relocates to the pub. His goal? To support Australia in their attempt to overturn a one-goal deficit against the Uruguayans and qualify for the 2006 World Cup.
And whether they win or lose, there's always Japan to support, although I wish Mr. Zico wasn't at the helm.
Speaking of the decay of Irish football, I don't know what the opinion is in the four green fields on the possible hiring of El Tel to replace Brian Kerr, but from over here he seems like a good, realistic option. Dodgy cockney wide boy though he most definitely is, he's also arguably the best English national team manager of the modern era (him or Mad Sir Bobby).
Thought I'd have a go at writing a match report.
The happily sleeping human rapidly develops immunity to phone-alarm melodies, especially when being asked to wake at crazy times. All Liverpool fans living in far off time zones know that. To get up successfully for midweek games, you need to be resourceful, determined, willing to go that extra mile. That is why, at 3.30 this morning, the walls of the houses of a small neighbourhood in Tokyo shook to the sound of "Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho, it's off to work we go," blasting out for the first time in full orchestral splendour. It may not have been pretty, but it worked. Sleeping residents felt instantly nauseous. Local cats put paws to ears. Ghosts ran for cover to safer ground. And one Liverpool fan fell down his stairs and turned on his TV.
The just woken take time to get things together, especially when they've only had three hours' sleep. That explains the first fifteen minutes of the game as seen from a sofa in Tokyo. No scanning the line-up and quickly deciding Rafa's gone for experience. Instead, you come out of your haze slowly, noticing the strange (Cisse and Garcia playing right and left) and slightly worrying (Djimi in). Then you find the good (they've left out Crespo and started with Drogba on his own up front) and the reassuring (Stevie, Xabi, Didi in the center, Stevie Finnan at right full). And then you realize there's fifteen minutes gone and the reason you can't see anything is you haven't put in your contact lenses.
The first half passes in a blur of Liverpool control. You hear the Fields of Anny Road belting out—really belting out. The Twelfth Man sounds on form. Sami gets clipped in the penalty area and goes down. The Scandanavian sportsman's smile registers his disbelief that he hasn't won a penalty. Camera pans to the ref, who's looking shaky and overwhelmed.
Xabi's on form, cruising confidently in midfield, making himself time. We're winning the midfield and we're mostly solid at the back, although the Japanese commentators rightly point to some "scary moments" in the Liverpool defence. As I'm coming closer to my senses, there's a Reina warning. It happens in slow motion. I watch him coming for the ball, a small man in a crowd of big bodies. That he's intent on punching it is clear for all to see. That he hasn't got a chance is also evident. My stomach turns. The ref blows for a foul by Drogba but the warning signs are there. Have we got ourselves another keeper who can't deal with crosses? Or is this something that will improve? As I'm asking myself these questions, he makes a brilliant save from Robben.
At half-time, I'm cold and go back upstairs for fifteen minutes. It's been a good half. We've controlled it and Lampard, especially, has been non-existent. There's been very little threat from Robben (full credit to Stevie Finnan) and even less from Duff.
I get the feeling I had so many times in last season's run, when the fear and worry about the opposition dissipate and unshaking confidence arrives. Sooner or later, we'll all going to stop underestimating this side.
When I get back downstairs they've already restarted. Again we dominate, almost from the start. Two things become clear: We're not going to weaken in the second half. And they'll be very happy with a draw.
And then, the second clear penalty. William Gallas, you're having a laugh. You may as well have caught the fucking thing and put it down your pants it was so obvious. And the ref is well-placed, perfectly placed. Inexplicably, again he doesn't blow. He's been producing yellow cards readily all night, but what is his problem pointing to the spot? Again, a referee blinded in the Chelsea headlights. Didn't that use to be a Manchester phenomenon? Nothing new.
They bring on Wright-Phillips for Robben. I'm not concerned. Finnan will handle him and I'm happy to see Robben go. Later they'll withdraw Duff. When Chelsea take these two off, you know your defence has done its job. Clumsy moments aside (Carragher and Hyppia colliding), we've looked solid.
I'm awake now. I know that because I'm reacting in my normal way to Luis Garcia. Delighted to see him always looking for and getting on the ball. The anticipation of something special and the worry he's going to lose the ball. The awe when things go right (He's really bossing Ferreira tonight), and the relief when they don't but he at least manages to pick out a red shirt.
The usual worries about Djimi prove founded, but there's something else emerging, too. What he lacks positionally and on the ball, he makes up for in pace and in the tackle. Djimi's got his strengths and they showed in the second half tonight.
Jamie Carragher, as ever, has been—to flog the cliché—colossal, and Stevie, without having the greatest of games, has looked up for it and threatening in his roaming, advanced role.
The sight of Chelsea running down the clock is proof of our dominance. The final whistle blows. I'm satisfied. Revenge was never on the menu.
As the players leave the field, John Terry is having a tantrum. He thinks Xabi's dived to get him booked. I think of two incidents involving Xabi and Chelsea last season—Lampard's tackle and Gudjohnsen's dive to draw the yellow card, and one involving Terry himself—his cynical foul on Luis Garcia. I recall his tears in the semi. Xabi doesn't look too concerned. I'm not either. Six a.m. I leave for work in three hours. Time to go back to bed.
Written on the eve of giving more money to Rupert Murdoch's Sky.
If I read one more football fan talking about football being taken away from the working man, players getting paid too much, or Chelsea being the harbinger of football's meltdown as if it's somebody else's problem, I'm going take out my cliche gun and shoot the whole fucking lot of them.
Yes, working class fans are being priced out of football. Yes, players get paid crazy money, and yes, Chelsea are the bulging symptoms of the game's life-threatening venereal disease, but none of it can happen in a fanless vacuum.
If fans stopped paying, stopped subscribing, stopped buying the merchandise, the whole thing would collapse, like the long-held socialist wet dream where the festering boil inevitably bursts and the demon capitalism implodes upon himself.
Murdoch and the rest would be gone before you could say the words profiteering, irrelevant parasite, and the game whose imminent demise we all love to lament like it's beyond our control would be back in the hands of its true owners. And we could all say "I told you so" together.
But no, we won't do that, and people like Murdoch and the chairmen of football clubs know that instinctively. We'll wallow and we'll moan about our lot a while, and then we'll bend down proudly and take our medicine up the ass.
I've been stalking the speculation and it now looks almost certain Michael Owen is returning to Liverpool. A very nice outcome.
Seven million for Peter Crouch but Liverpool are not in the market for Michael Owen, despite having first option.
I hope the faith in Morientes and Cisse pays off. If not, the euphoria and reverence felt now among Liverpool fans will be quickly replaced by other contagious emotions.
With Houllier, people look back to a substitution as the point it all went wrong, when he took off Hamann against Leverkusen. If next season shows the Champions League win to be a blip—i.e. Liverpool finish fourth or so in the Premiership and do not win the Champions League (a likely scenario in a season of rebuilding)—it's not hard to see a point in the future when the knives comes out, or what moment they'll choose as when it went wrong for Benitez.
One of my favorite musicians is also a Liverpool fan and a great writer.
Wasn't there some match on last week? Relive it here. Very intelligent and sensible stuff. I agree that Liverpool did not play badly for large parts of the first half.
I have a sore head.
After yesterday's tears and joy, it's time for some "cold-light-of-day" analysis.
In my opinion, Ancelloti made three major tactical errors.
First, he took off Crespo, scorer of two of the goals. John Dahl Tomassen came on and had a great game. For us.
Second, he didn't react quickly enough to Liverpool's changes in the second half.
Third, and perhaps most significant, he got the choice and order of penalty takers wrong.
Serginio, the Brazilian, who I can only describe as fashionable-looking, had been thwarted by Stephen Gerrard every time he attacked. Every single time. To dip into the cliche bag, it was a real case of men against boys. I couldn't believe it when he was the one who stepped up to take the first penalty. What was the logic? The guy had been outclassed and humbled all night. His confidence had been shattered. And then he steps up to take the first penalty, which he predictably skied. Very strange.
p.s. Was this viewer the only one to notice and espouse on multiple occasions the possibility of a resemblance between an Italian midfielder and a certain fictional race of beings from Lord of the Rings? Sorry, Mr. Pirlo. It was heat-of-the-moment stuff and I needed an outlet.
When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high,
And don't be afraid of the dark.
At the end of a storm,
There's a golden sky,
And the sweet silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind, Walk on through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and blown...
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone... You'll never walk alone.
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone...
You'll never walk alone
I would agree with your comments below. I have read everything there is possible to read about this final. My Turkish has improved considerably over the last few weeks.
In Belgium everyone has cable so I zap like a fiend looking and listening for any mention whatsoever of Liverpool or Milan. The Greek channel had a small segment so I sat there transfixed as dodgy, cheap graphics flooded the screen extolling the virtues of defensive formations, attacking pace and changing hair colours. (Cisse - the Blue Bullet).
The atmosphere looks great over there and now the regrets are slipping in just a little. But not enough as with Rafa's guidance we will be back and hopefully next season when the game will be in Paris.
I have had some considerable e-mail arguments with Mancunian "friends" recently. They are worried sick that after 15 years of being able to say we have nothing "important" (that was debated but they stand firm) this is really worrying them that we could actually win the European Cup and shut them up for a long time. They are twisted people and the fact they are more preoccupied with us than the Americanisation of their club speaks for itself.
I refuse to predict any score tonight as this has been my ritual. I will arrive at the Old Oak pub near to the European Commission in Brussels with a copy of today's L'Equipe. My friend has to arrive one minute after me and he too will bring a paper - a Flemish one. Then we will order a cheap beer and toast each other. Once the bottle is close to being empty then we can order food and wait for other people arrive. God help those who are already sitting at "our" table when we arrive at 18h15!
I can't fucking wait for tonight and it has indeed overidden everything I have done the last few weeks. Tomorrow will be bleary eyed and red-faced. I hope to provide a proud smile to those that await a reaction rather than a grimace.
Come on you mighty redmen, do us proud over there and bring the big cup back to Liverpool...
As the players and fans of Liverpool descend on the city of Istanbul, the nerves have suddenly arrived in distant Tokyo.
Nerves that I know are also arriving or have already arrived in Brussels and in Dublin. Work tomorrow is going to be somewhat difficult for Liverpool fans, whereever they are in the world.
The traditional ways of filling the waiting time are now redundant. I've given up on the forums that have served me so well since the semi-final. I've read all I can stomach about the disaster of Heysel. I've marvelled at the solidarity Milan showed after Hillsborough. I've enjoyed the writing of songs and the preparing of banners. I've had my fill of the permutations and possibilities, the tactics and the dangers. The cultural discussions on the wearing of the fez. I know Milan inside out by this stage (which is something considering my aversion to Italian football). There is nothing more to read, nothing more to consider. The vacuum of redundant time until the early hours of tomorrow morning knows no more filling.
If you're not a football fan, you may think I'm being sentimental and dramatic. But this is an honest account of my life right now. If you're a football fan, you know this obsessive narrowing of focus and you understand.
Games like this are not once-in-a-lifetime affairs. I remember 1985 in Brussels clearly, 1984 in Rome slightly less so. There was also 2001 in Dortmund, but that wasn't quite the same. Nights like tomorrow don't come often, and when they do they take over your life.
Now, twenty years later, with 36 hours remaining, we wait.
I'm leaving the words to Pat this time.
Games like these demand irrational behaviour. They search out people too weak to let logic rule. Superstition dictates what one does during the day of the match. Which route did I take to work? Is my bus on strike? Where are my lucky boxer shorts? (Have they been washed?) Who did I watch the game with? Are they in the country?
My problem is I can't really remember what I did last week, apart from come to work then go to the pub, as I was so nervous. I know the pub had happy hour until 10pm so bottles of Stella and Maes will be consumed at one euro a pop. I know I ate at a cheap yet gloomy restaurant near the office. I think I had pasta but know I read l'Equipe, the French football daily. Despite having bought the paper 30 minutes ago I know I am only allowed to read it once the pasta has arrived, not before.
People may mock but this kind of stuff actually works. In 2001 I was at home near Liverpool watching the FA Cup final with my folks. Liverpool vs Arsenal. A great occasion. Arsenal battered us for about 75 minutes. Scored a goal, hit the post, should have had a penalty, were well on top. I told my mum to wear the Liverpool scarf I had bought my dad for his birthday. 5 minutes later Owen scored. I almost smashed the living room lamp open with my head as I jumped up to celebrate. Then, one sublime pass from Paddy Berger later, Liverpool had won the cup. Wonderful day. Four days later I was in Dortmund to see another wonderful game, but no scarves were necessary that time.
Tonight the famous 12th man will play its part. Banners, flags and of course scarves will fill the Kop. Mourinho, clearly respecting our club and its manager will have to acknowledge such fervent support. On nights like these Liverpool truly have the best fans in the world - and this is not just some platitude to appease those eager to hear such tributes as perfected by Jole Cole after their Championship clincher on Saturday. Chelsea are a soulless club and despite the vast difference in Premiership points, tonight's game and the depth of fervour and history will overwhelm these young upstarts.
I didn't predict a result last week, or prior to the two Juventus games. Suffice to say I will be in my dull restaurant this lunchtime, pasta in front, paper just to the left happily anticipating a hangover and a smile of remembrance as I wake up tomorrow morning.
As I was saying to Pat earlier, before Liverpool's Champions League semi-final against Chelsea tonight, I feel as apathetic as a dead trout. As apathetic as a bag of sand.
Chelsea inspire nothing. They've spent hundreds of millions of a Russian gangster's money on top footballing mercenaries from all over the world and now, surprise surprise, they're starting to win things. I don't care.
At least I can despise Manchester United. Or admire Arsenal. Or sense from a distance the local rivalry with Everton (though it means little to me). For Chelsea, there's nothing. I don't hate cockneys. I don't see Abramovitch as any more dodgy than any other Russian gangster. I don't mind Mourinho and his Portugeese Cockney wide-boy routine. I look out for Damien Duff's form and, from a technical perspective, enjoy the defensive brilliance of Carvalho. In fact, I admire a lot of Chelsea's football. Dispassionately. But I have no history with this team with no history.
At most, all they can prove is the bleeding obvious: with enough money, you can buy whatever can be bought. The satisfaction for an honest, intelligent Chelsea fan when they do inevitably start winning trophies can only be comparable to the satisfaction I get from putting 120 yen in a vending machine and winning a cup of coffee.
Likewise, the disappointment of losing to them is like the disappointment of not winning a cup of coffee if you don't put 120 yen into the machine.
I promise to be more enthusiastic when we play Milan in the final.
I've talked about wanting to kill Junichi Inamoto once before. Well, the murderous intent is back. The Premiership season draws to a close. Liverpool are involved. Sky Perfect TV has even been showing Liverpool games. All nice.
Enter my pudgy nemesis.
Two body blows.
One, he declares himself fit and off the pies.
Two, he returns from a loan spell at the prestigious Cardiff City club to warm the bench of the even more prestigious West Bromwich Albion club. Yes, that's sarcasm. Prestige, Cardiff City and WBA have never appeared in the same sentence before.
Seeing Junichi back in the Premiership--albeit motionless on the WBA bench--Sky Perfect TV have decided to disrespect the intelligence of the Japanese football viewing public and start broadcasting WBA games again.
In its own right, broadcasting WBA games to a mass audience is just wrong. At the very least, it should come with a warning to viewers.
In the context of pulling Liverpool games to make room for them, it's a motive for murder.
Junichi, our paths cross again. I am the unwitting street, and you are leaving Paula Radcliffe.
Today is the 16th anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster. If you feel like crying, read this (and the comments).
The Juve ultras displaying something of a sense of humour. Pity they couldn't leave it at that.
In the stressful, ridiculous, embarrassing, clearly inexplicable, and sadly vicarious existence of a rational person who suffers the addiction of attaching crazy importance to a meaningless distraction, nights like that are torture, then disbelief, then joy. Madness is an abstraction. In reality, it's just the normal condition of one human being. And every form of it has its own rewards.
The best banner in the Liverpool end? "Make us dream."
Tonight Liverpool play Juventus in Turin. Turin and its surrounding provinces have banned the sale of alcohol for 48 hours. Liverpool supporters have been advised not to travel independently to the game, not to travel in small groups, not to wear Liverpool colours, and not to use taxis to travel to the stadium. The Italian police have sent in an undercover special police unit to help deal with possible crowd violence. Last night in Milan, thugs fired flares -- how did they get flares into the stadium in the first place? -- and other missiles from the terraces. AC Milan's goalkeeper suffered burns when a flare hit him on the shoulder. He was lucky. The game was abandoned and trouble erupted in Milan in the aftermath. This followed one of the worst weekends of fan violence in Italian football history.
As it was in the dark days of Heysel, football is out of control again. I fear for the Liverpool fans in Turin tonight. This time it's an Italian problem. Regardless of what happens tonight, it's time for UEFA to be brave, accept the resulting loss in revenue, and impose a blanket ban on participation of Italian clubs in European competitions. The whole culture and organizational structure of Italian football needs to be changed.
On the eve of Liverpool's highest profile game in years, I have to say I don't know so much about Juventus or Italian football in general, because I don't like the Italian style of play.
On paper, Juventus look formidable. Buffon is apparently the best goalkeeper in the world. Nedved is a former European player of the year. Cannavaro is called by some the best central defender in the world. Zambrotta is considered the best left-back. Del Piero, well we all know about him. Same applies for Trezeguet. Emerson is the captain of Brazil. Abrahimovitch is considered one of the world's best strikers. Manager Capello has seen and done it all before. And Juventus are currently joint-top of the Italian league.
On paper, we're bunched.
I'm going to agree with the conventional wisdom on this game: Liverpool need to avoid conceding any goals in the first leg. I'd add one thing I haven't seen mentioned on Red and White Kop or elsewhere: we desperately need to avoid injury in the first leg, especially of central players, be they in defense, midfield or attack. We have no cover.
If the Man. Utd/AC Milan game was a harbinger for tonight's encounter, the message it brings is one of doom. AC Milan laughed at Man. Utd. Their defense was almost rock solid (apart from one chance from Fortune in the first leg and one from Giggs in the second). And United, whatever else they might be, are not a team who can't create chances.
We got the draw we didn't want and things look bad. If we get a hiding over two legs, not many non-Liverpool fans would be surprised.
But.
We're going to make one or two chances, especially at Anfield. Here's hoping those chances fall to Garcia, Riise, Gerrard, or Biscan (yes, you're not reading that wrong).
There are some worries about Hyppia's confidence coming into this big game. I wouldn't worry about it. I think Hyppia will do a job on the big smiling Swede, leaving Carragher to deal with Del Piero and the rest of us hoping Trezeguet never gets onto the pitch.
This is a big chance for Baros up front. Despite his enthusiasm and ability to get past defenders, I'm not convinced that he's much of a striker at all, but tonight is his big chance to shine like he did at Euro 2004.
I do have faith in Benitez, though, who certainly won't be daunted by the occasion. Expect Liverpool to play a very tight game tonight and Juventus to do the same. It's going to be low scoring and possibly boring, with either team winning by the odd goal, or more likely a 1-1 draw.
Smicer to start, Garcia to score, Liverpool to go out bravely over two legs, AC Milan to win the tournament.
Trouble in the Japan camp ahead of tonight's World Cup Qualifier against Iran. Zico has decided to revert to 4-4-2 and is playing Nakata as Captain, despite Nakata having been out with injury for a year. The players don't like it, thinking they should stick with their familiar 3-5-2 system.
For me, tactically-inept, Kashima-Antlers-favoring, JFA "yes man" Zico is delaying the development of Japanese football and the sooner he's out, the faster Japan can build on the great work of former manager Philippe Troussier. In that sense, this rare open criticism by Japan's players is a positive thing.
On the other hand, teams that are infighting in the media on the eve of big games almost never win them. The great but bickering Dutch teams of recent decades proved that so many times.
I hope I'm wrong, but it's not looking good for Japan in the cauldron of Tehran tonight.
In last Sunday's Merseyside derby, Rob Styles went for the tolerant, "we're all adults here" approach to refereeing, choosing to have quiet words with transgressing players instead of enforcing the letter of the law. Until he produced a straight red for Milan Baros, that is.
That Baros deserved a straight red is not in doubt, and to argue that he didn't would take away from valid criticisms that need to be made about the refereeing of the game. In light of Styles' policy of leniency until that point, it is hardly surprising (and very pleasing) that Liverpool manager Rafa Benitez refused to isolate the Baros incident from the wider context of the game and heavily criticize the player, deciding instead to point to the double standards he saw in operation in how Styles refereed the game. Baros rightly should have walked, but so too should Tony Hibbert, who, as a result of Styles' policy of selective leniency, received a quiet word instead of a yellow card for one of his barkingly bookable offences. And Duncan Ferguson walking off that pitch without a yellow card should be baffling to everyone who saw his usual display of vicious elbows and simian verbal abuse. Treating a monkey as a diplomat won't make that monkey a diplomat. And being nice to Duncan Ferguson won't make Duncan Ferguson a nice man.
I know from personal experience that refereeing is a thankless task, but on Sunday the only point both sets of fans could agree on was that the referee didn't do his job. And that's poor for a professional referee. David Moyes of Everton complained his players were not protected (which is laughable considering those said players spent most of the match trying to maim the Liverpool team). More justifiably, he questioned the mere three minutes of stoppage time the referee allowed in the second half. Of course, Liverpool could just as easily decry the lack of stoppage time in the first half when Everton looked like a bemused and baffled park football team who'd stayed up drinking until the early hours of the morning before.
The lesson to be learned is not complicated. The softly-softly approach to refereeing cannot be applied in the frenzied, volatile atmosphere of a local derby with 15 million pounds at stake. It may be nice to be nice, but if you're going to be nice, you have to be so consistently. And being consistently nice is almost never practical, especially in local derbies.
Forget the obvious consequence: four Liverpool injuries. I'd even argue that the well-meaning but incompetent refereeing was a contributing factor in the post-game unrest, and the 54 arrests.
On the eve of Liverpool's vital game away to Blackburn, the rumor is Rafael Benitez is second on Real Madrid's shortlist for choosing a new manager.
If Real were to lure Benitez away (and I for one think he will stay), it would only be symptomatic, and further unneeded proof, of the rift in loyalty to one club opening up in free-market, "highest bidder" modern corporate football between the fans of the game and the mercenaries who thrive within it. (This is also the very reason why the current fans' hero of Liverpool football club is not Michael Owen or Stephen Gerrard but rather Jamie Carragher.)
Mere symptom or not, on a gut level, I wish Real Madrid, their ruthless, instant-result hungry chairman, their primadonna team of whinging galacticos, their racist supporters, their Spanish government money, the whole beautiful lot, a very pleasant future involving a large hole and disappearance.
Dominic Fifield (The Guardian): Lure of Real Set to Test Resolve of Benitez
If the atmosphere on my sofa for the first leg against Leverkusen was mostly as tense as a bad day in a traditional Japanese office, the feeling for the second leg was more like a lounging on the deck of your own yacht on a calm, sunny day, breezing into Rio to see the carnival.
Liverpool now need to avoid the Italians in the Quarter Finals.
Something is rotten, and it isn't in the state of Denmark. When Sky Perfectv make the rational decision to show Everton-Blackburn instead of Liverpool-Newcastle (Japanese), it's time for any self-respecting Japan-based Liverpool fan to reach for the cyanide capsule.
Worry, Worry, Worry, Ecstasy, Worry, Agony, Satisfaction, Relief, Worry.
Worry after we scored the first that they would equalize. Worry after we scored the second that they would get one back. Ecstasy after Hamann scored the third. Immediately replaced by worry that we would somehow mess up in the dying seconds. We did. Agony. Satisfaction (albeit tarnished--think of somebody spitting on your ideal birthday cake) with a two goal lead to take to Germany. Mature reflection about all the chances they had. Our defending was dire. We could have lost. We deserve to be ahead but we could have lost. Relief. Worry about the second leg.
Why do I bother? Where is the enjoyment in this?
-----------------
Once the eternal spluttering Skoda, Igor Biscan cruised the midfield like a high-end German automobile last night. Such acceleration, durability and finesse (what a pass!) should really be enough to get him picked for the Carling Cup Final. (He won't be, of course.) Igor, forgive me. I take it all back.
I have the warped confidence of a long-suffering Liverpool fan about tonight's big game. We lost our last game badly, Alonso, Gerrard, Morientes and Cisse are all out, and Leverkusen have just hit form--what's not to be confident about?
These are the games we win. I'm saying 1-0, the goal to come from Riise in the first half.
You may have noticed I've almost stopped writing about things Liverpool.
It has less to do with how hopelessly inconsistent we are, because really that's nothing new. It's not even the utter bleakness of the Birmingham performance, dung though it was. It's more a matter of not needing to anymore, since finding the superb unofficial Liverpool forum Red and White Kop. (Pat's been linking to this for years but I only really bothered to check it out recently.)
Red and White Kop is full of opinions and discussions, most of them worth reading. There's a fair bit of solidarity, the right mix of local pride and international flavour, and more than a touch of cutting comedy.
Take a recent discussion about the upcoming home game against Leverkusen in the Champions League, perhaps our most important this season if not this decade.
Stephen Gerrard's suspension means the captaincy will go to someone else. Since Jamie Carragher is playing brilliantly at the moment and Sami Hyppia is going through a Jerzy Dudek phase, one of the forum members suggested the captaincy should go to Carragher and not Hyppia on the night, despite Hyppia being the club vice captain.
Some agreed.
Others laughed at the suggestion.
Others questioned if this was no more than Little Englandism, the suggestion only being made because Carragher is a card-carrying scouser and Hyppia a stranger from a land of saunas.
Others talked of a Jamie Carragher bandwagon.
Yet others said it would further damage Hyppia's wilting confidence, remembering that not only has his form gone but he also was stripped of the captaincy last season.
Others still suggested Didi Hamann should take over, as the game is against Germans (not sure of the logic there) and also it will be he who has to carry the team in the absence of Gerrard and Alonso.
Some got annoyed and, er, poetical: "Who cares who's captain so long as we batter the c**ts."
And then there was one bright spark, of the "there's always one" variety. His comment?
"We'll let Biscan wear it [the captain's armband] around his head, he can act like he is Rambo..."
Brilliant article by Paul Tompkins comparing the transfer policies, successes and failures of Houllier, Benitez and Wenger, and using the results to point out the hypocrisies and sensationalism of Alan Hansen.
Watched the second half of the Arsenal vs. Man Utd game last night. I felt both midfields played almost identically to how they played against Liverpool at Anfield.
What has happened to Arsenal? Pires was muscled out, Vieira muted, Henry mostly peripheral, Lundbergh missing, with only Denis Bergkamp performing at the same standard as he did last season.
United, on the other hand, were solid in defence and incisive in attack. Keane and Scholes, as they did against Liverpool, dominated the midfield. Ronaldo was given too much space, and cocky little bastard though he is, he used it well. Rooney and Giggs also caused constant damage. And Heinze was excellent again.
It doesn't help Arsenal that their goalkeeper is a wandering lemon, or that Pascale Cygan was present on the pitch, but in terms of the unwillingness or inability to get forward down the flanks after Silvestre walked, on home soil too, it's hard not to say we're witnessing the end of the Arsenal era.
Or maybe, like against Liverpool, United's defending was just too good. I can't see them losing again in the league this season, and they now have to be a very good bet to win the Champion's League as well. And we have to remember that Van Nistleroy wasn't even playing.
It's depressing.
As the crisis at Liverpool Football Club worsens, Alan Hansen calls for new investment, saying Steve Morgan's money would be perfect.
The BBC wheels out Raddy Antic to strike a note of caution about Liverpool's wonderful, wonderful signing of Fernando Morientes.
According to Antic, Morientes works better as the second striker in a 4-4-2 formation, and no longer has the pace to work as the front striker in a 4-5-1, the favoured formation of Rafa Benitez.
This post is a forum for those involved in the planned Anfield expedition 2004. Bottom line: if we do have to buy from mangy touts, we buy from mangy touts.
And nothing to worry about at all, right? I mean, when was the last time the Greeks did anything in football?
A few weeks ago, a teenager from Liverpool cheated in a football match, cynically bringing to an end the record unbeaten run of one of the best club teams football has ever seen.
Years after diving was allegedly introduced to England by now German manager Juergen Klinsmann, this way of cheating is now part of the game at every level, from the parks to the stadiums of the Premiership. Everybody simulates these days, even the six-year olds.
But would it be difficult to eliminate? Again, I think it's a matter of will.
Here's how I'd do it:
First, I'd change the rules to include automatic red cards for what I'd call "diving with intent" inside the box. If, after a player goes down, he then looks to the referee and appeals for a penalty, that would signify intent. Let's call players' bluff and require them "apply" for penalties. If they don't appeal, they can't be awarded a penalty. If they appeal (show intent) despite it clearly not being a penalty, they get an automatic red card. That alone would reduce the amount of hopeful auditions by the method actors of the penalty area.
Second, I'd enable after-the-fact punishment based on video evidence. This would not be to overturn human-error refereeing decisions, but more to reverse decisions influenced by deliberate player cheating. If simulation is found, awarded penalties (and final results) should be overturned after matches. Fines, suspensions and even points deductions would also apply.
The divers would be gone within a season.
Okay, so we've no strikers without torn strings or broken limbs, and our makeshift strikers are also crocked. In fact, lining out up front for Liverpool these days is akin to signing a pre-agreement on a contract you've taken out on yourself. Ian Rush may be back in the picture soon enough if this keeps up.
Then you've got the defence. Hyppia and Carragher have no fucking clue--absolutely none, not an idea--what to do with Henry. Arsenal always get lucky decisions against us (remember Francis "the Chin" Jeffares blatant dive and the subsequent penalty awarded at Anfield a couple of seasons ago). We're deriving inspiration from Djimi Traore and Igor Biscan, who with all due respect were not put on this earth to be Oracles.
Then you've got Harry Kewell still on the pies, and Chris Kirkland likely to get injured coming out of the tunnel, banging his head off the "This is Anfield" sign or something.
Arsenal are still wounded and yet to recover after their defeat at United. Ominously, though, Campbell is returning on Sunday instead of plant for the other team, or just plant, Mr. Cygan.
"So what," I hear me say. It all means nothing. Just a few factors that could be interpreted in any number of ways (with the aid of a drill for your head). I'm betting (quite literally) on Liverpool. Forget water and wine and all that transubstantiation lark my friends: this is a real leap of faith. At least, afterwards, I get to watch my money turn into Roland's lunch.
For once I agree with Alan Green. Forget fines. They won't work and FIFA shouldn't profit from it, anyway. Order a number of home World Cup qualifying games to be played behind closed doors. Also, deduct points from the offending country's qualifying campaign. And authorize the use of advanced surveillance and monitoring technologies and set the cops de-post-facto on individuals in the crowd. Round about the following Tuesday morning doorbells should start ringing. It's time to get all Chairman Mao on this. Some good can come even of Mao. Culture of fear tactics circa the Cultural Revolution are what is needed to remove mob racism from football crowds. Anybody wanting to shout racist comments at Spain's next home game would hold back--for fear of being singled out there and then by those standing next to them or being arrested a week later, or both.
Junichi Inamoto is the only Japanese player in the English Premiership.
He now plays for West Brom. And when I say plays, I mean never plays.
The top four football teams in England are Arsenal, Chelsea, Man Utd, and Liverpool, probably in that order.
Sky PerfecTV, the Japanese cable TV company with the Japanese rights to broadcast English football, shows four Premiership games every week.
Until recently, these games were always the games of Arsenal, Chelsea, Man Utd and Liverpool.
I am a Liverpool fan.
Recently, Junichi Inamoto declared himself fit again.
Most Sky PerfectTV viewers are, not surprisingly, Japanese.
Following Inamoto's declaration, Sky PerfecTV changed their policy to include showing the fit-again local star's games.
So they now show Arsenal, Chelsea, Man Utd, and the most tedious, vapid, already dead football team on the planet, West Bromwich Albion.
And who gets shanghaied to make room?
Exactly.
Junichi Inamoto, you ruinous, killjoy bastard, I want to murder you.
But it's nothing personal.
The Daily Telegraph says it was tomato soup while the Daily Mirror claims it was "food and pea soup". If I had been in that tunnel throwing things myself, I think I would have thrown an undefrosted leg of lamb at Rooney.
You'll notice I've thrown in a 5-pointer.
Liverpool 4 Charlton 1
Man Utd. 1 Arsenal 3
Elgin City 1 Stenhousemuir 2
The British FA is likely to enforce a strict penalty for doping on Adrian Mutu of Chelsea after the Romanian striker tested positive for a banned substance, rumoured to be cocaine.
Should taking cocaine, a recreational drug, qualify as a doping violation? Can taking cocaine be seen as something that would enhance a footballer's performance?
Doesn't taking cocaine have the opposite effect? Isn't it abuse of an illegal substance despite the knowledge that it will lead to deteriorated performance? Cocaine is a performance deterioration drug. Vitamin C, or a good night's sleep, has more relevance to performance enhancement.
Here's my thinking. Abuse for recreational purposes of illegal substances, unlike use for performance enhancement purposes of substances that are legal but prohibited in a sport's regulations, is primarily a criminal offense. When traces of illegal substances not linked to performance enhancement are found in a random FA drug test, the case should be passed on to the police or public prosecutors for investigation.
Of course, the FA can and should take additional action itself. In this case, it should punish Mutu severely for bringing the game into disrepute, not for breach of the sport's regulations on performance enhancement.
Recreational drug abuse, though a serious offence for a professional footballer with a responsibility to be a role model for young children, has nothing to do with doping.
I'm going to make this a regular weekly feature. Here are this week's games and my predictions. Yours, as we used to say in games of marbles.
Fulham 1 Liverpool 2
Arsenal 1 Villa 1 (It ends here)
Birmingham 0 United 3
"Avant le repos, les Verts ont dominé la France au nombre d'occasions et de duels gagnés, prouvant d'emblée que le kick and rush avait été laissé au musée contre un 4-4-2 vif et cohérent." (Before the break, the Greens dominated France in terms of number of chances and battles won, proving that the kick and run tactics of past Irish teams have been confined to the museums and a lively and coherent 4-4-2 has been adopted in their place.)
It's all the more pleasing to read about Ireland's fine result in Paris in France's leading sports newspaper, L'Equipe. The L'Equipe report is objective and not alarmist about France's performance and its implications, generous and knowing (see above excerpt) in its praise for Ireland, and limits itself to just the one "nation of alcoholics" stereotype.