Man and Ball Issue Three

MAN AND BALLSPHERE OF INFLUENCE

ISSUE THREE -- SEPTEMBER 2011

COVER -- GRAEME BANDEIRA >

< CONTENTS DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >

OPEN DANNY CHADBURN >

When I stand and speak the world takes notice,

My Babelfish language bellows, projecting globally,

I’m an inspiration to those who need it most,

Giving opportunity and vocality to the ostracised.

I’m a photosynthetic catalyst, helping acorns become oaks,

Encouraging investment over ignorance and isolation.

Allowing nations to play a part on the world stage,

I take my seat at the highest political table.

Tackling corruption, creating infrastructure,

Rebuilding communities, providing a future.

Twelve regular pentagons and twenty regular hexagons,

Compose my leather-clad sphere of influence

>

http://www.manandball.com/p/download.html

Find Your Way Back >

Smugglers’ Blues >

Domestic Bliss >

Never Say Never >

< OPEN

< Concrete Roots

Jude Ellery reports on the Homeless World Cup

< The Chairman Diaries -- Episode Three

Has David Hartrick’s hero finally turned a corner?

< Sudan Before The Split

Gary Al-Smith returns with another tale from Africa

< How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Nordic Football

Dr Strangelove, AKA Charlie Anderson, on History, Geography and GCSEs

< The Special Relationship

What links U2 with football in America? Niall Farrell reveals all.

< Let’s Have Those Wankers!

Michal Zacodny tells the story of Poland’s nearly men

< Heroes In Abstraction

Chris Mann eulogises eleven legends

CLOSE >

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The�backstreets�of�London�on�a�rainy

Sunday�morning,�just�before�dawn,

are�an�ideal�place�to�be�alone�with

your�thoughts.��Nigel�had�been�wan-

dering�for�hours,� trying�to�pull�his

out�of�the�tangle�of�emotions�which

recent� developments� had�wrought.

Lost�in�his�troubles,�he�had�little�care

for�anything�else,�at�the�moment.

When�the�first�drops�had�begun�he

hadn’t�even�noticed.��They�had�in-

creased�into�a�steady�drizzle�which

the� troubled�god�had� ignored�until

the�weather�insisted,�nearly�soaking

him�through.��Angered�at�the�intru-

sion�into�his�misery,�he�had�finally,

grudgingly,�spared�a�thought�to�craft

a�mac�to�ward�off�the�downpour.��

Further�protection,�in�the�form�of�a

hat�or�umbrella,�he�denied�himself.

< CONTENTS 1 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >

FIND YOUR WAY BACK


The� oppressive�weather� suited� his

mood�to�a�tee.��He�let�the�dirty�water,

filled�with�the�soot�and�mire�of�the

city,�plaster�his�hair�to�his�forehead,

rivulets�first�dripping,�then�running

down�his�brow,�his�nose�and�from�his

beard.��He�was�not�the�type�to�permit

tears�to�flow�freely;�thus�he�melded

himself�with�the�deluge�and�allowed

it�to�express�his�sorrow.

The�girl�was�at�the�center�of�it.��He

had�opened�himself�up�to�her,�only

to�find�that�she�--�and�her�brother�--

had� been� playing� him� for� a� fool.

Hadn’t� he� learnt� that� lesson� ages

ago?��

Apparently�not.��

Before� he� knew� Liv� for� what� she

truly�was,�he�had�marveled�at�the

vibrance�of�her� spirit,� so� rare� in�a

mortal.��He�had�struggled�to�reveal

himself� to� her;� wondered� how� he

could�fashion�a� life�with�her,�brief

though�it�may�be.��He�had�seen�how

well�and�happily�the�American�cou-

ple�had�taken�to�their�partnership�and

envied�them.

Nigel�had�worked�alone�for�an�eter-

nity.��He�had�enjoyed�brief�dalliances

but,�until�now,�had�never�considered

any�woman�his�equal.��Maybe�it�was

time�he�did.��Caught�in�this�blinding

infatuation,�he�had�even�considered

petitioning�the�Lady�to�raise�the�girl

up,�so�that�she�truly�could�become

his�equal,�only�to�discover�that�it�had

already�been�done�and�Liv�was�here

to�supplant�him.�

The�thought�filled�him�with�rage�and

bitterness,�but�it�was�not�for�Liv�or

for�the�Lady.��Instead,�it�was�directed

inward.� � Nigel� knew� that� he� had

brought�this�on�himself.��Even�before

managing�to�put�himself�out�of�com-

mission�for�nigh�on�a�century,�all

because�he�was�in�the�mood�for�a�bit

of� fun,� he� had� been� asking� for� it.

Whenever�matters�came�to�a�head,

he� allowed� his� emotions� to� rule,

rather�than�his�wit.��

That�had�long�served�him�well,�if�not

efficiently.��Following�in�his�head-

strong� ways,� Britain� had� forged� a

global�empire.��They�had�stepped�on

many�feet�along�the�way,�it�was�true,

meddling�in�the�affairs�of�India�and

Cathay,�contributing�the�oppression

or�eradication�of�native�cultures�in

South�Africa,�Australia�and�America,

and�failing�to�answer�the�Irish�Question,


FIND YOUR WAY BACK


closer�to�home.��

While�he�had�slept,�the�butcher’s�bill

had� come� due.� � Truth� be� told,� he

wasn’t�sure�that�he�could�have�pre-

vented�the�decline�of�the�Empire�had

he�been�awake,�but�it�mattered�not.

He�could�not�change�what�was.��And

now,�what�is�and�what�will�be�had

been�passed�on�to�the�charge�of�another.

He�wanted�to�fight�to�take�back�what

was�his�--�what�had�been�his.��Nigel

knew�better,�though.��The�Lord�and

Lady�were�all.��What�they�had�given,

they�could�reclaim.� �He�hadn’t� the

power�to�stand�against�them,�and,�if

he�did,�then�all�that�was�good�in�life

would� stand� against� him.� �Yet,� he

was�strong,�in�body,�mind�and�spirit.

He�longed�to�have�purpose,�to�know

the�mind�of�the�Lady.��

The�thought�clung�to�him,�and�as�it

did,�the�rain�intensified,�commensu-

rate�with�his�growing�self-pity.��He

stepped�out�from�a�narrow�sidestreet

into�a�wider� thoroughfare.� �Across

the� road�was�a� small�common,� re-

plete�with� the� typical�benches�and

commemorative� statue.� � The� open

space�afforded�a�view�of�the�horizon.

A�soft�grey�light�was�pushing�up�at

the� black� night� and� the� thick� grey

clouds�of�the�storm�were�becoming

visible.��Morning�was�approaching

but�Nigel�wasn’t�ready�to�accept�the

hope�it�offered.��

In� the� open,� the� wind� whipped

around�him,�trying�to�lift�the�tails�of

his�mac�and�expose�him�to�the�storm;

short�gusts�hitting�his�face�like�angry

slaps,� intended�to�bring�him�to�his

senses.��Undeterred,�Nigel�tightened

the�belt�and�raised�the�collar�of�his

coat.��Then,�ducking�his�head�against

the�gale,�he�crossed�the�road,�making

for�the�park.��

Cutting� through� it,�he� stuck� to� the

curved�walkway,�which�brought�him

around�to�the�statue,�a�military�figure

in�regal�pose�staring�off�into�the

distance.� � Some� contemporary� of

Wellington’s,�judging�from�the�uni-

form,�but�Nigel�had�little�interest.��As

he�passed�the�monument,�he�noticed

another�figure�moving�towards�him

through�the�rain.

Eyes�widening,�he�stopped�short.��It

was�a�woman�in�an�elegant�dress�that

shimmered�softly�despite�the�lack�of

light�in�the�pre-dawn.��Her�skin�was

pale�and�she�had�strong�but�fair�fea-

tures.��Her�long�tresses�flowed�freely


FIND YOUR WAY BACK


in�the�wind�but�were�untouched�by

the�rain.��Even�from�this�distance�he

could�see�the�deep�wells�of�her�eyes.

It�was�the�Lady.��

Instinct,�more�than�fear,�made�him

look�past�her.��In�the�shadows,�at�the

far�gate�to�the�park�stood�a�tall�dark

figure,�wearing�a�helm�and�dark�ar-

mour.��His�hand�rested�on�the�haft�of�a

sword.�Through�the�visor,�Nigel�could

feel�his�gaze,�as�well.��The�Lord.��

“Child,”�a�soft,�melodius�voice�in-

toned.

Nigel�shifted�his�gaze�from�the�distant

figure�of�the�Lord.��The�Lady�stood

before�him�now,�her�eyes�searching

deep� into� his� own.� � Blushing,� he

bowed�his�head�and�went�to�one�knee.

“Mother,”�he�murmured.

For�that�was�what�she�was;�Mother

of�everything.

“Rise,� child,”� she� said.� � “You� are

troubled� by� what� I� have� done.

Come,� talk�with�me.� � I� will� grant

your�wishes�--�both�of�them.”

As�Nigel� rose� back� to� his� feet,� he

looked�at�her,�confused.

“Wishes,�M’Lady?”

“Yes,�Nigel.��Did�you�not�desire�to

know� my� mind� and� to� have� pur-

pose?”

It�took�a�moment�for�understanding

to� dawn� on� the� stunned� god,� but

when� it� did,� a� bright� smile� broke

through�the�storm�of�his�mind.��He

nodded�gratefully�at�the�woman�be-

fore�him.

“That�I�did,�M’Lady.”

She�smiled�back�at�him,�with�a�hint

of�matronly�pride,�and�extended�an

arm.� � “Come,�walk�with�me�and� I

shall�explain�what�it�is�I�require�of


FIND YOUR WAY BACK


you�and�why.”

Beaming,�Nigel�held�out�his�arm�for

her� to�hold�and�fell� into�step.� �To-

gether,� they�backtracked�along� the

meandering� path�which�Nigel� had

taken�through�the�night,�putting�the

dawn� and,� with� its� coming,� the

slowly� dissipating� storm,� both� at

their�backs.� �As� they�left� the�com-

mon,�the�Lord�watched�after�them�a

moment�more,� before� relaxing� his

grip�on�his�weapon�and�slowly�fad-

ing�from�view.

“This�huge�rambling�city�is�quite�a

change�from�the�tiny�village�which

sat�on�these�banks�when�the�Romans

arrived,�isn’t�it,�my�child?”

“It�has�grown�much,�M’Lady.”

“Indeed,�very�much.”��She�smiled.

“There� are� so�many� humans� now,

and�they�have�learned�quickly.��They

can�travel�to�the�far�reaches�of�the

planet�in�less�than�a�day�or�speak�to

each�other�instantly�across�any�dis-

tance,� they� can� kill�with� impunity

but�will�struggle�to�preserve�every

last�drop�of�life,�and�they�seek�to�un-

lock�the�secrets�of�the�universe�even

though� they� do� not� comprehend

themselves.”

There�was�a�concerned�look�on�her

face�now.��

“This�is�the�most�difficult�time�for�a

mother,�Nigel.��Man�has�reached�his

adolescence.��He�believes�that�he�can

fend�for�himself�now,�and�has�no�need

for�gods�or�guidance.��The�strongest

do� many� things� in� the� name� of

progress,�believing�that�they�are�shap-

ing�a�better�world.��Yet,�how�can�you

shape�what�you�do�not�comprehend?

And�how�do�I�teach�them�when�they

will�no�longer�listen,�Nigel?”

The�god�shook�his�head.� �He,� too,

had� wondered� the� same� thing.� � It

troubled�him� that� those�who�knew

best�had�no�answer.��The�Lady�went

on.

“So�Man�seeks�to�order�everything

to�his�will,�to�make�this�a�safe�place.

Yet,�he�must�face�danger�and�chal-

lenge�to�continue�to�grow.��He�strug-

gles�to�find�the�balance�and�misses

the�mark�falling�both�short�and�long

and�to�the�left�and�right�in�his�efforts.

“And� as� he� struggles,�many� reject

the�way�of�the�strong-willed�and�fall


FIND YOUR WAY BACK


by�the�wayside.”

She�nodded�towards�a�pile�of�rubbish

piled� against� a�wall.� �Nigel� saw� a

cardboard�box,�with�rags�and�news-

papers�sticking�out�the�ends.��Even

through�the�light�rain�which�still�fell,

he�could�smell�a�trace�of�sweat�and

urine.� � Then� he� focused� on� dirty

grimy�fingers�poking�out�from�one

of� the� rags.� �A� man� was� sleeping

there�in�the�gutter.��An�empty�fifth�of

vodka� lay� just� out� of� reach� of� the

gnarled�hand.

He�had�seen�many�like�this�since�he

had� awoken� from�his� slumber;� far

more�than�the�few�miscreants�who

had� existed� in� the� harsher� world

which� had� existed� prior� to� his� ab-

sence.��With�everything�available�to

them�in�this�new�world,�he�did�not

understand� why� they� took� to� the

streets�in�such�numbers.�

“The�Society�of�Man�is�not�the�only

way�of� life,�Nigel”� the�Lady� said,

“Even�if�those�in�power�can�see�no

other.”��

Nigel�turned�to�her,�seeking�explana-

tion.

“And� the� powerful� have�made� the

world�such�a�tiny�place,�that�there�are

too�few�places�for�those�who�seek�a

different� path.� � Unable� to� escape,

they�hide�in�plain�sight,�only�notice-

able�when�they�intrude�on�grander

plans.��

“Yet,� they� are� my� children,� too,

Nigel.��They�need�my�care�and�pro-

tection�as�dearly�as�any.”

“You�would�have�me�shepherd�them,

M’Lady?”��

She�smiled�again.��“No�Nigel.��They

must�make�their�own�way�and�their

own�choices,� the� same�as� the� rest.

Soon,� there� may� be� one� suited� to

guiding�them.��I�would�only�ask�that

you�keep�them�in�your�thoughts�as

you�go�about�your�duties.”

“And�what�are�my�duties,�M’Lady?”

She�laughed,�brightly,�as� if�he�had

made�a�jest.��

“Gods�are�not�much�different� than

Man,�it�would�seem,�and�only�a�little

wiser�in�affairs�of�the�heart.”

She�stopped�and�turned�to�him.��He

faced� her� and� she� reached� up� to


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lightly�touch�his�cheek,�grinning�at

the�bemused�look�upon�his�face.��

“Your�duties�are�what�they�have�al-

ways� been,�Nigel.� � Look� after� the

people�of�this�place.”

“But�I�thought�that�you�wished�for�--”

Her�fingers�touched�his�lips,�silenc-

ing�him.�

“Liv�is�meant�to�help�you;�to�ground

you.� � You� have� missed� much� in

choosing�the�time�you�did�to�take�a

rest.”

He�started�to�protest�before�realising

she�was�now�jesting�with�him.

“Follow�what�is�in�your�heart,�Nigel.

The�girl�will�be�a�boon�to�you.”

“And�what�of�her�brother?��Should�I

give�him�my�trust,�as�well?”

A� look�of�pain� crossed� the�Lady’s

face.�

“A�mother�must�sometimes�be�hard

with�her�children,�Nigel.��An�eagle

drops�its�chicks�from�the�side�of�a

mountain,�only�swooping� in�at� the

last� moment,� if� they� fail� to� take

wing.��Then,�she�carries�them�up�and

drops� them�again.� �Such� treatment

doesn’t�always�engender�trust.��

“I’m� afraid� that� Mal� will� have� to

travel�a�hard�road�to�prepare�for�what

I�have�in�mind�for�him.��She�looked

back�at�the�cardboard�shelter�sadly

and�began�to�move�on.��Nigel�took

up�her�arm�once�more�and�walked

along�in�quiet�thought.��

Suddenly,�they�stepped�out�into�the

Belvedere�Road,�near�his�flat.��The

Lady�looked�up�at�him.

“I�will�take�your�leave�now,�but�first

I�wish�to�thank�you�for�helping�those

of�my�children�like�that�man�we�just

left.”

“M’Lady?”��Nigel�stuttered.��“To�be

honest,�I�have�never�really�taken�no-

tice�of�them�before.”

“I�know,”�she�smiled,�“but�you�have

aided�them�nonetheless.��Now�go�to

her.��She�is�waiting.”��■


FIND YOUR WAY BACK



DANNY CHADBURN >

One hundred million homeless; where is the love?

A ball can change the world, or give it a shove.

“You got a spare set of shinpads, guv?”

>


JUDE ELLERY >

“A ball can teach you teamwork. Aball can teach you discipline. We aretrying to make our lives better, andevery person here has the chance tomake their life better because of aball.”

Colin Farrell, Kicking It.

Whether we lost that game five orfifteen-nil I can’t recall, but that’s anirrelevant detail, as was the chronicknee injury which saw me wield thesellotaped-up flag that Sundaymorning, turning away in despair asball after ball poured into our goal.


CONCRETE ROOTS


But this article’s not about me, orthe sorry state of my team. Nor is itabout anything that happens be-tween the lines on bumpy, grass-shypub league pitches the length andbreadth of the country. No, thefootball was as forgettable as ever;it was events off the pitch that warrantthis tale.

As I turned my back on the actionboth physically and metaphorically,I noticed that a spectator had ar-rived. A patron, beyond my dad’soccasional visit, or, more rarely, aplayer’s reluctant girlfriend (wit woo!),was almost as noteworthy as ourteam scoring a goal.

This fellow was quite clearly none ofthe above. I recognised him as ‘BigIssue Guy’, who -- you’ve guessed it --

is the guy who stands in the towncentre selling copies of The BigIssue. He’s in the same place everyday, spouting a tune only he knowsthat boasts carefully crafted lineslike “Big Issue! Big Issue!” and “Getyour Big Issue!” He’s quite the char-acter.

Big Issue Guy struck up a conversa-tion with our manager about some-thing or other. I think it began withan enquiry regarding the score,which nobody actually knew by thatpoint. Probably because we’d givenhim the time of day -- I imagine hegets blanked quite frequently -- andprobably because of his position insociety, he sided with the under-dogs, and for the last quarter of thegame became our team’s unofficialmascot, shouting his support enthu-

siastically from the touchline, muchto the bemusement and amuse-ment of our players.

All very harmless, I’m sure you’llagree. I couldn’t tell you whetherour team were laughing with him orat him, but he didn’t seem to mind,or realise, either way. I’m not goingto pretend this guy’s all there uptop. But who cares? He was enjoy-ing himself, and our players weremomentarily lifted from theirgloom, even as the umpteenth goalentangled itself in the twine behindour unfortunate keeper.

What followed though was disap-pointing. Perhaps noticing that ourteam was utter cack, Big Issue Guyproceeded to show off his ball skillsin an impromptu audition for a place


CONCRETE ROOTS JUDE ELLERY >


in the team. He was actually quitegood. When he begged to comealong to training next week ourmanager told him in great detailwhere we trained and what time toget there -- then deliberately toldhim the wrong day.

I pleaded with our manager to doright by Big Issue Guy and get himalong. Hey, even if he’s useless it’llbe a laugh, boss! But no, he washaving none of it.

It’s this kind of discrimination thatholds homeless people back fromrejoining society. I’m not for oneminute suggesting that our lowlypub side could launch this haplesschap’s football career, or even thatit was our duty to give out charity.Give us a ball and eleven strangers

to play against and we’re a charitycase ourselves. Nevertheless, justallowing him along to trainingwould’ve made him feel valued, in-stead of marginalised, for once.Hell, it would’ve at least meant we’dhave enough for a game of four onfour at the end of our dismally at-tended training sessions.

Unfortunately this behaviour to-wards down-and-outs is not uncom-mon, nor is it solely a Britishproblem. Instances range from thesort of petty schoolyard exclusiondescribed above, to ‘Bum Wars’ inthe States and even the occasionalClockwork Orange style beating.The homeless simply aren’t seen ashuman beings any more. And dothe authorities give a crap? Giventhat it’s the people with money, who

pay taxes, elect politicians and keepthe constabulary in business, notbloody likely. In most places, the so-lution to homelessness tends to beherding them out of sight of thewell-to-do, and, if resistance isoffered, jail.

A world away from pub league foot-ball, millions of pounds were beingtransferred from one Swiss bankaccount to another this summer, asEnglish Premier League clubs hur-ried to strengthen their playingsquads before Michel Platini’s Finan-cial Fair Play rules come into play.Most of the red top column inchesrevolved around London and Man-chester, with Arsenal and Unitedboth spending over £50m on new




talent, and Manchester City dwarf-ing both clubs with an outgoings col-umn totalling £81m, of which almosthalf was spent on Argentine strikerSergio Aguero.Somehow, Chelseawent mostly unno-ticed as they tried tomatch this, in theend parting with£75m. Well over £500m was lav-ished on talent in England, with fiveclubs, Liverpool being the other,parting with over £50m.

On the other side of the EnglishChannel, Paris Saint Germain wenton a spending spree of their own,with an eye towards winning theirfirst domestic title since 1994, and,eventually, joining the aforemen-tioned English clubs as a global super-

power. Thanks to their own bottom-less pit -- Qatar Investment Authority --PSG’s outlay of around £75m was sixtimes that of Ligue 1 champions

Lille, and, as if toprove they shouldimmediately be spo-ken of in the samebreath as Manches-ter City, spent just

under £40m on their own Argentinestarlet, 22-year-old Javier Pastore.Leonardo’s team has also been linkedwith global icon David Beckham,whose contract with LA Galaxy runsout at the end of this MLS season.

Les Parisiens’ home is the 48,000capacity Parc des Princes, located inthe Arrondissement de Passy, theequivalent to New York's Upper EastSide or London's Chelsea and Kens-

ington. Just across the Seine is theeven richer Seventh Arrondisse-ment, comprising the famous EiffelTower, Napoleon’s resting placel’Hôtel des Invalides, and severalworld famous museums, includingthe Musée d'Orsay and the Muséedu quai Branly.

These two districts, along with theSixth and Eighth Arrondissementsand the suburb Neilly, form ParisOuest, an aristocratic district thathas been the home to the Frenchupper class since the 17th century.The stadium’s name is derived froma forest, used for hunting by royaltyin the 18th century, that formerlysurrounded the area.

PSG’s record purchase Pastore ar-rived in these affluent environs in



PSG spent just under

£40m on their own

Argentine starlet


August, after his transfer from Ital-ian side Palermo. He will earn asalary of around £4m; fast forwardtwo months and five goals and twoassists in seven starts for the table-toppers have proven it a wise invest-ment.

But back to August. As further ex-pensive imports flew into the capi-tal, another story was unfolding instark contrast to the glitz and glam-our of professional football and oiltycoons. As such, it went virtuallyunreported. Still, news of the ongoingevents reached Pastore, who, lessthan a month into his stay in astrange new country, took sometime out of his busy schedule tostroll down to the Champ de Mars,a huge green area between the EiffelTower and the École Militaire. This

was the picturesque setting for theninth annual Homeless World Cup.

This bourgeois backdrop couldn’t bemuch further from the day-to-daylives of the more than 500 playerscomprising the 64 teams who com-peted in this year’s tournament (48in the men’s competition and 16 inthe women’s). These players repre-sent not only their counties, but 100million homeless people worldwide(of which 25,000 can be found in theFrench capital).

None of these players is likely toever earn as much as Pastore, butfair play to PSG’s new superstar forgreeting his fellow Argentines priorto kick-off on 21 August and lendinghis support. In a short interviewwith the Homeless World Cup’s

team, Pastore supported the tour-nament’s official motto, ‘A ball canchange the world’: “The event isfantastic… Football can take youaway from many problems and helpyou meet new people.”

The young playmaker’s decision-making in his short career hasproved exemplary both on and offthe field, and his attendance, as wellas endorsements by World Cup ’98winners Emmanuel Petit and LilianThuram, were all welcomed by headof the French homeless team,Benoit Danneau: “Pastore gave upsome of his time and showed he re-ally cared about the event. We aredelighted to have been able to interestsuch people from the footballingworld in the Homeless World Cup.They have got behind the tournament




because of their belief in social inte-gration in sport.”

Alongside the first four days of foot-ball, Danneau’s team ran an interna-tional symposium on the theme ofthe street: drawn into it, living in it,escaping it, and not falling back.Players, social workers and specta-tors could exchange ideas for solvingthe global problem of le sans-abrisme.

Other global ambassadors for theproject include Didier Drogba, RioFerdinand and Eric Cantona, the lat-ter providing the voiceover in thepromotional video for Paris 2011.The tournament is backed by UEFAand the United Nations and has ahost of high profile commercialsponsors, including Nike, Eurosport,

Specsavers and adult educationservice A4E. Manchester United,Real Madrid and Tottenham Hotspurare all signed up as official partners.

United’s surprise 2010 signing, TiagoManuel Dias Correira -- or Bébé toyou and me -- did not actually playin the 2009 tournament as widelyreported, but the Portuguese didfeature in the European Street Foot-ball Festival in Bosnia in the sameyear, which is where the confusionlies. Although a slow start to hisUnited career, a subsequent loan toBesiktas and then a cruciate liga-ment injury have somewhat damp-ened the excitement surroundingthe youngster’s catapult into thelimelight, he is still a shining beaconfor others around the world who, forwhatever reason, have found them-

selves in precarious circumstances.

The Stade de France, in Saint-Denis,holds a special place in the heart ofEmmanuel Petit. With France lead-ing 2-0 in the final of the 1998 WorldCup, an optimistic run into Brazilianterritory saw the pitch open up be-fore the midfielder. Finding himselfwith only Cláudio Taffarel to beat,his left foot unerringly slotted homethe Fédération Française de Foot-ball’s 1,000th goal, and the lastWorld Cup goal of the 20th century,to wrap up the biggest trophy infootball. Camera flashes joined in-candescent floodlights to light upFrance’s finest footballing hour, re-bounding into the night sky fromstill-sparkling steel nuts and bolts




that bound together the oval-shaped arena.

The fifth-largest stadium in Europe -- and largest modular stadium in theworld -- it replaced the Parc desPrinces as France’s national stadiumupon its completion only six monthsprior to that memorable night, cus-tom built for the World Cup. As wellas leaving a sporting legacy, thetournament provided an enormousboost to the Parisian infrastructure,especially in the extension of themetro and the development of thecrime-riddled communes of Saint-Denis, Aubervilliers and Saint-Ouen.What better location to pick for thedraw for this year’s Homeless WorldCup, which can provide a compara-ble boost for France’s -- and theworld’s -- homeless population?

And who better to pick the teamsfrom the hat?

With the sun providing the illumina-tion this time around, the stage wasset for Petit to decide the fates ofeach participating nation, who wereeagerly gathered in the historic loca-tion. The quality of the teams variesyear upon year, but like mainstreaminternational football there are al-ways favourites. This year, themen’s draw included last year’s win-ners Brazil, number one-ranked Por-tugal, and Poland.

With the groups decided, a paradethrough the capital ensued on thefollowing day; the route runningfrom the historic Trocadero Square,via the Eiffel Tower, and concludingat the Champ de Mars, where ‘Liberté’,

‘Egalité’ and ‘Fraternité’ awaited thewide-eyed visitors. These were thenames given to the three speciallymade mini pitches, each one meas-uring 22 by 16 metres. On them, a21st-century revolution would con-tinue to unfold over the followingweek; 392 four-on-four matchesyielded 3,984 goals and two thrillingfinals, both decided by the odd goalin seven.

For those wondering about disci-pline in a tournament contested bydrug addicts and former criminals,here are some surprising statistics:less than one in ten matches saw ablue card issued (a sin bin punish-ment), and not one player was dis-missed in either the men’s orwomen’s competition. A team ofeight referees officiated the tourna-




ment, including Kim Milton Neilsen,whose professional career com-prised 154 internationals, and fa-mously, the dismissal of DavidBeckham in Saint-Étienne at France’98. Australia’s ‘Street Socceroos’won the fair play award, which theyhad also claimed two years previ-ously in Milan.

More deserving of notice than theplay, however, were the tears of joy,the hugs, the friendships and theeverlasting memories created inonly one week of football. It is esti-mated that 30,000 homeless peoplebenefited from pre-tournamenttraining and trials for Paris 2011.The wider impact is truly immeasur-able.

The first Homeless World Cup was

played in Graz, Austria, in 2003, butthe wheels were actually set in mo-tion a decade earlier. In the ‘90s,Britain’s Conservativegovernment offeredlittle hope for a socialentrepreneur lookingto improve the lives ofthe poor. Desperatefor a way to help the underclass helpthemselves, Edinburgh’s Mel Youngnoticed the positive effect The Big

Issue, then on sale only in England,could have on its vendors. It al-lowed them to address key prob-lems brought on by homelessness:low self-esteem, lack of confidenceand the difficulty of reintegration.

So, in 1993 The Big Issue In Scotland

was launched. The first edition soldout its printing of 25,000 copies.

The magazine instantly became abadge of protest, indicative of thepublic’s distaste for the prevailing

political atmosphere.In an interview withthe Guardian’s DavidConn in 2006, Youngsaid, “We Scots neverbought into Margaret

Thatcher's 'there's no such thing associety'. People were totally op-posed to that whole Conservativephilosophy… We were just in theright place at the right time.”

Street papers are now read by over30 million people worldwide everyyear, helping 100,000 homeless orlong-term unemployed people.

The idea for an international footballtournament for the world’s underclass



Street papers are

now read by over

30 million people

every year


may not seem like the logical pro-gression, but it turned out to be astroke of genius. Sitting in a bar inCape Town, in 2001, were Young,Harald Schmied, a representative ofthe Austrian street paperMegaphon, and Peter ten Caat, fromUtrecht’s street paper Straat. Theywere relaxing after the sixth annualInternational Network of Street Pa-pers conference -- another organisa-tion co-founded by Young. Over apint, the trio discussed the need foran international language for home-less people to communicate witheach other around the world; tohelp them help themselves; to handpower back to them and make themthe centre of the solution. The‘three wise men’ came to realisethat such a language already ex-isted: football.

The rest, as they say, is history -- orhistory in the making, to be accu-rate. The latest chapter was writtenin Paris, but this was only a shortstop along the long road to eradicat-ing homelessness. Next year thetournament is hosted by Mexico,and 2012 sees the roadshow moveto Poland. Each tournament at-tempts to resolve a minuscule selec-tion of the endless stories fromaround the world, revealing thewide-reaching impact of Young’s vi-sion and the almost incomprehensi-ble pervasiveness of the humancondition it addresses.

Viewers of Danny Boyle’s Slumdog

Millionaire may be able to begin toimagine what it’s like to be homeless

in a developing nation. Despite -- orbecause of -- these horrific condi-tions, India is the home of Slum Soc-cer: street leagues where 10,000players regularly get together to playfootball. It’s incredible to imaginethis goes on in areas where peopledie every day through lack of cleanwater.

Ireland’s situation is not nearly asbad as India’s, but it’s still impressiveto discover that more than 500 playerscompete in the Irish Street Leagueevery week. From this pool a squadof eight was selected to compete atthe Homeless World Cup. Previ-ously there was a strong Dublin bias,but now the leagues have grownstronger across the country and thisyear there was a player from Belfastand three from Longford.




Sean Kavanagh, who runs the Irish

Big Issue and has managed theirhomeless team since the WorldCup’s inception in 2003, has wit-nessed first hand how the tourna-ment has developed over the years:

“In the beginning there were threeor four teams that were good andthe rest were down the lower end,but now the standard -- especiallyfrom the countries that have streetleagues -- has increased immensely.”

As the tournament has grown inboth the quantity and quality ofteams, small amendments to therules have been made. One of thebest improvements is the ‘two de-fender’ rule, as Kavanagh explained:

“The idea of having only two de-

fenders back in your own half andthree forwards has opened thegame up a lot. [That rule] came inthree years ago. Prior to that, it wasa bit physical because there wasn’tthat much space. Now it’s becomemuch more technical and, conse-quently, it’s a much better game forit. It doesn’t do it justice on TV orvideo, you really have to see it in liveaction. Generally speaking if youwatch this game you’ll find it hard towatch 11-a-side afterwards, becauseit’s so pedestrian in comparison.”

Due to their affiliation with the IrishFootball Association, the Irish play-ers are awarded an official cap everytime they represent their country.Their kit is also provided by the FAI.

Kavanagh again: “The only condi-

tion is that we have to wear thesame kit as the international teamso we can’t actually have sponsor-ship on the jerseys. It’s a great thrillfor the lads to have their namesprinted on the back of an interna-tional jersey.”

Ireland, along with Spain, Kenya,Russia and the USA, were featuredin the 2008 documentary Kicking It,which followed the fortunes of sev-eral players at Cape Town 2006. Likethis year’s event, the 2006 HomelessWorld Cup was supported bycelebrities. Archbishop DesmondTutu spoke before the cheering, vu-vuzela-honking crowd prior to kickoff with a familiarly friendly address:

“Welcome, welcome, welcome tosunny, sunny South Africa. Welcome,




welcome all of you wonderful peoplefrom different parts of the world.”

Portugal legend Eusebio kicked thefirst ball at the ‘06 tournament, de-scribing it as a “poignant momentfor everyone.” Russia won the com-petition.

In 2006, Ireland had an excellentgoalkeeper in 23-year-old Damien,who was one of the players followedin Kicking It. He guided his nation toa 17th-placed finish. A heroin epi-demic in Dublin had left hundreds ofyoung people on the streets, andDamien, a recovering addict, missedone of Ireland’s games after forget-ting to take his medication onemorning. Kavanagh explained theimportance of having a good playerbetween the sticks:

“The ‘keeper is the mainstay in theteam. You’re depending on him be-cause he’s shouting instructions thewhole time. It’s such a fast movinggame that he’s the only one who hasa clear view of everything, so havinga good ‘keeper who communicateswell and distributes the ball well isvital.”

In Ireland, it costs around €80,000 ayear to keep someone in jail, whichis where a large percentage ofhomeless people invariably end up.The United States estimate eachhomeless person costs societyaround $60,000 per year, and$40,000 alone to place one personin an emergency shelter in NewYork. Like smoking and alcohol abuse,one would think it makes financialsense for governments around the

world to solve this problem by invest-ing in it, instead of ignoring it. Whathas the world come to anyway, whenwe need to cite financial evidence topersuade authorities to help theirfellow man?

Unlike a lot of the teams in Paris,The United States team came to-gether only one day before theevent. Manager Rob Cann explains:

“We have a national cup and re-gional events. The national event isthe Street Soccer USA Cup whichfeatured 22 teams from 18 US cities.We then selected the top eight am-bassadors on the men's side and thetop eight on the women's side toparticipate in the Homeless World




Cup. So it was never about winningthe whole thing, it was about bring-ing together people who had earnedthe opportunity to wear the TeamUSA colours.”

The US finished 18th, with whichCann was very pleased:

“It was our best finish in the tourna-ment ever. But over-all the final position isnot as important ashow we felt on the in-side after the eventwas over and we allwere able to lookeach other in the eye and feel greatabout what we had achieved.

“The competition was fierce and los-ing is never easy, but we stuck to our

game-plan and persevered. This isthe type of attitude and determina-tion it takes to overcome homeless-ness: sticking to the plan you createfor yourself and never giving up.”

During the trip the Americans vis-ited the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre,Notre Dame and the Père LachaiseCemetery, the resting place of Jim

Morrison. Cann said:“Some of the bestmoments of the triphappen during timeaway from the pitchwhere we were ableto reflect on the

year's accomplishment and talkabout what the future will hold foreach player.”

Continuing the good work back

home is Street Soccer USA, which,as Cann explained, aims to “transferjob and life skills to homeless youthand adults through the platform ofthe team. By creating positive com-munities in places where they donot exist SSUSA is having success.With the assistance of coaches andvolunteers, each player is held ac-countable to meet -- and even ex-ceed -- their vision for a better self.”

Research shows that SSUSA reachesmore than 20% of the chronicallyhomeless in a given service area,and realises a 75% success rate in ef-fecting a positive life change, such asaddressing a substance abuse prob-lem or mental health issue, securingfull-time employment or moving offthe street. The Homeless World Cupboasts similar figures, claiming that



SSUSA realises a

75% success rate in

effecting a positive

life change


over 70% of participants improvetheir lives in some way or anotherafter the last ball has been kicked.

A lot of the English players hadnever left their town before, letalone their country. Sightseeing inParis in the height of summer could-n’t fail to open their eyes to the pos-sibilities of life: a climb to the top ofthe Eiffel Tower and a history lessonat the Arc de Triomphe would teachthem about different cultures;broaden their expectations and as-pirations.

Yet it was Paris at night that provedthe highlight for Homeless Link sportdevelopment officer Lindsey Horsfield:“Going to Sacre Coeur and seeing

Paris lit up in front of them -- it wasa pretty awesome sight.”

Horsfield is pragmatic about the im-mensity of the job facing people likeher and Mel Young. As those return-ing to education after the tourna-ment will learn, it’s best not to lookfor the end goal when it’s merely aspeck in the distance, but insteadbreak a mammoth task down intobitesize pieces.

“Today’s world may not be best-suited to a poverty free existence, sothe only hope we have of eradicat-ing homelessness is to literallychange the world. This is a dauntingtask and the Homeless World Cupaims to break that down country bycountry, project by project, individ-ual by individual.

“The tournament's intention of re-moving the stigma and stereotypesaround homelessness will have afar-reaching impact as that messageis conveyed to a wider public audi-ence.”

This attitude reminds me of a posterI have in my home, which depictstwo Tibetan monks building ahouse, along with the words: “Donot worry about how long it takes toget results. Just do it.” This advicehas never felt more pertinent, espe-cially when looking at countries whoare worse off than England.

“The problem of homelessness is bigin the Philippines. We are talkingabout 80% of the population. Aside




from the street people or those wholiterally live on the streets, this figureincludes the majority of the popula-tion that live in vast squatter com-munities in different cities in thecountry, not just in Manila.”

Reah Medenilla is a professional socialworker and the executive director ofthe Urban Opportunities for ChangeFoundation, which has now run‘Team Jeepney’ for the past fourHomeless World Cups. The Philip-pines team is named after the onlystreet paper in developing Asia.

The team was managed by formerinternational player Rudy delRosario, who played for the Philip-pines for 10 years. He was sup-ported by Mark Maravilla, whoreprised the assistant manager role

he held in Rio last year. They con-ducted try-outs far and wide, thisyear going including Cagayan De Oroand Bukidnon in their search, thesouthernmost parts of the country.From these trials, 16 players wereinvited to Manila in April, wherethey were whittled down to 8.

Medinalla saw changes in the Philip-pines’ chosen players as early as thetraining period in the lead-up to thecompetition:

“We house the players together in adorm. From differing backgrounds,although all from impoverished fam-ilies, they had to deal with eachother everyday. They learned towork and live together.”

The Homeless World Cup is set up in

a way that all teams remain for theduration, and all are competing forsilverware come the last day. In fin-ishing 25th at Rio 2010, Team Jeep-ney claimed the Host Cup, playedout between the countries ranked25 to 32. This year they left empty-handed, but were content that theyhad improved, this time findingthemselves in the top half come thelast day, battling for the City Cup.They finished 24th overall.

The team jetted back home on 29August, and set foot in Ninoy AquinoInternational Airport an hour beforemidnight. They had brought withthem a bag full of pasalubong --homecoming gifts -- but more valu-able than these mementos wereoffers of scholarships that await thereturning heroes. They were




greeted at the airport by the two bigrival TV networks, with interviewsand congratulations aplenty. Theplayers were proudly adorned withtheir medals, that every competitorwas given. The real gift, though, isthe opportunity to change theirlives, and it is these players who willspread this opportunity upon theirreturn.

In April, Street Soccer Philippineswas created to give them a moresustainable opportunity to remaininvolved in the sport, while at thesame time promoting grassrootsfootball. The players trained 200children between the ages of 10 and16, from marginalised communitiesin Quexon City and Cainta, Rizal.There were tournaments in May andAugust. The program was funded by

a small community grant from theStarbucks Foundation.

Medinalla hopes to resume StreetSoccer Philippines in October, thistime going to elementary and highschools in Quezon City. “We willalso replicate the program inprovinces where our players live, sothey could coach and train kids fromtheir own communi-ties. This program isvery close to the heartof our players. Theyreceive allowances inparticipating in thisprogram -- they need itto survive and some-how provide for theirfamily, which is a big part of Filipinoculture.”

Basketball is the number one sport inThe Phillipines, but football has juststarted to get big too. The amountof support from home could begauged simply by logging onto theHomeless World Cup official web-site, which was dominated by well-wishers for Team Jeepney. MelYoung blogged that hosting the tour-nament in The Phillipines is a real

possibility, which alsowent down incrediblywell.

Medinalla said: “If thishappens, in 2015 orlater, it will be verygood for the Philip-pines. It will put The

Philippines on the football map. Itwill create tourism opportunities forour country as a whole. But most



The real gift is the

opportunity to

change their lives,

& it’s these players

who will spread

this opportunity


importantly, it will give us a very bigopportunity to represent the Filipinopoor and make their voices heard inter-nationally.”

With Street Soccer Philippines nowin place, the country’s results will nodoubt improve in the coming years.Medinalla is more interested in theholistic effect:

“I also try to help in working withthe players after the tournament,following up and try to make surethey use, for their own good, theonce in a lifetime opportunity theywere given to represent their coun-try in an international footballevent.”

“They are coming back with a verydifferent state of mind. Emotionallythey are stronger, they believe inthemselves, they want to be an ex-ample for their friends, peers andpeople around. They become‘Agents of Change’.”

Daniel Copto is a psychologist andaddictions counselor, and thefounder and president of Street Soc-cer Mexico. He described how hisreturning players have also contin-ued the legacy of the HomelessWorld Cup, since their first tourna-ment in 2005. They take friends topitches to teach them the rules andthe strategy, passing on the experi-ence to which they’ve been privileged.

Copto began the program modestly,with he and a few friends supporting

it economically until Telmex Founda-tion became involved in 2009.

“Since then our program has beengrowing consistently. This year itinvolved 17,477 people from verydifficult backgrounds, most of themliving in extreme poverty, at risk ofbeen homeless, at risk of getting en-gaged with organized crime -- all asa result of a lack of education,money and opportunities, or livingin rehabilitation of drugs programs.”

There are 53 million homeless peo-ple in Mexico, a situation that Coptocalled “critical”. This is why theirhosting of the competition in Octo-ber 2012 is so important.

“It means the possibility of strength-ening our program, of getting the at-




tention of politicians about thisissue, and getting their commitmentand support. There will be 72 teams(56 male, 16 female), although thisnumber could yet increase. We arecertain that it is going to be a greatevent full of good surprises!”

While the World Cups are about allplayers, regardless of ability, it washard to ignore Juan Jose TorresMendoza, or ‘Pépe’, who was thestandout goalkeeper in Paris. Hekept three clean sheets and re-stricted the opposition to a solitarygoal on three further occasions. Heduly won the Best Goalkeeperaward.

Copto told me a little about histeam’s star: “Pépe lives in CiudadJuárez, Chihuahua. This city is con-

sidered the most dangerous city inthe world right now. His fatherabandoned the family to go acrossthe border in the United States.Pépe became the head of the familywhen he was 16. He is the oldest offive. He shared with us that onmany occasions when they had nofood at home, he had to go work onillegal things to get money to buyfood.

“Pépe dedicated some of the gamesto a friend who had been killed. Heis going to play with a professionalteam, Revolution Tijuana. He mustreport with this team on 15 Octo-ber.”

Unfortunately for his team, Pépewas powerless to prevent a 4-3 lossin the final, a score that was repli-

cated in the women’s draw, withMexico again finishing as the losers.Although this situation was difficult,Copto explained how the teamsovercame it, and were welcomedback into their communities with re-spect and admiration. He alsostressed how the experience as awhole was valuable, regardless ofthis disappointment:

“During group therapy, before goingto Paris, during the concentrationand preparation previous to thetournament, we spoke about whatif we have to cancel the trip to Paris?How would you feel? What wouldyou think? Both teams respondedabout the great feeling they hadonly by thinking and working on thatdirection. They felt great about get-ting to know each other, about




being coached, getting healthier.They all agreed that even if theycouldn’t go, the overall experiencewas great. I think that we alldreamed with winning the cup butwe all knew that the experience ofbeing there was muchbigger than the trophy.”

One man’s loss is an-other man’s gain, and that 4-3 lossby Mexico in the men’s competitionmeant a win for an unlikely team:Scotland.

The Scots were typically British intheir play, preferring thumping tack-les, organisation and determinationto the flicks and tricks displayed byPortugal and Brazil. They actually

lost to the latter on their way toglory, but ground out positive resultsat crucial times. They showed that,like in all walks of life, hard work isas important, if not more, than skill.

That may be doing Scot-land a disservice. TheLawrence brothers,William and Sean, wereexcellent throughout,and big bald Barry Gan-

non may have been a bit of a cliché:good feet for a man of his size, buthis pure desire to win -- and some-times test the boundaries of the rules-- clearly rubbed off on his team-mates.

Gannon claimed the tournamentgave him a new found confidence.Like most of the players in Paris, he

is now looking forward to life with anewfound vigour, and making plans.At 37, he admits he is too old tomake it as a footballer, so hasinstead signed up for a psychologydegree, starting in September.

Gannon need look no further for anexample of what can be achievedfollowing the tournament than hismanager, David Duke. Duke becamehomeless himself after the death ofhis father led him to alcoholism andunemployment. He split from hisgirlfriend and found himself on thestreets of Govan, just outside Glas-gow. The area was, at one time inits existence, the centre of theworld-renowned Clydeside ship-building industry, but is now a bywordfor deprivation and poverty, afterthe shipyards closed one by one in



That 4-3 loss by

Mexico meant

a win for an

unlikely team


the ‘70s and ‘80s. Today, a meagerhandful of jobs remain with the sur-viving companies.

Duke began selling The Big Issueand, hearing of the Homeless WorldCup from the James Shields projectfor 16-25-year-olds on the street,auditioned for the team. He waspicked, and after attending Gothen-burg 2004 his life has completelytransformed. Players are only al-lowed to compete in one tourna-ment, but so absorbed was he withhis experience that he took hiscoaching badges and returned thefollowing year as assistant coach. Anatural progression to head coachensued, and he led the team to vic-tory in Copenhagen 2007 in front ofPrince Frederik of Denmark. Later inthe week, his journey out of home-

lessness was completed, as hecollected the keys to his new home.

A second Homeless World Cup winas coach again this year may notquite rank alongside fellow Scot AlexFerguson’s achievements, but whatDuke is doing for the disadvantagedis easily as commendable. Havingpeople involved who have been interrible situations themselves andsomehow found a way out can onlyinspire others to do the same.

Duke said: "The Homeless WorldCup was the rope that allowed meto pull myself out of a very darkhole. It helped me and now I canhelp others. When homeless peoplesay to me I can’t change, I say yesyou can. I did. So can you."

To give these people a helping hand,Duke set up Street Soccer Scotland,a national league with weeklycoaching sessions. One of the regu-lar players, Ryan Wilson, was a bighit at Rio 2010, and is now hoping tofollow in the footsteps of Bébé andearn a contract at a professionalclub. He appeared on Wayne

Rooney’s Street Striker last year,where he made the final 20.

Wilson couldn’t believe how quicklyhis situation changed because offootball. “Clubs had seen a fewwrite-ups and videos from Rio andthe TV series. All of a sudden I wasbeing asked to get fit and attend trialsessions!”

Like his manager, Wilson said that,oddly, ending up homeless was the




best thing that ever happened forhim. Speaking prior to Street Striker

experience, he said, "I'd hit rock bot-tom. But now I have the HomelessWorld Cup and the show to look for-ward to and I get the keys to my ownplace at the end of the month.”

Homeless leagues like the onesmentioned in these stories arespringing up all over the world,spreading the tournament’s legacyand creating permanent change.The tournament itself is set to ex-pand for the third successive year in2012 when the teams congregate inMexico City. As Young pointed outthough, even homeless people whodon’t make it into their country’steam still benefit:

“The annual tournament is a smallpart of the work we do. We workhard in the 51 weeks that surroundthe tournament with our network ofover 70 national part-ner organisations tostimulate grassrootsfootball and engagehomeless people acrossthe world.

“Even if they don’t at-tend [the finals], thesepeople are engaged infootball and can benefitfrom sporting participa-tion. They gain healthand fitness, self-esteem,and begin to re-ingrateinto society and are helped to findeducation, jobs, and re-connectwith loved ones.

“Spreading awareness is enor-mously important. Tell a friendabout the Homeless World Cup, di-rect them to our website and join us

on Facebook and Twit-ter. Become part of theconversation and youbecome an importantpart in making a differ-ence”

Visit the Homeless

World Cup website > towatch every minute ofevery game from Paris2011. If you’re fortu-nate enough to be able,please donate some ofyour hard-earned cash

to a worthy cause.

Artist Mandy Long donated a sculp-



Men:

1st -- Scotland

2nd -- Mexico

3rd -- Brazil

4th -- Kenya

Women:

1st -- Kenya

2nd -- Mexico

3rd -- Brazil

4th -- Argentina


http://www.homelessworldcup.org

http://www.homelessworldcup.org

ture for a silent auction just after thetournament. The event’s commer-cial director, Elliot Stroud, had seenher work and contacted her to en-quire if she’d be interested in help-ing out. She was more than happyto oblige, although, ironically, shewas so busy creating the fantasticpiece that she didn’t have time towatch any of the action.

Long’s work, which is a moderntwist on a traditional football trophy,depicts the three stages of home-lessness: the despair, the motivationto change, and finally the escape.The last stage is shown by a cele-brating player crashing through apane of glass, a theme she oftenuses.

“It’s slightly shocking, it makes me

feel wow, something immediate hashappened, you know? It’s very dy-namic, but at the same time it hasthat slightly edgy feeling, because,where I live anyway, most kinds ofbroken glass mean something bad’shappened.”

Having two sons who played youthfootball, Long’s love of the profes-sional game grew alongside her loveof grassroots football. “I think it’sjust such a brilliant, brilliant game. Iknow we get a lot of bad publicitysometimes about hooliganism andinflated salaries, but at grassrootslevel -- and I would say in the profes-sional game as well -- I think it doesa fantastic amount of good. Thepositives massively outweigh thenegatives.”

For further reading, Mel Young’sbook Goal is an uplifting volume, de-scribing how the first two tourna-ments, Graz 2003 and Gothenburg2004, affected the lives of those in-volved. Two films worth watchingare Kicking It, which focuses on CapeTown 2006 and follows the adven-tures of some real characters as theyprogress to differing stages of suc-cess, and Boisko bezdomnych (TheOffsiders), a fictional Polish produc-tion from 2008.

Many thanks to Mel Young, BenoitDanneau, Mandy Long, Sean Ka-vanagh, Rob Cann, Daniel Copto,Lindsey Horsfield and Reah Mede-nilla, who all provided fascinating in-terviews for this piece.

And as for Big Issue Guy? I’d have




liked to interview him, but I haven’tseen him in months. The town centreis a quieter place in his absence --though some may argue this is apositive turn of events. I hope hehas used The Big Issue as a spring-board; a way off the streets and intoa better life. Unfortunately, I knowthat a quite different reality is farmore likely. It’s events like theHomeless World Cup that canchange this though, so please,please, get behind it in any way youcan.

Now, I just have to convince my girl-friend we need a holiday to Mexicoin October next year… ■



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DANNY CHADBURN >

A familiar face, and free lager to inebriate.

Everyone knows, you must speculate to accumulate.

Promises, promises leave an uncertain fate.

>


DAVID HARTRICK >

EPISODE THREE

Day 21 -- Fear and loathing

“…and so in the end me, Gazza andMerse are just laying there thinkingwhat the hell just happened, wherethe fuck have they gone and whereare our clothes?”

A laugh echoes ‘round the room, nodoubt born from the many bottlesof lager we’re providing free to thegentlemen of the press. It’s a storyI’ve read in all three players’ auto-biographies, as has nearly everyonehere, but Wethers carries it withsuch affection that the laugh is gen-


THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES


uine, nevertheless. It is rare to finda player, current or ex-, whom thepress and the public generally agreeon, but Wethers is that rarest andfinest of breeds. He carries himselfwith such charm that the wholeroom seems to be revolving aroundhis very presence.

Standing at the back of the hotelfunction room, I look across themini-world I’ve created. Since buy-ing this club, everything has felt likea trudge, but now that I’ve managedto persuade Wethers to come onboard, the weight has been lifted.I’ve got a once genuinely world-classEngland midfielder managing myclub! This is the world I instructedmy accountant to buy into; this isthe football I want to be a part of.Since Wethers arrived I’ve yet to

take the long way, when driving tothe club. Not once.

It has, of course, come at a hugeprice to both the club and my ownpocket. I’ve chosen to gamble andthrow my own money in, way be-yond the initial investment I’d hopedto get away with. If any one of thosebobble-hatted wankers on the ter-race dare turn ‘round and have a goat me now, I’ll make them eat a copyof the balance sheet. Beyond anyshadow of a doubt, the Wethersdeal was the watershed moment inmy tenure here. I’m now in for fartoo many pennies and even morepounds.

Not only is he on a salary that can’tbe supported by the club, in the longterm, the contract which makes him

manager is only the half of it. To ac-commodate the amount thatWethers wanted, he now has twojobs: one as our manager, on a wagethat will almost certainly be supple-mented from my personal financialinput to the club, and one as an am-bassador for my group of compa-nies, which will involve the oddappearance at an event, the oddquotation on a local billboard, andanother hefty wage that comesstraight from my own pocket.

I’ve officially gone football crazy.I’ve forgotten every lesson businesshas ever taught me.

It’s all legit and above board,though. Having spoken to the FAand relevant authorities, they in-formed us that they were only inter-


THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES DAVID HARTRICK >


ested in the contract to be manager.Anything else was beyond theirremit. The structure of the dealfeels complicated and, to be frank,dishonest. But that’s the business-man in me talking. The footballchairman just wants Wethers at hisclub.

On top of the contracts, there’s thepromises I’ve made. He wants anassistant manger of his own choos-ing, at least one more coach, prefer-ably with a defensive history, andthe ground redeveloped, mod-ernised and brought in line with aLeague Two club. We’ve also talkedabout finding a better place to trainthan the pitch or the dog-shit strewnpark, and we’re looking at the gen-eral level of equipment around theplace.

In Wethers’ own words: “If you playwith shit, you can’t expect morethan that.”

But that’s not all. He also wants“some” new players.

Taking the promises on a one-by-one basis, the staff will have to ac-cept the two-job wage structure,and the ground needs demolishing,never mind redeveloping. Trainingand equipment-wise, I’ve alreadydone a deal with a sports shop andthe local five-a-side place. Wethershas had a quick look and is fine withit. It’s that final one that scares memost though. New players.

I agree we’re in desperate need ofnew playing staff, but transfer fees,wages and various other expenses

all look like they’ll be coming out ofmy pocket. I’ve been thinking aboutapproaching the bank for some sortof bond, but realistically it’s stillgoing to cost me either way.Wethers has a contact book and awave of goodwill to die for. Let’s justhope he understands the words‘loan-deal’ and ‘free transfer’ askeenly as he does ‘negotiate terms’.

Fuck it, I’ll worry about the financeslater. Those nagging self-doubts canbe killed with a few complimentarylagers (that I am, in fact, paying for)and a sandwich from the hastily-pre-pared buffet. At the moment, I justwant to enjoy riding the wave of ex-citement that comes with pulling offone of the greatest coups in non-League history.




In short, I’m living for the moment --something I’ve not been able to dosince joining the club.

“How about a comment for The Sun,Chairman? You must be delightedwith all this?”

I smile across at the Dictaphonethrust in my direction. Soon as weheard the nationals were comingdown, we decided we couldn’t holda press conference at the ground. Inthe same way as you can’t polish aturd, you wouldn’t take AngelinaJolie out on a date to a sewage out-let. Wethers is a draw and wethought we might increase thecrowd by about 300, but judging bythe media scrum his presence in thisroom has created alone, maybe wemight claw a few more quid back

through the gates than I had antici-pated. I prepare my response ac-cordingly.

“I’m pleased Craig has agreed tocome on board our project…”

Translation: “I still can’t believe Ipulled this shit off!” -- Now that Ihave a big-name manager I can le-gitimately use the most wanky of allfootball terms: project.

“…We hope this is just the beginningof a long and fruitful relationship forboth of us…”

Translation: “I hope he now takes usup next season or financially I mayas well bet on Lord Lucan ridingShergar home in the Grand Nationalnext year.”

“…and we hope the people of thisgreat town will be as excited as weare…”

Translation: “Come down and fill theground full of something other thanbobble-heads and members ofRichard’s family, so that a match daydoesn’t feel so much like a trip tothe proctologist.”

“…about a great future for this club.”

Translation: “As long as no onechecks the balance sheet long-term.”

The journalist moves on, perhaps alittle surprised to find a chairman sowilling to stand aside and let otherstake the limelight. The truth is, Idon’t want to be up there with




Wethers. He can handle himself,he’s the draw, not me. I’m a busi-nessman, not a celebrity. Sayingthat, a businessman probablywouldn’t be conducting his financialaffairs in the way I am at the mo-ment; all outgoings with no guaran-tee of making any of it back.

There’s that self-doubt again, nag-ging away. The Sun journo turns andnods back as he rejoins the packhanging on Wethers’ every word. Asthe thought of the financial suicideI’m currently committing threatensto overwhelm me, I sensibly decidethat alcohol is the only thing thatwill return my buzz, and head to thebar.

To be continued... ■




http://www.poetryseason.tumblr.com


DANNY CHADBURN >

When civil war becomes a national institution,

Football’s progress is hampered by political pollution.

Desert Hawks offer a more positive solution.

>


GARY AL -SMITH >

Midnight, 9 July 2011. The nation ofSudan split and the South becamean independent state. However, inwhat seems like a distant past, uni-fied Sudan was a proud foundingmember of the Confederation ofAfrican Football. What was life likebefore the split? In football terms,crimson-clad Sudan played anAfrican Nations Cup qualifier againstGhana, in 2010. Afterwards, I triedto paint a picture of the nationthrough their passionate team play-ers.

If you managed to get pitch-side atthe exact moment South Africanreferee Jerome Damon blew his


SUDAN BEFORE THE SPLIT


whistle to end the game, you’d havethought the team in red had wonthe World Cup, rather than merelysurviving for a 0-0 away draw in anAfrican Cup of Nations (AFCoN)qualifier. Considering how muchstrife had hit the country -- both infootball and elsewhere -- the mean-ing of the result earned in Kumasishould not be underestimated.

Chances are, when you think Sudanyou think disease, guns, hunger, war,extremism. Unfortunately, thoseconditions are all too prevalent, butlike everywhere else in Africa, theKush love their football. The DesertHawks were one of four foundingmembers of the Confederation ofAfrican Football (CAF) in the 1950s,at a time when nationalism and Pan-Africanism were sweeping the

continent. Caught up in the fervor,the nation gained independencefrom the British in 1956 and imme-diately plunged into a 17-year civilwar.

Sudan’s FA president, Dr KamalShaddad, notes that, "At one timewe had a president who dissolved allthe football structures, includingfootball clubs and the football asso-ciations. The basic structure was alldestroyed and for a year, kids werenot kicking balls on the street andthat really affected us."

Despite the civil war, they were ableto host and win the seventh AfricanCup in 1970. The fact that therewere only eight participants at thetime may have helped -- it beingsomewhat more difficult currently,

with 16 teams.

After that success, Sudan wouldappear in one last AFCoN in 1974.Subsequently, three decades cameand went before the Falcons ofJediane qualified for Ghana 2008,ahead of the four-time World Cupveterans Tunisia.

The achievement was thanks toSudan’s two biggest clubs, Al HilalOmdurman and El Merreikh, whohad sparked a collective hope ofresurgence.

Al Hilal reached the semi-final of the2007 CAF Champions League, whileEl Merreikh lost in the final of theConfederation Cup to Tunisia's CSSfaxien. Although the CAF ranks AlHilal as Africa’s fourth best side at


SUDAN BEFORE THE SPLIT GARY AL-SMITH >


the moment, Sudanese football’srelative success has been temperedby politics. For most of the threedecades when Sudan was wander-ing the football desert, some of theirbest talent crossedthe Red Sea to playfor oil-rich clubs.

Al Hilal and ElMerreikh’s duopolydoesn’t help thelocal game, either,with the pair enjoying colossal -- andvirtually exclusive -- amounts of fi-nancial support from two of thecountry's leading businessmen. Youmust journey back to 1992 to findanother champion (Al Hilal PortSudan). Prior to that, only two otherclubs (Al Mourada Omdurman in1968, and Burri Khartoum in 1969)

had won since 1962, when the localleagues first began.

Al-Mourada are seen as the thirdclub in Sudan’s club football triumvi-

rate, but struggleswith finance anda d m i n i s t r a ti o nmean that Al HilalOmdurman and ElMerreikh providethe bulk of the play-ers for the national

team. Worse, the other clubs,unable to match the financialmuscle of the big two, depend ongovernment rations to survive. Achange of mindset is needed at alllevels to catapult Sudanese footballinto a consistent force.

The social structure of Sudan society

can also be blamed for the lack ofambition and exposure. Wheneverburgeoning talents are spotted byclubs outside Sudan, it is difficult forthe foreigners to keep them happybecause they usually feel homesick.

From the late 1990s into the newmillennium, El Merreikh’s HaythamTambal was tipped to be the nextGeorge Weah. Too hot for Sudaneseclubs to hold, South African clubOrlando Pirates shanghaied him. Hesoon left, though, for one simplereason: at home his record as all-time national team goalscorer madehim a megastar; in South Africa, hewas just one of the guys.

As well, the strong social bond be-tween Sudanese football and poli-tics makes it difficult for national



A change in the

mindset is needed at

all levels to catapult

Sudanese football

into a consistent force


team coaches -- especially expats --to select the best representation forthe country. For instance, Sudanwent for the Anglo-Cypriot managerStephen Constantine between Feb-ruary 2009 and January 2011. Hehad big ideas for the Hawks, butalas, you do not change a people’smentality overnight, especiallyAfricans -- something Constantinetried to do with Sudan, and Malawibefore that.

Dr Kamal Shaddad again: “Thesocial linkages are so strong that[the Sudanese players] feel isolatedany time they go out. So, any timeyou play against a country that hasabout 17 or more foreign-basedplayers, you don’t expect to comeup tops."

It is for this reason that the drawwith Ghana -- whose starting line-upfielded nine players in Europe’s bigfour leagues -- was greeted withsuch glee by Sudan’s 11 sportsdailies, and is why Ghana’s mediahave been in such a mutinousmood. Also, there is the fact thatSudan’s national players play for ho-nour; they are not paid any bonuses,whereas Ghana’s team enjoys fourfigure sums.

But Sudan deserved the draw, forthey played well. Their rich history,sporting and otherwise, also givesthem reason to see a ray of hopethrough all the dark clouds.

Archaeologists believe Sudan’s cor-ner of the continent has been a set-tled culture since 8,000 B.C. As

steeped in world history as they are,and also founding fathers of Africa’sorganised football, the Sudanesepeople deserve more than they aregetting. Their players know this,giving their best every time theytake to the field. Yet, before a singleball is kicked, they sing the words oftheir anthem with so much passion:

“We are the army of God and of our

country / We shall never fail when

called to sacrifice / We challenge

death during hard times / We buy

glory, at the dearest price.”

When you consider that the lasttime Sudan won the AFCoN, in 1970,it was also the Black Stars who werebeaten, it may seem sentimental tobelieve that a draw with a WorldCup quarter-finalist was just the




tonic Sudan needed to relive theirglory days.

But here’s some free advice: don’tcount on it. ■




http://www.worldfootballcolumns.com

“Merde!��This�place�is�a�shithole!”

Gaston�looked�sideways�at�his�partner-

slash-doppleganger� and� snorted.

Everywhere�was�a�shithole�to�Pierre.

Yet,�in�this�instance,�Gaston�had�to

grudgingly� admit� that� his� age-old

friend�was�correct.��Khartoum�was

indeed�a�shithole.��The�whole�country

was.��

North�Sudan�was�an�arid�desert,�bro-

ken�only�by�the�Nile�slithering�down

to�Lake�Nasser,�before�coursing�past

the� desecrated� tombs� of� Cheops,

Ramses,�Tutankhamun�and�the�rest

of�the�narcissistic�Egyptians,�then�on

to� Cairo,� Alexandria� and� into� the

Mediterranean.��

Gaston� smiled� at� a� memory� of

Cleopatra.��The�Pharaohs�had�built�a


SMUGGLERS’ BLUES


glorious�civilisation,�true,�but,�like

any� other,� it� had� been� rife� with

treachery�and�deceit.��He�and�Pierre

thrived� on� corruption� and,� before

they�had�made�Gaul�their�base�of�op-

erations,�they�had�enjoyed�profitable

times�in�Egypt.�

The�Romans�had�spoiled�that,�how-

ever.��Pleasing�visions�of�the�Egyptian

seductress�transformed�into�the�grim

visages�of�Julius�and�Mark�Antony.

Still,�Pierre�had� found�a�way� to

exploit�the�rivalry�between�the�two

Romans,�and�Gaston�had�smiled�and

tasted� the� sweet� crimson� as� he

watched�from�the�shadows�when�the

knives�went�into�Caesar.��The�down-

ward�spiral�of�graft�and�decadence

which�flowed�from�that�deed�had�fed

the�pair�of�them�for�centuries.

He�steered�his�thoughts�back�to�the

present.� � Khartoum� divided� the

scorched�waste�of�the�North�from�the

rain-sodden� south.� �You� had� your

choice� in� Sudan,� between� humid

heat� or� arid,� between�monsoon� or

dust�storm,�but�every�inch�of�habit-

able�space�was�filled�with�filthy,�sav-

age� blacks,� who� would� cut� their

brother’s�throat�for�a�penny.��

Gaston� looked� sideways� at� Pierre,

considering� that.� � No,� he� would

never�make�that�choice.��There�were

limits,� even� to�what� he�would� do.

Besides,�theirs�was�the�perfect�rela-

tionship.� � � Pierre� completed� him,

each�one’s�strengths�cancelling�the

other’s�weaknesses.��Unlike�others�of

their�ilk,�who�operated�alone,�having

someone� to� trust� made� them

stronger.

These� untrustworthy�African� fools

could�be� exploited,� however.� �The

piracy�in�the�Red�Sea�yielded�almost

limitless� bounty� when� witless

thieves�and�cutthroats�were�given�a

little� guidance.� � Stolen� goods� and

contraband� made� their� way� from

Aqiq,�on�the�coast�near�the�Eritrean

border,�across�the�waste,�through�the

oasis�at�Derudeb�and�from�there�to

Khartoum,�where�P&G�Inc.�had�set

up�its�distribution�network.��

The�endless�civil�war�made�it�very

easy�to�conduct�business�in�the�city.

Any� temporary� authority� which

might�not�be�amenable�to�doing�busi-

ness�was�easily�removed�with�just�a

whisper� in� the� proper� ear� and� an

overstuffed�envelope�placed� in� the

hand.��


SMUGGLERS’ BLUES


Lately,� there� had� been� problems,

however.��Assets�were�either�disap-

pearing� without� a� trace� or� being

‘exchanged’� for� ridiculous� items,

such� as� key� chains,� ginsu� knives,

clap-on� light� switches,� Rubik’s

Cubes�and,�in�the�last�shipment,�pink

footballs.��At�first,�Gaston�had�sus-

pected� that� one� of� their� associates

had�become�too�wise�and�greedy�for

his� own� good,� but� two� successive

purges�hadn’t�resolved�the�issue.�

Thus,�he�and�Pierre�had�reluctantly

shuttered� their� cafe� in� Paris� for� a

week�and�descended�into�this�swel-

tering� nest� of� disease� and� filth.

Given� the� nature� of� the� thievery,

Gaston�was�now�almost�certain�as�to

the�culprit’s�identity,�but�catching�the

old�trickster�would�be�very�difficult.�

Tonight,�they�awaited�a�shipment�of

automatic�weapons�which�was�being

trucked�in�from�the�sea.��It�would�go

on� to� loyalist� troops� in� embattled

Libya.��He�and�Pierre�had�inspected

the�cargo�at�Aqiq,�in�Derudeb,�and

tracked�its�progress�along�its�entire

dusty�route,�electronically.��The�car-

avan�had�not�paused�other�than�for

fuel,�and�one�of�them�had�overseen

each�of�those�pit�stops.��

P&G�would�have�accompanied�the

procession�for�the�entire�route,�but

they�were�invaders�in�another’s�ter-

ritory,� and� the� open� desert� made

them�vulnerable.��Nancy�may�just�be

a�mischief�maker,�but�he�had�some

powerful� friends�who� resented� the

European�presence�and�would�strike

quickly� if�give� the�opportunity.� � It

was�better�if�no�one�knew�where�they

were�at�any�given�moment.

As�they�sat�sweating�in�front�of�the

open�doors�of�the�abandoned�ware-

house,� dusk� approached.� � Pierre’s

nose�was�buried�in�the�monitor�of�his

laptop,�tracking�the�caravan�by�satel-

lite.��Gaston�looked�over�his�shoul-

der;� the� trucks� were� still� a� few

kilometres�off.� �Across� the� road,�a

group� of� children� were� kicking� a

pink�football�around�a�patch�of�dusty

ground,� laughing� and� chittering� to

each�other.��One�young�boy,�proba-

bly� nine� or� ten,� was� especially

skilled,� weaving� his� way� through

and� around� the� rest,� dribbling� and

juggling�the�ball�with�ease.��

Finally,�he�pushed�his�luck�too�far,

and�one�of�the�other�urchins�slid�in

hard�and�knocked�the�ball�away.��The


SMUGGLERS’ BLUES



SMUGGLERS’ BLUES

boy�bundled�over�in�a�heap�and�the

ball� skittered� across� the� street� and

rolled�to�a�stop�less�than�twenty�feet

from� Pierre� and� Gaston.� � Pierre’s

focus�on�his�monitor�didn’t�waver.

Gaston�looked�at�the�pink�ball�and

muttered�to�himself.��He�rose�out�of

his�folding�chair,�strode�over�to�the

ball�and�picked�it�up.��The�children

yelled�at�him�to�throw�it�back�across

the�road.��He�just�stood�there,�hold-

ing�it.

One�of�them,�the�talented�boy,�darted

across�the�empty�street�and�looked

up�at�him,�smiling.��He�was�barefoot,

wearing�dirty�khaki�shorts�and�a�tat-

tered� Barcelona� shirt,� one� or� two

sizes�too�small.��There�were�scrapes

and�scars�on�his�legs�and�arms�but

his� face� was� unmarked� and� lit� by

bright� eyes� and� even� white� teeth.

His�head�was�so�big�that�Gaston�idly

wondered� if�he�ever� took� the� shirt

off.��

“Please�sir,”��he�chirped,�“may�we

have�our�ball�back?”

Gaston�looked�down�at�him�sternly.

“This�is�your�ball?”

“Well,�we�all�share�it,�sir.”

“Where�did�you�get�it?”

“A�tall�white�man�gave�it�to�us�two

weeks�ago,�sir.”

The�timing�certainly�fit�with�the�lost

shipment�but�news�of�a�white�man

surprised�Gaston.��There�were�very

few�operating�in�the�area.��

“What�did�he�look�like?”

The�boys�features�screwed�up�for�a

moment,�as�he�tried�to�find�a�way�to

describe�the�white�man.��Finally�he

shrugged�and�gave�a�short�reply.

“He�looked�pretty�much�like�you,�sir,


except�he�was�much�taller.”

Gaston� sighed� in� exasperation.

‘They�all�look�alike�to�me’�was�a�uni-

versal�phrase.��He�asked�a�series�of

questions� and� the� youngster’s� an-

swers� combined� to�describe� a� tall,

athletic�Englishman�of�middle-age

with�light�hair,�a�beard�and�casual,

but�expensive,�dress.��

Nigel.

The� problem� was� that� P&G� had

someone�watching�the�English�god

and�their�reports�suggested�that�the

Brit�had�been�nowhere�near�Africa.

Yet,�this�pup�seemed�sure�of�the�fel-

low� who� had� given� him� the� ball.

Perhaps�Nigel�required�additional

attention.

“Please�sir.”��The�high-pitched�voice

intruded� on� Gaston’s� thoughts.

“May�I�have�our�ball�back.”

“It’s�mine,�now,”��Gaston�sneered,

“but�I”ll�sell�it�to�you�for�a�dollar.”

The�boy’s�smile�wavered.��“I�don’t

have�a�dollar,�sir.��None�of�us�do.”

Gaston�sighed.��“Do�you�really�want

the�ball?”

The�boy’s�smile�returned.

“Yes,�sir.��Please!”

Gaston�pulled�a�small�knife�from�his

belt�and�swiftly�punctured�the�ball,

dropping�it�to�the�ground�with�a�flat

thump.��The�boy’s�smile�deflated�as

quickly�as�the�pink�ball.

“Then�get�a�job�and�buy�one,”��Gaston

snarled.��“Now,�get�out�of�here.”�

Across�the�road,�the�rest�of�the�chil-

dren�dropped�their�heads�at�the�sight

of�their�ruined�ball�and�began�to�dis-

perse.��The�young�urchin�looked�up

sadly�at�Gaston,� shaking�his�head.

Then�he�turned�and�skipped�across

the�road,�calling�to�his�friends.��As

they�faded�into�the�twilight,�his�gay

voice�had�them�laughing�again�in�no

time.

Gaston� gave� the� deadened� ball� a

swift�kick�and�it�sailed�lazily�into�the

middle�of� the�road,� landing�with�a

plop,� bleeding� more� precious� air.

There�was�a�sudden�rumble,�which

quickly�grew�in�volume.��A�row�of

trucks,�their�lights�off,�emerged�from

the�gathering�darkness�and�rolled�to-


SMUGGLERS’ BLUES


wards�the�gaping�doors�of�the�ware-

house.� �One�by�one,� they� rode�di-

rectly�over�the�remains�of�the�lifeless

football�until�there�was�nothing�left

but�a�flat�scrap�of�synthetic�pink�and

black�leather,�coated�in�dirt,�oil�and

tire�tread.��

Pierre�closed�his�laptop�with�a�snap

and,�standing,�followed�the�last�truck

into� the� edifice.� � Gaston� followed

and�hit�the�switch�which�rolled�the

doors�shut�with�a�rattle�and�clang.

Armed� guards� hopped� out� of� the

back�of�every�truck�and�took�up�po-

sitions.��The�lead�driver�stepped�up

and� handed� a� manifest� to� Pierre

while�another�cranked�up�a�forklift.

Soon�enough,�several�crates�sat�on

the�warehouse�floor�awaiting�inspec-

tion.��

Crowbars� were� applied,� lids� cast

aside�and�contents�examined.��Looks

of� alarm� quickly� spread.� � P&G

stepped�forward�and�looked�into�sep-

arate�containers.��Both�gods�reached

in�and�pulled�out�handfuls�of� thin,

rectangular� items� in� brightly

coloured�packaging.��Cursing,�they

moved�from�box�to�box�and�found

that,�rather�than�Kalishnikovs,�each

one� contained� instructional� DVDs

on�Swedish�massage.

As� angry� yells� of� accusation� and

protesting�shouts�turned�to�screams

and�gunfire,�the�young�boy�stood�in

the�shadows�nearby,�smiling.��When

the� doors� rolled� open,� Pierre� and

Gaston�emerged�in�an�empty�truck

and�tore�off�down�the�road.��

The� boy� sniggered,� then� smoothly

transformed� into� a� thin� wiry� old

man,�decked�out�in�a�shiny�suit�with

a� bright� red� tie� and�matching� ker-

chief�in�the�breast�pocket.��Flames

sprung�up�in�the�warehouse,�flicker-

ing� at� the� windows,� and� smoke

began� to� billow� out� the� still� open

doors.��

Nancy�reached�behind�him�and�pro-

duced�a�pink�football�covered�by�a

chequered�felt�fedora�with�a�feather

in�the�hat�band.��Placing�the�hat�jaun-

tily�on�his�head,�he�tossed�the�ball�up

and�juggled�it�from�foot�to�foot,�ca-

sually,� before� tapping� it� into� the

empty�lot�where�the�children�would

surely�find�it�in�the�morning.��Laugh-

ing�softly�to�himself,�he�faded�from

sight.��■


SMUGGLERS’ BLUES



DANNY CHADBURN >

What delights can we expect? Where to begin?

In Team Scandinavia, playmakers come thin.

High-octane incision is their method of win.

>


CHARLIE ANDERSON >

When Jude Ellery invited me towrite an article for Man And Ball, Istupidly said yes. Stupidly, becausewhen I searched for a topic to cover,I settled on 'what is it that I likeabout Nordic football?’ It was onlywhen I sat down in front of my lap-top, the sheer and merciless void ofan empty Word document staringme in the phizog, that I realised Idon’t know how to answer thatquestion. An interesting develop-ment but, given that I’d agreed towrite on the subject, something of abotherance.

It felt like that GCSE History exam allover again and, just as I then blindly


HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING

AND LOVE NORDIC FOOTBALL


had a go at a bewildering questionregarding the Battle of Jutland, I’mgoing to close my eyes tightly andtackle this one.

What’s to like about Nordic football?I don’t know where to begin otherthan at the beginning.

In the latter parts of the nineteenthcentury the English, all steely-eyedrighteousness and quiveringlyearnest moustachery, took theirGreat Game to the world. Scandi-navia (Jutland included) was one ofthe first places they rocked up andweighed anchor.

Northern Europe took to footballlike Jamie Redknapp to a pair of fig-ure-hugging trousers, and the gamecaught on quickly. Kjøbenhavns

Boldklub, for example, was the firstfootball club founded in mainlandEurope. KB survives to this day inthe Danish lower leagues, whiletheir professional team merged withBoldklubben 1903 to form FCCopenhagen in 1992 (a busy year,what with BSkyB inventing Englishfootball).

It was an Englishman, CharlesWilliams, who first coached the Dan-ish national team, and took them toa 1908 Olympic silver medal (theylost the final to Great Britain). So,from that moment when the Englishfirst hitched up their pantaloons andwaded, football in hand, into theNorth Sea, their ties with Scandi-navia have been pretty sturdy.

Given the geographical and histori-

cal proximity, it’s interesting that thefootballing Anglophilia, which datesback to the game’s first jaunt acrossthe North Sea, has never been recip-rocated. Football was exported tothe Netherlands at pretty much thesame time, so it’s interesting thatthe Dutch game holds such an ex-alted place in England’s collectivefootballing consciousness whereasthere is little awareness of Nordicfootball in Albion, beyond the na-tional teams.

I don’t mean to lament the di-chotymy, nor suggest that it’s inex-plicable. It is a curiosity, though.Perhaps a sense that the region goesa little unappreciated makes it moreattractive to a pseudo-intellectualfootball blogger such as me.


LOVE NORDIC FOOTBALL CHARLIE ANDERSON >


No, that isn’t it. It’s a teasing crossbut it’s not a thumping header intothe far corner. A quick glance atDavid Goldblatt’s glo-riously comprehensiveflagstone The Ball IsRound takes us farcloser to the nub ofthe matter. Discussingthe development offootball in northernEurope, Goldblattwrites of “cultures unencumberedby great power pretensions”.

That unencumbered attitude is, Ithink, right at the heart of what’sgreat about Nordic football. There’sa certain understated charm thatadds something to the game.

Consider Morten Gamst Pedersen.

Since 2004, the Norwegian mid-fielder has been, more or less, a reg-ular first-team player in the world’s

biggest, shiniest foot-ball league. He’s as-sisted 70 PremierLeague goals, which ismore than such globalicons as CristianoRonaldo or GarySpeed ever managed.But Gamst will never

be a superstar, there’ll never be ateam built around him. He’s anunglamorous player who helps toknit the team together, just like SamiHyypiä, Martin Laursen or SebastianLarsson.

The Nordic countries tend to pro-duce a lot more of this type of playerthan they do bewitching playmakers

or nimble-toed centre-forwards.Obviously that fantasista droughthas its disadvantages, but it also fa-cilitates a more team-based sensibil-ity, which in turn produces playerswith a valuable understanding of in-tangibles, such as shape and space -- or what Jorge Valdano called“knowing-how-to-play-football”. InBrilliant Orange, David Winnerwrites at length about the Dutch ap-titude for manipulating space, and Ithink that, to some extent, it’s fair todescribe Nordic football in the sameterms.

That anti-individualist baselinemakes the extraordinary talents thatdo emerge all the more nerve-crack-lingly thrilling. Think of those play-ers like Michael Laudrup or JariLitmanen, and how much of their



That fantasista

drought has its

disadvantages, but

it also facilitates a

more team-based

sensibility


greatness came from the propensityto put their gifts at the disposal ofthe collective. Michel Platini evendescribed Laudrup as “not selfishenough”.

All this talk of playmakers, andthere’s a woolly mammoth in theroom. The beast to which I refer isnot Jan Mølby, but the issue of thelong-ball game. It’s a characterisa-tion often applied to Nordic teams;one which is both fair and unfair. It’sbest observed through the prism ofEgil Olsen’s Norway.

Olsen, or “Drillo” as he’s nicknamed,is one of the great long-ball theo-rists, and heavily influenced by Gra-ham Taylor (there’s thatAnglo-Nordic link again). Drillo’sNorway played, and continue to

play, a scientific, high-octane long-ball game with an intense and impa-tient sensibility. Not a second iswasted, and the gritty organisationof the defence is matched with a fu-rious and surgically precise counter-attack. It’s long-ball, but it’s as farfrom hit-and-hope as imaginable.It’s hard work for the spectator, butalso strangely enervating. Å værebest uten ball -- “to be the best atrunning without the ball” -- isOlsen’s philosophy.

Another example of entertaininglong-ball would be Denmark’s firstgoal of the 2010 World Cup, whenSimon Kjær lasered a diagonal passto Dennis Rommedahl, who tookone touch to beat the defender andanother to slide the ball across thesix-yard box. Nicklas Bendtner did

the honours at the far post. It was along-ball theorist’s dream -- onlytwo passes! -- but a goal of crisp,clinical beauty.

So there you have it. Glamorous?Not really. Exciting? Sometimes.Sexy? Only when Zlatan’s around.The hard sell was never my strongsuit, and I can see that you want toget back to Nigel’s adventures. I’llshut my briefcase, then, and gohawk my wares on anotherdoorstep. I tip my hat to you, andthank you for your time.

Do me a favour though, would you?Check with Nigel and get back tome. I still don’t know what hap-pened at the Battle of Jutland. ■




Nigel�and�Liv�broke�off�their�kiss�as

they�felt�the�elevator�coming�to�a�soft

stop.��Thus,�when�the�doors�opened

they�looked�for�all�the�world�like�a

proper,�well-mannered,�respectable

couple,� hair� and�clothing�neat� and

orderly,� both� facing� forward� and

making� neither� eye� nor� physical

contact;�rather�than�a�pair�consumed

in�the�early�throes�of�a�passionate�re-

lationship,� unable� to� keep� their

hands�off�one�another.��They�stepped

out�into�the�lobby�and,�with�barely�a

nod,�Liv�made�for�the�dining�room�to

secure�a�table,�while�Nigel�headed

for�the�front�desk�to�hand�in�the�key;

they’d�be�off�for�a�round�of�golf�after

the�meal.

When� he� reached� the� counter,� the

clerk�handed�him�a�slightly�bulging

courier�envelope�addressed�to�‘Nigel


DOMESTIC BLISS


Etherington,�CEO�Global�Exports’.

Since�his�return,�he�had�developed�a

taste�for�novels�of�intrigue,�particu-

larly� the� works� of� Le� Carre� and

Fleming.��Tucking�the�package�under

his�arm,�he�walked�across�the�lobby

to�the�dining�room,�wound�his�way

calmly�through�the�staggered�rows�of

tables� to� one� by� the� window� and,

with�the�suave�and�grace�of�a�secret

agent,�bent�to�give�Liv�a�peck�on�the

top� of� her� head,� before� taking� his

seat.��

As� he� tore� into� the� package,� she

looked�up�from�her�paper,�curious.

There�was�one�item�inside:��a�DVD

entitled� ‘Master� The� Arts� Of

Swedish�Massage’.��Attached�to�the

front� was� a� yellow� Post-it� with� a

pink�smiley�face�drawn�on�it.��

“Nancy?”�she�asked.

Nigel� nodded.� � “Everything� went

well,�apparently.”

Liv�smiled.

There�was�a�bit�of�commotion�in�the

room;�an�outburst�of�laughs�and�gig-

gles�which�announced�the�arrival�of

Taylor� and� Todd.� � The� American

couple�had�no�use�for�propriety�and

were�unabashed�in�their�affection�for

each�other,�embracing�and�offering

each�other�a�passionate�kiss�before

Todd�made�a�show�of�pulling�out�a

chair�for�Taylor�to�sit�down.��

Settling� down,� Taylor� spied� the

video.��

“Nancy�is�still�getting�under�Pierre

and�Gaston’s�skin�I�see.”

Nigel�nodded.

Todd�picked�up�the�DVD�and�read

the� cover� and� back,� one� eyebrow

raised.��

“Do�you�mind�if�I�hang�onto�this?”

he�asked.

Nigel�smiled�as�Liv�giggled�and�Tay-

lor�blushed.

“By�all�means.”

“Thanks!”� Todd� almost� gushed.

“Tail�and�I�are�really�grateful�for�the

invitation.� � We� both� come� from

strong�Irish�stock,�but�neither�of�us

have�ever�been.��So,�it’s�really�excit-

ing�to�be�playing�eighteen�in�Ireland,


DOMESTIC BLISS


and�right�on�the�coast�no�less!��It’s

like�Pebble�Beach�but�more�historic!

We�can’t�say�thank�you�enough.��Re-

ally!

Before�Nigel�could�count�the�‘real-

lies’�or�say�“you’re�welcome”�for�the

umpteenth� time� on� the� weekend,

Taylor�interjected.

“That�doesn’t�mean�we’re�not�going

to� kick� your� ass� on� the� links,

though!”

“Oh,�we’ll�see�about�that!”��Liv�was

quick�to�take�up�the�challenge.��

Nigel�was�a�bit�surprised�by�her�con-

fidence.� � When� he� had� first� sug-

gested� meeting� up� with� the

Americans�for�a�round�of�golf,�she

had�admitted� that�her�only�experi-

ence�with�the�game�was�hitting�balls

when�an�ex�took�her�to�the�driving

range�a�few�times.

He�arched�an�eyebrow�in�her�direction.

She�smiled�back�at�him�sweetly�and,

shrugging,�asked,�“How�hard�can�it

be?”

Taylor�and�Todd�both�burst�into�fits

of�laughter.�

As�the�foursome�walked�off�the�ninth

green,� the� laughter� had� been� re-

placed�by�dark,�suspicious�glances

and�the�breeze�off�the�Irish�Sea�had

been�forgotten.��Put�a�short�or�middle

distance�iron�in�Liv’s�hand�and�she

was�deadly�accurate.��Nigel’s�game

was�solid,�and,�unlike�Todd,�who�still

hadn’t�learned�not�to�“grip�it�and�rip

it”�despite�finding�his�way�into�three

pot�bunkers,�he�was�content�to�put

the�ball�in�the�fairway�for�Liv�when-

ever�he�teed�off.��The�young�goddess

had�hit�the�stick�twice�and�spun�an-

other�approach� to�within� five� feet.

As�a�result,� the�Brits�were�up�four

holes�as�they�rounded�the�turn.��

As� the� quartet� picked� up� some

refreshments�before�starting�on�the

back�nine,�Nigel�tried�to�defuse�any

tensions.��


DOMESTIC BLISS


“I� thought�you�said�you’d�only�hit

balls�a�few�times?”

Liv�shrugged�again.

“That’s�right,�but�it’s�just�about�co-

ordination�and�body�control.��I�grew

up� in� dance� class� --� it’s� the� same

thing,�when�you�think�about�it.”

“Did� you� really?”� Todd� piped� up,

with�an�eager�smile.��“You�know,�I

was�a�cheerleader�in�college!”

Liv�stared�at�him,�unsure�just�what

that�meant�and�Taylor�rolled�her�eyes

in�disgust.��She�elbowed�her�husband

hard�in�the�ribs.

“Ow,�Tail!”�he�cried�out.��“What�was

that�for?”

“Forget� about� cheerleading,”� she

growled,� “and� forget� about� your

driver,�too.��If�you�take�it�out�of�your

bag�again,�I’ll�wrap�it�around�your

head.”

Todd�looked�from�his�wife�to�Nigel

and�Liv,�his�face�a�mix�of�confusion,

embarrassment�and�chagrin.��Feeling

somewhat�empathetic�to�his�fellow

god’s�complete�ignorance�of�the�fe-

male�condition,�Nigel�clapped�him

on�the�shoulder�encouragingly.��

“Let’s�get�back�to�it,�shall�we?”

Four�holes�later,�with�Todd’s�driver

permanently�hooded,�the�Yanks�had

halved� their� deficit.� �Then,� on� the

fourteenth,� Liv� missed� a� putt� that

was�the�next�best�thing�to�a�gimme,

and�it�was�a�match�again.��Todd�and

Taylor� were� buzzing� excitedly� as

they�high-fived�and�pulled�their�carts

towards� the� next� tee.� � With� their

backs�turned,�Nigel�gave�Liv�a�sus-

picious�look�which�was�answered�by

a�surreptitious�shrug�and�very�guilty

expression�of�innocence.��

Yet,� there�would�be�no�winners�or

losers� in� this�contest.� �As� they�ap-

proached�the�fifteenth�tee�box,�two

figures�walked�out�from�an�adjacent

copse�of�trees.��It�was�a�grim�faced

Padraig,�with�Mal�in�tow.

“We’ve�got�a�problem,”�he�said.��■


DOMESTIC BLISS



DANNY CHADBURN >

Founding fathers build a new sport to consume,

Imports given hometowns and monikers to assume.

Base, basket and football, does soccer have room?

>


NIALL FARRELL >

For centuries, Ireland has had aspecial relationship with America.Irish emigrants built Americanrailways, policed their streets andproduced generals, admirals andpresidents for their adopted coun-trymen. The exodus was so vastthat, today, most Irish people havean American relative. Applying forthe J1 visa to work for a summer inthe States has become almost a riteof passage for Irish students.

‘These were the hands that builtAmerica’ may be a cliché -- and thename of a U2 song -- but it’s true.Ireland also had a role in the pio-neering days of both American foot-


THE SPECIAL RELATIONSHIP


ball and soccer, with the story of thelatter remaining largely untold.While Notre Dame’s Fighting Irish,along with the Syracuse Orangemenand numerous others, remain anintegral part of American collegefootball, and NCAA athletics in gen-eral, their association footballcounterparts have remained hiddenin the mists of history.

However, the Irish clubs were heldin such high regard by the foundingfathers of US professional footballthat two clubs, one from each sideof the Irish border, were amongthose invited to participate in theUnited Soccer Association -- the firstattempt at a mass-marketed profes-sional league in the US.

In 1966, an idea was born in the

heads of three of the greatest entre-preneurs of American sport. JackKent Cooke, Steve Stavro and LamarHunt wanted to bring professionalassociation football to America,replete with all the passion andgrandeur of the great European andSouth American leagues. Theyformed a consortium, calling it theNorth American Soccer League(NASL) -- with the intention of estab-lishing the first fully professionalleague in North America.

All three men had football -- as wellas a plethora of other sports --coursing through their veins. Cookeowned the professional basketballand ice hockey franchises in themassive Los Angeles market (theLakers and the Kings) as well as theWashington Redskins of the NFL. He

also owned the famous Forum --where the Lakers played -- which,until the construction of the StaplesCenter, ranked alongside MadisonSquare Gardens as one of the mosticonic indoor sports venues in theworld.

Cooke had also owned several radioand television stations, newspapersand magazines. He pioneered thenow familiar model of sports enter-tainment -- running promotions forfans during matches and seatingcelebrities in the front row.

The second of the founding NASLmembers, Stavro, had a differentbackground. He was the only one ofthe trio to grow up playing thegame. As a schoolboy in Toronto,Stavro played football and, in 1961,


THE SPECIAL RELATIONSHIP NIALL FARRELL >


he was a founding member ofToronto City. Initially competing inthe Eastern Canada ProfessionalSoccer League, City would go on theplay in the USA. In their first season,Stavro coaxed players like StanleyMatthews, Danny Blanchflower andJohnny Haynes into playing for City.

Perhaps the most interesting of thethree men, at least in this context, isHunt, who will be instantly recognis-able to fans of modern Americansoccer -- the US Open Cup carries hisname. Hunt owned four Americanfootball franchises at differentstages, but his name remains syn-onymous with American soccer.From 1966 to his death in 2006, hemissed just three World Cups. Hefounded current MLS clubs SportingKansas City and Columbus Crew, and

owned FC Dallas for the three yearspreceding his death.

Hunt was an American footballplayer in college, but his interest insoccer was kindled on the terrace ofone of Dublin’s famous footballgrounds. In 1962, Hunt went to seeShamrock Rovers play in GlenmalurePark and from then on he retained apassion for the sport. Whether ornot he came, as so many Irish-Amer-icans do, to discover their roots isunknown, but what is certain is thathe discovered association football.It was no coincidence then, thatwhen Hunt and his fellow NASLfounders drew up their list of clubsto compete in the USA, as they de-cided to call the league, Rovers wereincluded. The plan was simple:rather than growing clubs in Ameri-

can cities, the United Soccer Associ-ation would simply have leading Eu-ropean clubs transplanted into thecountry, as part of a summer league.So, 1960 FA Cup winners Wolver-hampton Wanderers played as theLos Angeles Wolves, Cagliari becamethe Chicago Mustangs and Brazillianside Bangu competed as the Hous-ton Stars.

Although the teams were there andthe league structure was relativelystraightforward -- one Western con-ference, one Eastern conference --the initial season of the USA in 1967was rushed through. It was onlycalled the USA because a rival con-sortium, the National ProfessionalSoccer League (NPSL) arose. Thename USA was adopted, as NASLwas too similar to NPSL. Just to add




to the confusion, when the twoleagues later merged the name thechose was NASL.

Not only that, when the NPSLannounced that they had secured amajor television deal with CBS andwere ready to start in 1967, Cooke,Stavro and Huntbrought the start ofthe USA forward bya year.

The approachestaken towardsdeveloping the USAand NPSL were microcosms of theapproaches which would definefootball in America for the following40 years. The NPSL had a similarstructure: two conferences contain-ing five teams each, and a Champi-

onship Game between the two con-ference leaders to decide the overallwinners. But the participating clubswere ones native to their franchisearea, in contrast to the invited clubsof the USA. The NPSL’s stars, asidefrom a handful (notably Dennis Vio-llet), were American and Canadian

youth players orveteran pros.

In the face of thediametrically op-posed strategies, adebate arose con-cerning the best

way to develop football in America,leading to the combination of thetwo strategies (and leagues) whenNASL was launched.

Although, in current climes, it might

seem that developing clubs region-ally rather than transplanting themwould always be preferable, theNPSL was not without its problems.Some issues were more visible thanothers. In the league’s opener, fouls(and extended recoveries after-wards) were welcomed, as theyallowed the CBS television networkto run advertisements during broad-casts.

While such would have upset Britishviewers, the May issue of Sports

Illustrated ran a story on that open-ing match, remarking that “the USAowners should have been pleasedwith what they saw televised fromBaltimore's Memorial Stadium.

SI went on to note that “the 8,434spectators who sprinkled the stands



Fouls were welcomed,

as they allowed the

CBS television network

to run advertisments

during broadcasts


-- and were studiously avoided bythe TV cameras -- were not nearlyenough to make the Baltimore Baysa fiscal success, but the game itselfhad sufficient charm to make thetelevision audience want more.”

The competing clubs, the BaltimoreBays and Atlanta Chiefs, were “re-markably cohesive”, according tothe report, for teams “assembledonly recently from the four cornersof the earth.”

But the general consensus was thatthe while the NPSL had the big-money TV deal, the USA stillprovided a better standard.

“The class of play in the non-televised league (the USA) is likelyto be better than that in the National

Professional Soccer League,” TexMaule said in SI, “since the UnitedSoccer Association, with the blessingof the FIFA, imports entire teams torepresent its cities, rather than amelange of over or under-ageplayers.”

Maule concluded: “Not too longfrom now the two leagues are ex-pected to merge. When they do,and when the brand of socceroffered the American public on thefield and on television begins toapproach the caliber of the soccerplayed in Europe and South Amer-ica, then the game in the U.S. maybecome a real threat to baseball,with which it presently competes.”

For Shamrock Rovers, the chance toplay in the USA against such illustri-

ous opposition was a welcome one.This was a side in its pomp; one ofthe most successful Irish teams of alltime. The Hoops had been a majorforce in Irish football for the bestpart of two decades -- the BostonRovers sojourn was sandwiched inbetween the famous ‘six-in-a-row’FAI Cup wins. They had won theLeague of Ireland three times in the1950s and again in 1964.

Crowds of up to 30,000 would fre-quently pack in to Glenmalure Parkin the heydays of players like PaddyCoad and, later, Liam Tuohy, in whatbecame known as the golden age ofIrish football. Rovers’ trip to the USin 1967, intended to be the catalystfor football in America, coincidedwith the beginning of the steadydecline of attendances in Ireland.




Right throughout the 1970s and ‘80sattendances slid further downacross all clubs in the league. Theyreached a low point in the mid-to-late ‘90s and have only started toclimb again in recent years. Roversthemselves were almost at the sum-mit of their own slippery slope. In1970 the club unexpectedly lost toShelbourne in the FAI Cup (their firstloss in the competition in sevenyears) and matters degeneratedfrom there.

The club failed to win any furthertrophies until an FAI Cup win in1978, sparking another period ofdominance. The ‘80s saw Roverswin four league titles and three FAICups. Glenmalure Park was sold in1987, heralding another downwardturn and leaving the club without a

permanent home ground for 23years. Another league title followedin 1994, but the trophy cabinet wasrarely opened for new wares afterthat.

In fact Rovers went bust and weretaken over by fans in 2005. Theysubsequently won promotion backto the Premier Division and, lastseason, reclaimed dominion overthe Premier Division in their newground, Tallaght Stadium.

Last month saw the return of Sham-rock Rovers to the hearts and mindsof the wider football-loving public.The club will be the first ever fromIreland to compete in the groupstage of a European competitionwhen they face Rubin Kazan, Totten-ham Hotspur and PAOK Salonika in

the Europa League this season.

However, if the old USA were to berun as a competition today, an invi-tation to an Irish club to participatewould be unthinkable. Althoughthere have been great stridesforward in domestic competitionlately, the League of Ireland still lagswell behind any of the major Euro-pean leagues. The invitation fromLamar Hunt in 1967 was a testamentto how highly regarded the clubwas, at the time. Playing againstsides from the best leagues in theworld, Rovers remained competi-tive, despite finishing bottom oftheir own Conference division.

In its inaugural edition, the USA wasrelatively successful. Boston Roverswere the worst attended club in the




league, but attendances at someclubs occasionally climbed above15,000. The competition on thepitch was also generally well re-ceived in the media. Los AngelesWolves and Washington Whips (Ab-erdeen) played the championshipgame at Memorial Stadium. Over17,000 attended, albeit in a stadiumwith a capacity of almost 50,000.

After that single 1967 season, theUSA and NPSL merged. According tothe American Soccer HistoryArchives, which were invaluable inthe research of this article, “theowners of the USA and NPSL clubsscanned their financial statements,some of which were $500,000 in thered, and tried to analyze what hadgone wrong with their investments.”

NASL was meant to have learned bythe many mistakes and miscalcula-tions made by administrators inboth leagues. The new league madesure not to tie clubs down to a cityon ethnic lines -- like Boston Rovers-- opting instead to appeal to abroader audience in the Americansports-loving public.

But the systematic problem in Amer-ican soccer was mainly ignored.According to the aforementionedAmerican Soccer History Archives,“Unfortunately, the owners werenot concerned with what the Amer-ican soccer community thought theproblems were. They wanted only asimple explanation for their failure,and they found one... In their mindsit was all too clear that the fault layin the unnecessary competition of

the two leagues, which had dilutedthe support of the ‘many’ soccerfans: give the country one proleague and attendance wouldzoom.”

NASL relied on imported players,just as the USA did. Where GordonBanks and Roberto Boninsegnawent in the USA, Pele and FranzBeckenbauer would follow in NASL.Ultimately though, NASL failed formany of the same reasons thatdoomed the USA and NPSL. Americawas without a major professionalsoccer league between 1984 and1996 -- when Major League Soccerlaunched after two years of plan-ning, in the wake of the 1994 WorldCup.

For the players and backroom staff




of Shamrock Rovers who travelled toAmerica in 1967, their part in theambitious USA project must haveseemed a world away during thedecades when both Irish and Amer-ican soccer drifted away from theirhalcyon days. Yet, those days in theUSA are fondly remembered byRovers players. Paddy Mulligan,right back for Boston Rovers andUEFA Cup winner with Chelsea, stillrefers to that summer of 1967 as“the best time of our lives”.

The role played by an Irish club inthe rise of professional soccer inAmerica may have been a relativelysmall one, but the lessons learnedthrough the Boston Rovers experi-ment and the USA experience as awhole shaped American soccer foryears afterwards. ■



http://www.hotfootynews.blogspot.com



DANNY CHADBURN >

Despite defeat, silver medals are proudly displayed.

A renegade coach defied Poland’s blazer brigade.

Against all odds, a legend was made.

>


MICHAL ZACHODNY >

There is a huge plaque insideBarcelona’s museum at Camp Nou,commemorating the victory of theSpanish national team at the 1992Olympics. Vicente Miera’s teamtriumphed in some style, concedingonly two goals in the whole tourna-ment -- both in the final, where95,000 watched in joy as Kiko nettedthe winner for the home side inadded time. His heroics capped offone of the most entertaining foot-ball matches ever played at theOlympics. This was a great squad,including Pep Guardiola, SantiagoCañizares, Albert Ferrer, Luis Enriqueand Abelardo. But, also on thatplaque, there are the names (albeit


LET’S HAVE THOSE WANKERS!


with mistakes) of the beaten team,the only side to give the Spaniards afight in the tournament: Poland.

This summer, the Poles celebratedthe 19th anniversary of their last‘success’ on the international stage.Nobody really cared that it was inthe Olympics, an Under-23 compe-tition, rather than a bigger, morerecognised tournament such as theWorld Cup or European Champi-onships. And nobody really caredthat they lost.

In Poland, the ‘92 team wasn’t givenmuch hope before the tournamentkicked off in Barcelona. They’d facedbad press following an uninspiredfinish to the 1990-92 UEFA EuropeanUnder-21 Championship -- that’s nota typo, it was played over two years

-- which had served as qualifiers forthe Olympics.

Nevertheless, qualify they did, and,as you’ve read, they ended up assilver medalists. But inspiration toeven create the Under-23 team hadonly come to Janusz Wójcik fouryears earlier, when he was coachingthe Under-18s during one of theirmany visits to Germany. As well asthe typically generous amount oftalent, the Germans were fantasti-cally organised and had supportfrom the DFB. Wójcik’s target wasnot only to create a team capable ofwinning everything at internationalyouth level, but then also to pass theproduct on to the senior nationalsquad.

Coaching such a team was always

Wójcik’s dream, but he didn’t havemany friends at the Polish FootballAssociation, the PZPN, and couldn’tconvince them to make it a reality.To get to the level of the young Ger-mans he’d have to think of anotherstrategy, something new in a societythat only just was learning whatdemocracy was about. It was 1989,after all.

So, he came up with a foundationwhich would attract sponsors for theUnder-23 team. Funds gatheredwent to player scholarships (youngplayers weren’t the best earners atthe time), organisation of trainingcamps (often in Germany) andbonuses for the whole team.

“In [the] deep economical crisis ofthe early nineties, Wójcik created a


LET’S HAVE THOSE WANKERS! MICHAL ZACHODNY >


fantastic environment for us to trainand earn. [The Under-23s] wereprobably better than the seniornational team,” said AndrzejJuskowiak, the new project’s topstriker.

But this team, defined by the creativityof the project, the rising ambitionsof the coach and the insolence ofthe youth he had at his disposal, wasslowly becoming the PZPN’s biggestproblem. At the federation’s helmwas Kazimierz Górski, the people’sfavorite, a coaching legend who hadachieved so much in Poland. WhenGórski spoke, everyone listened. Hewasn’t a man who you wanted totangle with.

The group stage of the Euros hadgone smoothly. Though rivalry with

Turkey and England spiced things upa little, the Poles topped the groupand didn’t drop a single point, con-ceding only two goals in six matches.Effective, strong, confident, theystormed into the knockout stagesonly to be embarrassed 6-1 on ag-gregate by Denmark in the quarter-final.

Normally, this would have spelt theend of Poland’s Olympic dream be-fore it had even begun, but Scotlandcame to their rescue. Because theScottish didn’t compete in Olympicfootball, with the four Home Nationsstill arguing to this day over the con-cept of a unified British team, whenthey beat Germany 5-4, their placewent to Poland.

Worryingly for Wójcik, though, figures

at the PZPN’s headquarters were al-ready lobbying for a change ofcoach. What they really needed wasa scandal, something that wouldcompletely undermine the coachand allow the PZPN to reclaim controlof the team. Before setting off forBarcelona, the whole squad under-went standard doping tests.

Only the tests weren’t standard.Instead of a sterile lab, the sampleswere collected in a Warsaw hotel on4 July. Eleven days later the news-paper Rzeczpospolita reported thatthree players, Dariusz Kosela, PiotrŚwierczewski and goalkeeper Alek-sander Klak, had failed the tests.Was it a coincidence that this newswas released on the very day thatthe squad was announced? With notime to replace the three, they




refused to have their ‘B’ samplestested and set off for the tourna-ment regardless.

Gazeta Wyborcza’s report on 20 Julyread: “As Laboratory Director DrMarek Daniewski told us, they didn’twant to have it checked, nor toquestion anything... the laboratorydid another routine test on the samples,to check whether thehigh steroid levelswere due to illness...This one showedthere was no addedtestosterone, butDr.Daniewski had doubts whethersome clearing-up meds weren’tused.”

The suspected players were invitedfor one more test, when they

reached Barcelona. The Olympiclaboratory showed no sign of eitheranabolic steroids or masking agentsin the players’ bloodstream.

The whole squad were outraged.They accused the Polish laboratoryof improperly storing the samples,and even PZPN head Górski was puz-zled by the whole incident. So, the

team was officiallyclean, but their imagetarnished. It occuredto Wójcik that, per-haps, such had beenthe intention of those

who had engineered the initial pos-itive readings back in Poland.

“After qualifying for the Olympicsthey tried to sack me. During thetournament people moaned about

our style, despite our winning.Polish hell!” wrote Wójcik in his auto-biography.

Wojciech Kowalczyk, another finestriker in the squad, recalls thatinside the team they used to callworkers from the PZPN “teddybears”. Not a term of endearment,this was a reference to lingeringloyalties to the former Soviet Union.

Wójcik’s selection and tactics wereindisputably good. Despite theteam’s youth and inexperience, theyhad enough talent to see them runout 2-0 winners in the their tourna-ment opener against Kuwait. It wasn’ta fully convincing win, but two goalsfrom Juskowiak, the second a trade-mark header, were enough to earnPoland three points and “Jusko” a



Wójcik’s selection

and tactics were

indesputably good


move to Sporting Lisbon.

Wójcik was not only a promisingtactician but also a great motivator,although his team talks and personalchats weren’t recommended forthose with sensitive ears. Kowalczykrecalls one such rant in his auto-biography:

“We came here for a medal. No,what am I talking about? We arehere for the gold! Keep that in yourheads, because I’m not repeating itagain: gold medal only! We will win,we are definitely the best teamhere. I will be surprised if anyonewill step up to our level. Who wonevery game in the group stage [ofthe Euros]? Us, or these losers weare playing against? Definitely notthem! We will have those mugs!

We will have those wankers!” Thelast sentence was something of acatchphrase for Wójcik.

The Kuwait game was only a warm-up though; the real test came in thesecond match against real quality:Italy. Nobody thought the Polesstood a chance. Managed by themagic duo of Cesare Maldini andMarco Tardelli, Italy had Antonioli,Favalli, Albertini and Dino Baggioamong other fine talents, all se-lected from top Serie A clubs.

“From the start! Tackle, tackle,tackle! Show them who’s stronger!Cut them to the grass! Let’s havethose wankers!” Wójcik’s battle cryworked.

Just four minutes in, Marek

Koźmiński ran all the way down theleft wing and played the ball in tothe two Polish strikers, Kowalczykand Juskowiak. The pair co-oper-ated perfectly all tournament but nobetter than in this instance, wherethe latter worked space to send afantastic volley past Italian ‘keeperFrancesco Antionioli. Unstoppable.Then, shortly after the break,Ryszard Staniek took advantage of agreat through pass and finished eas-ily; he was simply too fast for hismarker, Demetrio Albertini. Thatwas enough for the Italians. Theycould not believe what was happen-ing and their frustration showeditself in the form of two red cards ineight minutes. Grzegorz Mielcarskifinished them off with a third twominutes from time, but the consen-sus was that the Italians -- European




Under-21 Champions -- had beenmugged.

In the last group match, Polanddrew 2-2 with the USA to finish first,a point ahead of Italy, who had re-grouped to scrape a 1-0 victory overKuwait. This meant the Italiansfaced Spain in the quarter-finals,while Poland would play Qatar.

Poland ran out comfortable 2-0winners in their match, with goalsfrom Kowalczyk and Marcin Jałocha.This game was important as it sawKowalczyk score for the first time inthe tournament. His career at Legiawas a great success: he had beensigned by Warsaw’s best team as a19-year-old in November 1990, andin March the next year has put twogoals past Gianluca Pagliuca of Sam-

pdoria in the Cup Winners’ Cupquarter-final. Weeks later he’dscored at Old Trafford. But in thesummer of 1992 it was a goal pastAhmed Saleh that broke his duck,and he only improved from there.

For the semi-final at Camp Nou,Poland faced Australia, one of thetournament’s revelations. Indeed,the Socceroos had great confidenceafter overcoming Sweden. At everystop on their route from theOlympic Village to the stadium,Eddie Thomson’s men showed thePoles, traveling on the other bus,the thumbs down. It was a clear sig-nal of their intentions.

But Wójcik’s team, sticking to theircoach’s team talk, “had those mugs”that night. It was one way traffic

from the start, but it took 27 min-utes for Kowalczyk to get the ballrolling. Although a silly mistakeallowed Carl Veart to level the score,a Juskowiak header restored histeam’s lead before half time. In thesecond half, the Australians did notstand a chance, as the Poles scoredfreely. Jusko and Kowalcyk baggedfive goals between them, with theother coming courtesy of Australiandefender Shaun Murphy. The lastgoal, Kowalczyk’s second, was spe-cial: a genius backheeled pass fromthe telepathic Juskowiak gaveStaniek and Kowalczyk a two-on-one, and the latter finished a beau-tiful move perfectly.

Poland’s place in the final was thussealed in style. The home teamawaited them, having seen off




Ghana 2-0 in the other semi-finalhours earlier, and Italy 1-0 in theprevious round. Camp Nou waspacked; over double the number offans showed up than had watchedPoland’s semi-final. Among the on-lookers were Fidel Castro, Juan AntonioSamaranch and King Juan Carlos.

“This is our day, lads. The whole ofSpain will wish us death, but almostall of Poland are supporting us --almost, because there are thosemugs from PZPN. They have to re-member us... This is the game ofour life! Lads, another bunch ofwankers are waiting for us to havethem!” Wójcik was in his usual bull-ish mood before kick-off.

Mutual respect was evident in theopening exchanges though, both

teams fighting hard, eager not tomake the first mistake. TomaszŁapiński had a greatgame at centre-backand Kłak was onceagain class in goal.

The Spaniards blinkedfirst. Approaching in-jury time in the first half, Kowalczyktook advantage of a slip-up at theback and sent the ball under Sis-tachs Toni to give his team a cruciallead heading into the break.

But the game turned on its headmidway through the second half, de-spite Kłak’s best efforts. Abelardoheaded home from close range in64th minute, and a few minuteslater Kiko gave the Spaniards thelead as Polish players seemed to be

tiring, or at least losing concentra-tion. Kowalczyk had to leave the

pitch for a minute andWójcik’s team weredown to ten men --but that was the mo-ment they hit back.Captain Jerzy Brzęczekprovided the brilliant

pass over the defence for Staniek,who chipped it over Toni. Relief inthe Polish camp.

Everybody thought this was how itwould end. In added time, Spainhad their last attack. In an easy situ-ation, Marek Koźmiński, who’d hada great tournament, unnecessarilyput the ball out for a corner. AlbertFerrer took it, several players missedhis low cross and it landed by LuisEnriques’ feet. One touch to control,



But the game

turned on its head

midway through

the second half


a second to shoot. The attempt wasblocked, but in the chaotic Polishbox the rebound was pounced on byan alert Kiko, who fired past Klakfrom 12 yards. Camp Nou erupted.Spain were Olympic champions.

Despite the loss, the Polish playerswere lauded as heroes, and the tal-ent of their young and ambitiousteam was a fantastic prospect aheadof qualification games for the WorldCup. But, despite open claims fromWójcik and his players that “We areonly changing the name and contin-uing the ride,” nobody from thePZPN took them seriously. The oneenemy they had in Poland was toostrong, too powerful to beat, eventhough results were on their side.

Wójcik was denied the chance to

become the national team coachand continue his good work. Hewanted to strengthen them with afew experienced seniors, believingthat his skills, good organisation andmotivation would be enough tomake the Silver Generation’s per-formance only a stepping stone tofuture glories.

Instead, the federation offered himthe role of coach of the Under-18s.Rejecting this slap in the face offeredhim, he went to manage Legia War-saw instead. His players openly criti-cized the PZPN and even thelegendary Górski, but the damagewas already done.

It’s impossible to tell how this turnof events changed things. On thepositive side, the huge success of

previously unknown players fromPoland was noticed abroad and, de-spite their failure to continue theirinternational adventure at seniorlevel, many of their club careerswere boosted. Dariusz Adamczukmoved to Eintracht Frankfurt, PiotrŚwierczewski was on his way toSaint-Étienne, Kowalczyk waited acouple of months before he signedfor Real Betis, Udinese boughtKoźmiński and Tomasz Wałdochspent 11 great years in Germanywith VfL Bochum and Schalke 04.

Regardless of their club careers,many of these players will look backat the lack of transition from a greatinternational youth team to a suc-cessful senior one with much bitter-ness. Their leader, Wójcik, finallybecame coach of the national team




in 1997, but left after failing to qualifyfor Euro 2000. In 2008 he was arrestedfor match fixing while coachingstruggling Świt Nowy Dwór. Itemerged that when he signed up forthe job he’d said to the club’s presi-dent, “There is no sense in training,let’s make a few calls.”

The prosecution claimed that duringthe eight games Wójcik was incharge of Świt, the club spent hun-dreds of thousands of zloty on fixedgames to save them from relegation.Wójcik was stripped of his coachinglicense, but the court case is ongo-ing.

This is not the first time Wójcik hasbeen involved in such allegations,either. In 1993, while managingLegia, the PZPN disqualified both his

team and second-placed LKS Lódź,after they won 6-0 against WislaKraków and 7-1 against OlimpiaPoznań respectively on the last dayof the season. Although no concreteevidence of corruption was everfound, the title was awarded tothird-placed Lech Poznań.

Rafał Stec wrote about the failings ofPolish football at this time, and thehell in which Wójcik found himselfafter the Olympics: “He had every-thing -- he was loved by the fans,and all he needed was to follow thispath, to learn more. But instead, hewas ready to take even the moststinking of jobs just to earn more.”

But Wójcik not only fell foul ofmatch fixing -- there was also addic-tion, so well known in Polish football.

According to Stec, he used to have aspecial bottle with him on the benchthat had not water in it, but some-thing 40 percent stronger. When hewas a coach at Śląsk Wroclaw, heonce came into the wrong dressingroom before the game and made awhole speech to the oppositionplayers. The list of similar accidentsgoes on, including an arrest for driv-ing under the influence of alcohol.

Unfortunately, several players fromhis Olympics squad followed thisbad example. Wójcik’s star striker,Kowalczyk, ended his career early,aged only 32. His love for heavy par-tying is as legendary as his talent.He, along with several other membersof that Olympic team, had devel-oped a drinking problem.




But it could have been so different.It is commonly suggested that thePoles’ biggest vice is envy. If thePZPN had only overcome theirs afterthe summer of 1992, maybe theywould not only have a plaque re-membering that Olympic final, butmany others recalling glorious tri-umphs of Wójcik’s future teams,ready to hang on the wall of thesoon-to-be-opened national stadiumin Warsaw. ■



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“What�do�you�mean�it�might�not�go

off?”�

Nigel�couldn’t�believe�what�he�was

hearing.��When�he�first�saw�Paddy,

he�thought�that�the�Eireannach�might

have� had� a� bug� up� his� arse� about

Nigel� bringing� the�Americans� into

his� patch� to� play� a� round� without

even�giving�him�the�chance�to�turn

down� an� invitation� to� be� a� fifth

wheel.� � For� all� his� talk� about� the

spirit� of� independence,� Paddy� did

tend� to� stand� on� ceremony.� � That

wasn’t�it,�though.��Instead,�it�seemed

that� the� tournament� the� mortals

referred�to�as�the�Euros�was�endan-

gered�to�the�point�that�the�gods�might

need�to�intervene.�

“Well,�the�Kyiv�site�is�on�target�but

there’s�a�financial�problem�with�the


NEVER SAY NEVER


Warsaw�stadium.”

“A� financial� problem?� �Why� can’t

the�mortals� resolve� that?� � I�mean,

wasn’t�the�project�--�bollocks,�what

is�the�word�for�it�now?�--�underwrit-

ten?”

“Well,�yes.”

“Then�what’s�the�problem?”

“The� company� which� insured� the

loans�has�been�taken�over�by�another

firm�and�they�are�calling�in�the�loan.”

“How�can�they�do�that?”

“They�have�found�something�in�the

wording�which�can�be�interpreted�as

a� breach� of� contract� by� the�Polish

FA.”

“Can�be,�or�is?”

“It�makes�no�difference,�to�be�hon-

est.”

Nigel�snorted�in�disgust.

“Seriously,� Paddy,� how� does� any-

thing� get� done� in� this� ‘brave� new

world’?”��

“Very� slowly� and� with� plenty� of

graft.”

Nigel� snorted� again� and� looked

down�at�Liv.��The�girl�wasn’t�by�his

side,� however.� � She� had� walked

away�from�the�tee�box�and�was�hud-

dled�with�Mal.��Liv�was�whispering

urgently�in�her�brother’s�ear�but�Mal

was�doing�his�best�to�burn�holes�in

Nigel�with�his�eyes.��She�squeezed

the�boy’s�arm�and�shook�hard�and,

frowning,� the�godling� returned�his

attention�to�his�sister.��As�he�did,�she

spared�a�reassuring�glance�for�Nigel.

He� nodded� in� appreciation,� then

turned�to�see�what�the�others�were

doing.��Todd�was�standing�there�with

a�confused�expression�on�his� face,

apparently� distracted� by� the� four-

some� playing� through,�who� didn’t

even�seem�to�see�the�immortals�con-

ferring� on� the� cart� path,� blithely

crossing�from�green�to�tee�between

them�all,�without� so�much�as�a�by

your�leave.��Taylor�was�on�her�cell

phone,�all�business,�giving�the�person

on�the�other�end�the�third�degree.��

Everyone�(except�Todd)�was�taking

this�rather�seriously�for�some�reason.

What�was�he�missing?


NEVER SAY NEVER


He�turned�back�to�Padraig.��

“Don’t�you�long�for�the�days�when

we’d�just� thump�each�other�on�the

head�until�matters�were�sorted�out?”

The� Irish� god� gave� the� jest� a�wan

smile.��

“It�did�save�a�lot�of�time.”

“So�it�did.��Still,�I’ve�learnt�enough

to�realise�that�we�can’t�go�that�route

anymore.� This� mess� doesn’t� seem

such�a�bother,� though.� �We�should

just�be�able� to�muse� into� the� right

ears�and�get�things�back�on�course.”

He�waved� at� the� near-frantic� god-

desses.��“What’s�got�them�all�worked

up?”

Taylor�was�on� the� tee�box,�yelling

into�her�phone,�waving�her�other�arm

about,�oblivious�to�the�golf�ball�that

went�whizzing�past�her�head.� �She

went�down�the�other�side�of�the�tee

and� then� turned� and� retraced� her

steps�as�the�next�golfer�unhurriedly

sliced�his�shot�just�behind�her.��Todd

giggled�nervously.��

“His�name�is�Arkady,”�the�Eireannach

replied

“Arkady?”

Paddy�nodded.

Nigel�crossed�his�arms�and�cocked

his�head,�trying�to�recall�the�name.

“Can’t�say�that�I’ve�had�the�pleas-

ure.”

“He’s�new,� like� the�birds.”� �Paddy

nodded�towards�Taylor�and�Liv,�who

were�now�consulting�each�other,�as

the�third�hacker�shanked�a�low�drive

into�the�left�rough,�the�ball�flicking

at�Liv’s�skirt�as�it�flew�past.��“Han-

dles�Russia�these�days.��Right�piece

o’�work,�he�is,�too.”

Todd�squeaked�and�goggled�at�Nigel

and�Paddy,�gesturing�madly�to�draw

their� attention� to� the� imperiled

women.� � The� final� player� in� the

group,�a�woman,� teed�off� from�di-

rectly�between�the�consulting�god-

desses.� � Her� shot� sailed� perfectly

down�the�middle.

As�Nigel�and�Paddy�ignored�Todd,

and� the� foursome� hooded� their

woods� and� trundled� off� down� the

fairway,� the� girls� returned� to� the

group.� � Taylor� absent-mindedly


NEVER SAY NEVER


slipped�her�hand�into�her�husband’s

and�dragged�him�along.

“What� happened� to� Pyotr?”� Nigel

asked�Paddy.

“Ivan�did�him�in.”

“Ivan?� �Well,� what� in�Hades� hap-

pened�to�Ivan?”

“Arkady”

Nigel�muttered�a�curse�and�and�mas-

saged�his�temple�with�two�fingers�of

one�hand.

Paddy�laughed�grimly.��“That’s�the

Caucasus�for�you.”

“Well,� at� least�we� speak� the� same

language.��What’s�he�after?”

“We’re�not�sure.”��Paddy�shrugged.

“All�we�know�for�the�moment�is�that

he�has�bought�up�all�the�notes�on�the

Polish�facilities.”

Nigel� looked� up.� � “Why� not� the

Ukraine?��It�is�a�joint�venture,�isn’t

it?”��

Paddy�shrugged�again.��“Dunno�why,

mate.��I�know�that�they’re�in�better

shape�than�the�Poles,�and�it�would�be

harder�to�force�a�default.��It�could�be

done,�though.��Might�just�be�that�he

doesn’t�want�to�upset�the�Cossack.”

“�--�Could�be�they’re�in�bed�together,

too.”�

Nigel’s� head� turned� at� the� unex-

pected� interjection.� � It�was�Taylor,

just� now� clipping� her� cell� phone

shut.

Nigel�turned�back�to�Paddy�and�was

offered�a�third�shrug.

“Could�be.��The�Cossack�is�as�proud

as�he�ever�was�and�he’s�still�around,

even� if� three� successive� Russians

have�held�dominion�over�his�lands.

He�may�have�struck�a�deal�with�the


NEVER SAY NEVER


youngblood,�so�that�he�doesn’t�have

to�share�the�glory�with�Lech.”

Nigel�considered�the�situation�for�a

moment.

“Another� game,� like� in� Buenos

Aires?”��

Paddy� shook� his� head.� � “Arkady

doesn’t�go�by�the�old�conventions.

Challenges�and�duels�don’t�interest

him.� �He� likes� to�sneak�up�on�you

and�put� the�knife� in�your�back.� � If

we’re�going�to�sort� this�out,�we’re

going�to�have�to�play�his�game�and

go�to�the�conference�table.”

It�was�Nigel’s�turn�to�shake�his�head.

“I’m�not�very�good�at�negotiating.”

Paddy�blew�air�out�through�his�teeth

and�a�wary�look�came�over�his�face.

“You�don’t�have�to�tell�me�that�but,

unfortunately,�you�have�a�chair�at�the

table�and,�well,�better�the�devils�you

know.”

Thunder�rolled�across�Nigel’s�brow.

“Unfortunately?� � What� in� bloody

blazes�is�that�supposed�to�mean?”

Paddy�raised�his�hands.��“You�know

as�well�as�me,�mate.��You�just�said�it

yourself,�did�ya�not?”

“Well,�you�didn’t�have�to�agree�so

wholeheartedly...�and�what�did�you

mean�by�devils?”

Paddy� shrugged� again,� suddenly

looking�anywhere�but�at�Nigel.�

“Come�on,�then!��Out�with�it.��Who

the�shite�are�these�devils?”

Paddy�looked�desperately�at�Taylor,

who�sighed�in�exasperation.

“Who�else�do�you� think?� �They’re

the�ones�at�the�head�of�the�table,�after

all.”

Nigel’s�eyes�opened�wide�in�disbe-

lief,�his�jaw�hung�for�an�instant�and

then�he�began�to�sputter�objections.

After� the� fourth� or� fifth� start,� he

found�his�voice.

“You’ve�got�to�be�joking,�girl!��You

expect�me�to�come�to�the�aid�of�those

two�numpties?��I’d�rather�dress�up�in

a�frock�and�pigtails� to�serve�ale� to

Otto�at�Oktoberfest!”

“If�I�didn’t� think�you’d�piss� in� the


NEVER SAY NEVER


stein�first,�I�might�take�you�up�on�the

offer.”

Nigel�spun�as,�laughing�at�his�own

jest,�Otto�materialised�to�the�Brit’s

left.� � Ramona� stood� next� to� him,

dressed�in�full�battle�armour,�shield

shining,�sword�drawn�and�gleaming,

and�the�horns�on�her�helm�honed�to

sharp�points.

Beginning�with�a�lascivious�look�and

a�pucker�of� the� lips� for�Nigel,� she

surveyed�the�party�standing�on�the

tee�box.��Her�eyes�quickly�settled�on

Liv� and� then,� disapprovingly,� re-

turned�to�Nigel.

“Nigel,� my� sweet,”� she� clucked,

“this� wisp� of� a� girl� isn’t� nearly

enough�woman�for�you.��You�need�a

full-fledged�shield-maiden�to�share

your�bed.”

Simultaneous� gasps� of� outrage

emerged�from�Otto�and�Liv,�the�for-

mer�stuck�in�his�place�trying�to�de-

cide�whether� to�direct�his�anger�at

Nigel�or�his�consort,�and�the�latter,

brandishing�a�putter,�only�kept�from

advancing� on� the� well-armed

valkyrie�by�Taylor’s�strong�grip.

“We� haven’t� time� for� games,”� the

American�said.��“The�rest�are�wait-

ing�for�us�in�Zurich.”�

Nigel,�caught�between�hammer�and

anvil,�turned�to�Taylor.

“You� can� string� me� up� next� to

Prometheus�for�five�and�a�half�eterni-

ties�and�I’ll�still�not�change�my�mind.

Pierre� and� Gaston� can� rot� for� all� I

care,”�he�declared.��“I�will�not,�for�any-

thing�in�this�world,�render�aid�to�that

pair�of�fork-tongued�Froggy�snakes!”

“Oh,�really?”� �Nigel’s�eyes�fell�on

Liv,�arms�crossed�and�a�dangerous

look�on�her� face.�“You�will� if�you

want�this�‘wisp�of�a�girl’�in�your�bed

again.”

Ramona�laughed�out�loud�and�Otto,

trading� his� jealousy� for� sympathy,

stepped�over�and�put�an�arm�around

the�trapped�god’s�shoulders.

“Come,�Nigel,”�he�said.��“You�and�I

have,�at�various�times�been�friends

and� rivals,� but�we� both� know� that

there�are�some�forces�in�nature”�--�he

gaze�flitted�from�Ramona�to�Liv�--

“that�even�a�god�cannot�tame.”

Nigel�looked�around�the�party,�des-


NEVER SAY NEVER


perate�for�an�ally,�but�he�was�alone

in�his�plight.��There�was,�he�realised,

nothing�for�it.��Like�it�or�not,�and�it

was�most�definitely�not,�he�was�gong

to�have�to�find�a�way�to�pull�Pierre

and�Gaston’s�bacon�out�of�the�fire,

and�he�wouldn’t�even�get�to�thump

anyone�in�the�process.��Sighing�at�his

predicament,�he� looked�back�at�an

already�grinning�Liv.

“Don’t�think�I�won’t�make�you�pay

for�this,�girl!”��Resigned�to�his�fate,

Nigel�held�out�his�hand�to�her.��“Let’s

get�it�over�with,�then.”��■


NEVER SAY NEVER

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DANNY CHADBURN >

Abstract prose stays on the right side of bizarre,

Seven Down, six letters, third letter R,

“Outstanding debts, right where you are.”

>


CHRIS MANN >

San Iker

There’s something in his eyes whichsays he won’t be beaten; the calm,circumspect antiquity of a Saint.These hands, these hands; thesehands which have won a thousandbattles, been cut and bruised andshot and rattled. Here stands thewatchman; the keeper of our mem-ory, the guardian of a legacy. Withboyish smile he guards the gates ofhell, absorbing cancerous charge inverdant cell; leaping, reaching, arch-ing with the shimmering, burnishedwings of a Saint. You’ve done whatmany only dream to do, you’ve


HEROES IN ABSTRACTION


learned to fly; lift those auric vesselsto the sky.

Son Of Sao Paulo

A mirage, a blur, a whippet, a rake;an exocet in the ticker-tape. Keeprunning, keep running, keep running-- the scurried enthusiasm of youth.The man with the child’s smiletracked back and overlapped,painted his dreams with magneticenergy; live on, live on, sweet mem-ory. Cafu, they called him, man andboy -- ceaseless running with rhyth-mic joy. Dance and whirl, skip andleap; greet the ball with quiet mys-tique. Impish movements enchant,inspire; the burnished wings of per-fect desire. I labour by singing light

/ Not for ambition or bread / Or the

strut and trade of charms / On the

ivory stages / But for the common

wages / Of their most secret heart.

Wander untroubled, ethereal Cafu,the power and the glory walk withyou.

Hercules

They all fall about his feet -- thesemortals struck down by thunder asthe innocence of youth is cast asun-der. Beware, beware -- this is Vidiccountry. A towering header, a be-atific tackle; the applause of thecrowd ignites, it crackles. FebrileBeelzebub -- fighting fires with im-passioned love; stony giant, impass-able rock -- granite Balkancombatant. From ashes to ashes,dust to dust; see the emphatic na-ture of eternal trust. Guarding thepass at Thermopylae he stands, un-

moved, Herculean labours con-fronted, commoved. They say that

Hercules, too, once visited them; and

when going into battle they sang of

him first of all heroes. Beware, be-ware -- this is Vidic country.

The Riddle Of Campbell

Hero or villain? Peter or Judas? Thisdivisive nature absorbs us, cajolesand deplores us; the ephemeral flot-sam of a rivalry. The jetsam of a ha-tred. They cough and spit andscream and twist and shout. Themisguided passions of the dae-monic. A troubled man with a calmveneer? The riddle of Campbell;wherefore art thou, Campbell? Tearsin the mist, smiles in momentswhich lost their existence -- the finalbastion of ennobled resistance.


HEROES IN ABSTRACTION CHRIS MANN >


White-shirted, red-shirted, crosseddivide; a chronometer with an ironwill to survive. Bear and endure:

This sorrow will one day prove to be

for your good. Running with raisedvoice, sliding with learned perfec-tion; whispered talk of silent dejec-tion. The Colossus of Rhodes wasseen, aghast, strolling down the Tot-tenham Court Road.

For This Is Italy

Hewn of Lombardian stone, timelessMaldini stands alone. Il Capitano,Calcio’s grand old man, a dulcet gen-eration at the heart of Milan. Theseasons come and the seasons go --graceful bulwark, sublime blockade;contemporary Michelangelo. All

hope abandon, ye who enter here!

For this is Italy. Thine eyes have

seen the glory, knees cut scarredand by war; immaculate hostility awarrior adores. The death or theglory, the joy or the pain -- theRossoneri preordained. From birthto death he led and conquered;Baresi, Costacurta, Tassotti -- herewas the wall, the impenetrable wall,the wall hewn of Lombardian stone.Attacks alive and vigorous, attacksdead and gone. All hope abandon,

ye who enter here! For this is Italy.

To Patrick

As he ran I was aware of becominginvolved in his running and beingpart of it, until he turned with heavypirouette and drew the applause ofthe crowd. In adoration of the King

of Kings. I was drawn in. Thosebandy legs, that confident chest,

those piercing eyes. I was drawn in.Control, look up, release; track,tackle, survive. The great combat-ant, the general, the leader; Magis-

ter. Beating heart, ticking clock, lionof Highbury. An elderly man withtrembling hands said he was thebravest he ever saw. A cold winter’sday; the eyes of Keane, the shins ofKeane. Yellow and red, red and yel-low. Grass and mud and sweat andtears and blood and scars. Olbas.Foot on ball, sock at ankle he stands.He stands and surveys his kingdom.Magister.

The Metronome

There is a metronome in Barcelona,a metronome built on high ro-mance. Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock, Tiki,

Taka; under the lights where the




passes gather. Here he shuns the ar-tisans, attuning the ball to high-flown plans -- the man they call Xavi.Expositor -- Bring us this day our

daily bread. Toreador -- And deliver

us from evil. The arena glitters, thearena shines -- a puppeteer withgreatness on his mind; this masterborn of La Masia. The composedgaze of dreams fulfilled, the bril-liance of the simple; the mastercraftsman wrapped in guiled serene.Art is a lie that makes us realise

truth. Let them look upon perfec-tion, let them see what skill canglean -- be enthralled by the leaderof a great and timeless team.

Not An Earthly Kingdom

There’s a miracle from Rosario, anintuitive hurricane; from the Argen-

tine Pampas to the refulgent shoresof Spain. The Flea, The Flea, the boythey call The Flea; a blurring ofmovement suspending gravity. Ballto feet and now we see this un-touchable skill -- one beaten, two,three, four, another? Praised as aMessiah, hailed as a King -- Leo playswith a halo, the unyielding goldenring. My Kingdom is not an earthly

Kingdom. Bouncing over bodies,skipping with a smile; this supernat-ural man a precocious child. Con-torted, warped, twisted grace; purejoy etched into a youthful face.Delighting always with aestheticendeavour, a thing of beauty is a joy

forever.

Román

Romantic hero, tragic victim; here

lies the burden of temporal afflic-tion. Belonging to a time that is nothis, our Argentine savant wanders --amiss -- and weaves a distractedmagic. Inscrutable eyes assess thefuture and feet caress the ball withtired tenderness; this is the mindthat sees invisible patterns. I could

also speak as ye do: if your soul were

in my soul’s stead. Bestriding time-lessness as the spirits of the dead,our misunderstood sorcerer is lostonly to the realm of consciousthought. An incisive pass, a precisefree-kick; the abstracted destructionof the prosaic. A humble cadence il-luminates the Chocolate Box, for thisis the sauntering genius -- forget himnot. We fall asleep and fear of atime when children will say, “Our fa-thers ignored the majesty of RománRiquelme.”




The Beginning Of Always

Diminutive and spectral, now let usspeak of the decency of everlastinglegacy. The pale midfield ghostmoves, unseen, walking throughwalls as trapped in a dream. Effortlesspeace and expressionless wonder,this architect of craft and élan toponder. A vital part of a perfect ma-chine, its golden pieces glisten andgleam for a man of placid perfec-tion. Contentedness and warmthpervade, gentle footsteps on thepromenade where all cry his name.The winds of change sweep in -- his-tory in Johannesburg. The hopes ofa nation pinned on tiny shoulders; isthis it? An intake of breath. A touch,a goal, an instant colossus; Dani Jarque,

siempre con nostros. Remembertonight, for it is the beginning of always.

O Fenomeno

Blink and he was no longer there; aforlorn goalkeeper with a vacantstare. Blink and he was gone, a flashof green and yellow -- The Phenom-

enon. A lightening streak, a blaze ofgold resurrecting glorious songs ofold; Pelé, Garrincha, Zico. We willremember them. Thunderousbeauty, the instigation of celestialblitzkrieg; for that was Ronaldo.Watch those feet, the elegance of awell-timed leap. Of course, therewere injuries -- broken limbs andtwisted knees; but the instinct re-mained. Mastery through tumult,laughter through pain; Ordem e Pro-

gresso. With hunched shouldersand mesmeric feet he scored, hescored. Ronaldo, Ronaldo -- theworld is yours. ■



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< CONTENTS DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >

CLOSE DANNY CHADBURN >

"I am writer,” but his books are mere journalism.

"I am journalist," alas his reports are unprintworthy.

"I am blogger,” handing control to messrs C and V.

These letters help earn a plum job on the Daily Mail sports desk.

"I write, therefore I am."

It's what he is that causes most concern.

Doing the writing’s a simple procedure;

Doing the right thing’s much more artful.


Nigel Etheringon

Publisher

MAN AND BALL >

@Man_andBall >

They’ll say I'm a figment of their imagi-

nations, a god dreamt up to entertain

you. Their opinion would change if I

started paying them, but that's the thing

about being a god or doing one's work;

you have to take everything on faith.

Jude Ellery

Chief Editor

FOOTBALLFARRAGO >

@JudeEllery >

In charge of this bunch, believe it or

not. Inspirations include The Bliz-zard, When Saturday Comes and

World Soccer. Likes to eat with his

fingers, can’t find his keys and has no

idea who Cyrille Makanaky was.

Martin Palazzotto

Associate Editor

WORLD FOOTBALL COLUMNS >

@wfcolumns >

Once a stunning example of male

physiology, Martin has let himself

go with age, although his celebrity

has kept the women flocking to

his bed. Oh, wait. That's Arnold

Schwarzenegger. Never mind.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://twitter.com/#!/wfcolumns

http://worldfootballcolumns.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/judeellery

http://www.footballfarrago.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/Man_andBall

http://www.manandball.com

Graeme Bandeira

Cover art

ALTPICK >

@GraemeBandeira >

Freelance illustrator and resident

artist at the Yorkshire Post. General

approach to illustration is to dip a

mapping pen into a bottle of ink

and let his imagination run riot. It

seems to do the trick.

Chris Mann

Guest writer

THE EQUALISER >

@equaliserblog >

Reached the end of the educational

conveyor belt and is now drifting

through the ether, deciding what to

do next. Man and Ball therefore

acts as purgatory -- but we can’t

promise which way we’ll spit him out.

David Hartrick

Guest writer

IN BED WITH MARADONA >

@DavidHartrick >

Soon to be published author,

IBWM Editor, occasionally blogs at

I Know Who Cyrille Makanaky Was.and has numerous other articles

strewn wantonly across the Internet

like torn-up betting slips.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://twitter.com/#!/DavidHartrick

www.inbedwithmaradona.com

http://twitter.com/#!/equaliserblog

http://equaliserfootball.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/GraemeBandeira

http://altpick.com/bandy

Gary Al-Smith

Guest writer

SUPER SPORT >

@garyalsmith >

Freelance African football journalist

who has written for for several out-

lets, including Super Sport, ESPN,

ITV and Kicker. Evidently takes more

care over his appearance than

some of the Man and Ball writers.

Niall Farrell

Guest writer

NIALL FARRELL >

@thusspakeblixa >

Irish journalist who covers many

sports and has “somehow been

allowed to become editor of the

DCU college paper”. Although the

above portriat may well have you

convinced, Niall is no relation to Colin.

Michal Zacodny

Guest writer

POLISH FOOTBALL SCOUT >

@polishscout >

After a short but eye-opening spell as a

scout, Michal now writes on the oft-

forgotten but colourful world of Polish

football. Edits Slask Wroclaw’s magazine

and has written for ITV, STV, SoccerInternational and The Football Ramble.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://twitter.com/#!/polishscout

http://polishscout.blogspot.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/thusspakeblixa

http://niallf.net/

http://twitter.com/#!/garyalsmith

http://www.supersport.com/football/africa

Charlie Anderson

Guest Writer

THE CARVALHO PENINSULA >

@CAndersonFtbl >

Can also be found scribbling about

Nordic football for Stone by Stone or

improving great works of literature for

Jurassic Farce. Known to become

over-excited on the subjects of Dimitar

Berbatov and Major League Soccer.

Will Varner

Illustrator

WILL VARNER ART >

@willvarnerart >

Grew up in Azusa, CA, on a steady

diet of comic books, cartoons, ghost

stories, movies, graffitti and smog.

Blends elements of adult angst and

childhood fantasies, often “looking

through the eyes of society’s outsiders”.

Christopher Lee

Illustrator

CHRISTOPHER LEE >

@_cdlee >

A card-carrying member of the

Geek Squad, his al ter ego is a

contemporary ar t i s t , l i v ing in

London. Said altar ego can't

draw, but then neither can Chris

-- or so he reckons.


CONTRIBUTORS


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http://www.christopher-lee.co.uk/

http://twitter.com/#!/willvarnerart

http://willvarner.com/home.html

http://twitter.com/#!/CAndersonFtbl

http://www.carvalhopeninsula.blogspot.com/

Danny Chadburn

Poet Laureate

POETRY SEASON >

@totally_content >

There once was a poet named

Danny, whom we caught with his

poor neighbour's granny, so now

for a time, for us he will rhyme,

because admittedly his cadence is

uncanny.

Man and Ball Issue Three

Nigel Etherington, Publisher

Contributing Editors

Jude Ellery

Martin Palazzotto

Guest Writers

David Hartrick

Gary Al-Smith

Charlie Anderson

Niall Farrell

Michal Zachodny

Chris Mann

Poet Laureate

Danny Chadburn

Illustrators

Graeme Bandeira (Cover)

Will Varner (Features)

Chris Lee (Nigel)

This Issue published 28.09.2011.

Copyright © manandball.com and

individual authors/illustrators. All

rights reserved.

If you would like to quote any of

these articles for fair use, please

get in touch and we’ll probably

be chuffed to see our work in-

cluded in yours. Be warned,

however: Nigel does not take

kindly to plagiarism.

Contact Man and Ball:

[email protected]

Website >

Facebook >Twitter >


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Documents

Man and Ball Issue Three