Greetings, gentle readers.
So what has happened recently? Oh, loads of interesting and exciting things. Let's begin with Liverpool. Why? Because that is where all the good things begin. Hope is for the hopeless, spring is for the flowers, love is for the lovely, and Liverpool belongs to me. My apologies to Dodgy.
A joyous day of celebration on Merseyside as Liverpool racked up their first Premiership away win of the season at Craven Cottage as they rallied valiantly against a competent Fulham. Dippy, minnow-sized opponents have been brutally victimized by the Reds this season, but when the opposition show the slightest modicum of tactical nous, the Red Machine has tended to throw a cog and grind to a halt. Both trends - crap away form and inability to comprehensively beat anyone with a win in the Premiership - crashed to the ground yesterday in West London.
The story from my perspective was a tad dramatic. I finished my shift at work at 0800h MST (1500h GMT), and by the time I'd finished walking through the snow to the car-car and gotten myself back into the warm confines of my home, and sheltered against the onslaught of the blizzard that was piling precipitation onto all horizontal surfaces with alarming alacrity, the first half was already over. And it wasn't even being televised. Instead, Arsenal was stumbling against Aston Villa in a sad and rather pathetic match-up reminiscent of a fox cub fighting against a disinterested and distracted dragon. Arsenal, erm... arsed about for a while until Thierry Henry suddenly decided that perhaps they should score a few goals, and then they ran away with the game. As they do.
So I ran up to my bedroom and fired up the GameCast of the Liverpool game. The half time news was not good. LFC had three attempts on goal in 45 minutes. None of them on target. They'd also shipped two goals to Fulham through crafty Portuguese striker Luis Boa Morte. So two-nil at the break, and no sign that things were going to improve. I went downstairs, ate some leftovers and waited for the Arsenal game to restart. I was depressed. My least favourite Liverpool midfielder, Salif Diao was starting alongside one of my perennial favourites, Didi Hamann. Problem - they both play the same way. Didi is just better at it. But having two central defensive midfielders, and pushing one out, either forward or to the wing bespeaks a lack of strategic foresight, and is a strong precursor to disaster. Diao, predictably, coughs up a goal with a disastrous giveaway, then body-blocks Carra out of the picture as the Cottagers build up in front of the box and surrenders another goal. The team get steamrollered, with American Brian McBride looking very bright and inventive in front of a tame and passive Liverpool defence. Dark fog clouded the periphery of my vision as I contemplated the possibility of Liverpool not qualifying for Europe next year and languishing in mid-table mediocrity. It would be like dying and waking up as an Everton fan.
So I ate my soup and assorted other comestibles and watched Villa gamely trying to match the pace of Henry, Reyes, Vieira, Pires, etc. and failing miserably. Finally, the game wrapped up as the ref decided to stop the humiliation. I went and scrubbed some dishes before heading back to the GameCast to confirm that the away-form blues had struck again, and tragedy had befallen the beloved club.
But it was not to be. The catastrophic Diao had been yanked at half-time to be replaced by Dr. X, also known as Xabi Alonso. And the team had awoken. They had then proceeded to exact vengeance upon the unrighteous with a fury which left the Cottagers gasping. Milan Baros suddenly rediscovered the form which garnered him the Golden Boot at Euro 2004, and coincidentally, right-back Josemi turned into a snarling psychopath who was promptly sent off for two yellow cards. Thus, with ten men against eleven and after a bit of a freak goal involving Baros banking a shot into the net past Edwin Van der Sar off the rump of hapless Fulham defender Zat Knight, the Reds stepped it up and showed what a world-class side can do.
First, Dr. X sailed a beautiful cross into the middle for Baros to blast the game-tying goal. Then the oddly-monikered conquistador hammered in a positively brilliant free-kick from 25 yards out. Finally, fellow substitute Igor Biscan crashed another stinging bullet past the distraught Van der Sar, who must have felt abandoned by his god, as well as by his shell-shocked defenders.
In the space of 45 minutes, the world had changed. Suddenly, Liverpool became a team that can play away games with inventive, creative, and predatory flair. Against quality opponents. A team that could... win championships? I wonder if the passion and dedication of players like the blood-and-thunder Jamie Carragher are wearing off on the new boys? Because if that's the case and they play every game as though it were that second half, and eventually with their return of their captain and leader, improve upon it, they would be nigh-unstoppable.
"My idea was to build Liverpool intae a bastion of invincibility, you know, like Napoleon and that idea. Conquer the bloody world. My idea was to build Liverpool up and up and up until eventually they would be untouchable. Everybody would have to submit. Give in."
-Bill Shankly
What else is going on? Well, apparently nothing of the magnitude of my footy team's accomplishments, but some interesting stuff regardless.
First, the predictions. Barçalona will win La Liga. They're a lock. If you've got a mortgage you can liquidate, you can put it all on the Catalans hoisting the trophy without a hint of worry or regret. Dropping the mercurial Patrick Kluivert and acquiring the ridiculously prolific Henrik Larsson was a masterstroke. Partnered with African Footballer of the Year Samuel Eto'o, and given excellent service from midfield by European Champions' League standouts Deco and Ludovic Giuly, as well as the World Cup revelation Ronaldinho, their offence has proven irresistible in Spain. No opponent this season has kept a clean sheet against them, and only one team has managed so much as a draw against them. Frank Rijkaard has very quickly matured from a superstar player to a decent manager to a tactical mastermind.
And betting on Germany in friendlies, a previously risky proposition, has now become safe as houses. Jürgen Klinsmann has experimented, dabbled, and blooded young talent with an air of equitable and just open-mindedness that was absent under the reign of Rudi Völler. Völler seemed paralyzed by a fear of public backlash, and thus stuck with a line-up that invariably included keeper Oliver Kahn and strikers Miroslav Klose and Kevin Kuranyi, and excluded Jens Lehmann and Oliver Neuville. Germany's success in getting to the finals of World Cup 2002 appears to have had the same effect on the national team that winning the World Cup in 1990, and Euro '96 did - a complete paranoia of any kind of change. The team gets older and starts losing its form, but no-one has the courage to effect any kind of evolution. Until someone like Klinsmann comes in. Now, and particularly following the draw with Brazil after Klinsmann's appointment, no player is guaranteed selection, and the competition for places has breathed new life into the team. Kuranyi and Klose are now justifiably threatened by young Lukas Podolski and Thomas Brdaric, and Kahn now has to fight for his position against the strong claims put forward by Lehmann and Timo Hildebrandt. Performance is now the basis for selection, not historical precedent. And the German team that slumped to 13th in the FIFA rankings following a winless Euro 2004 are once again a team to fear.
So what has happened recently? Oh, loads of interesting and exciting things. Let's begin with Liverpool. Why? Because that is where all the good things begin. Hope is for the hopeless, spring is for the flowers, love is for the lovely, and Liverpool belongs to me. My apologies to Dodgy.
A joyous day of celebration on Merseyside as Liverpool racked up their first Premiership away win of the season at Craven Cottage as they rallied valiantly against a competent Fulham. Dippy, minnow-sized opponents have been brutally victimized by the Reds this season, but when the opposition show the slightest modicum of tactical nous, the Red Machine has tended to throw a cog and grind to a halt. Both trends - crap away form and inability to comprehensively beat anyone with a win in the Premiership - crashed to the ground yesterday in West London.
The story from my perspective was a tad dramatic. I finished my shift at work at 0800h MST (1500h GMT), and by the time I'd finished walking through the snow to the car-car and gotten myself back into the warm confines of my home, and sheltered against the onslaught of the blizzard that was piling precipitation onto all horizontal surfaces with alarming alacrity, the first half was already over. And it wasn't even being televised. Instead, Arsenal was stumbling against Aston Villa in a sad and rather pathetic match-up reminiscent of a fox cub fighting against a disinterested and distracted dragon. Arsenal, erm... arsed about for a while until Thierry Henry suddenly decided that perhaps they should score a few goals, and then they ran away with the game. As they do.
So I ran up to my bedroom and fired up the GameCast of the Liverpool game. The half time news was not good. LFC had three attempts on goal in 45 minutes. None of them on target. They'd also shipped two goals to Fulham through crafty Portuguese striker Luis Boa Morte. So two-nil at the break, and no sign that things were going to improve. I went downstairs, ate some leftovers and waited for the Arsenal game to restart. I was depressed. My least favourite Liverpool midfielder, Salif Diao was starting alongside one of my perennial favourites, Didi Hamann. Problem - they both play the same way. Didi is just better at it. But having two central defensive midfielders, and pushing one out, either forward or to the wing bespeaks a lack of strategic foresight, and is a strong precursor to disaster. Diao, predictably, coughs up a goal with a disastrous giveaway, then body-blocks Carra out of the picture as the Cottagers build up in front of the box and surrenders another goal. The team get steamrollered, with American Brian McBride looking very bright and inventive in front of a tame and passive Liverpool defence. Dark fog clouded the periphery of my vision as I contemplated the possibility of Liverpool not qualifying for Europe next year and languishing in mid-table mediocrity. It would be like dying and waking up as an Everton fan.
So I ate my soup and assorted other comestibles and watched Villa gamely trying to match the pace of Henry, Reyes, Vieira, Pires, etc. and failing miserably. Finally, the game wrapped up as the ref decided to stop the humiliation. I went and scrubbed some dishes before heading back to the GameCast to confirm that the away-form blues had struck again, and tragedy had befallen the beloved club.
But it was not to be. The catastrophic Diao had been yanked at half-time to be replaced by Dr. X, also known as Xabi Alonso. And the team had awoken. They had then proceeded to exact vengeance upon the unrighteous with a fury which left the Cottagers gasping. Milan Baros suddenly rediscovered the form which garnered him the Golden Boot at Euro 2004, and coincidentally, right-back Josemi turned into a snarling psychopath who was promptly sent off for two yellow cards. Thus, with ten men against eleven and after a bit of a freak goal involving Baros banking a shot into the net past Edwin Van der Sar off the rump of hapless Fulham defender Zat Knight, the Reds stepped it up and showed what a world-class side can do.
First, Dr. X sailed a beautiful cross into the middle for Baros to blast the game-tying goal. Then the oddly-monikered conquistador hammered in a positively brilliant free-kick from 25 yards out. Finally, fellow substitute Igor Biscan crashed another stinging bullet past the distraught Van der Sar, who must have felt abandoned by his god, as well as by his shell-shocked defenders.
In the space of 45 minutes, the world had changed. Suddenly, Liverpool became a team that can play away games with inventive, creative, and predatory flair. Against quality opponents. A team that could... win championships? I wonder if the passion and dedication of players like the blood-and-thunder Jamie Carragher are wearing off on the new boys? Because if that's the case and they play every game as though it were that second half, and eventually with their return of their captain and leader, improve upon it, they would be nigh-unstoppable.
"My idea was to build Liverpool intae a bastion of invincibility, you know, like Napoleon and that idea. Conquer the bloody world. My idea was to build Liverpool up and up and up until eventually they would be untouchable. Everybody would have to submit. Give in."
-Bill Shankly
What else is going on? Well, apparently nothing of the magnitude of my footy team's accomplishments, but some interesting stuff regardless.
First, the predictions. Barçalona will win La Liga. They're a lock. If you've got a mortgage you can liquidate, you can put it all on the Catalans hoisting the trophy without a hint of worry or regret. Dropping the mercurial Patrick Kluivert and acquiring the ridiculously prolific Henrik Larsson was a masterstroke. Partnered with African Footballer of the Year Samuel Eto'o, and given excellent service from midfield by European Champions' League standouts Deco and Ludovic Giuly, as well as the World Cup revelation Ronaldinho, their offence has proven irresistible in Spain. No opponent this season has kept a clean sheet against them, and only one team has managed so much as a draw against them. Frank Rijkaard has very quickly matured from a superstar player to a decent manager to a tactical mastermind.
And betting on Germany in friendlies, a previously risky proposition, has now become safe as houses. Jürgen Klinsmann has experimented, dabbled, and blooded young talent with an air of equitable and just open-mindedness that was absent under the reign of Rudi Völler. Völler seemed paralyzed by a fear of public backlash, and thus stuck with a line-up that invariably included keeper Oliver Kahn and strikers Miroslav Klose and Kevin Kuranyi, and excluded Jens Lehmann and Oliver Neuville. Germany's success in getting to the finals of World Cup 2002 appears to have had the same effect on the national team that winning the World Cup in 1990, and Euro '96 did - a complete paranoia of any kind of change. The team gets older and starts losing its form, but no-one has the courage to effect any kind of evolution. Until someone like Klinsmann comes in. Now, and particularly following the draw with Brazil after Klinsmann's appointment, no player is guaranteed selection, and the competition for places has breathed new life into the team. Kuranyi and Klose are now justifiably threatened by young Lukas Podolski and Thomas Brdaric, and Kahn now has to fight for his position against the strong claims put forward by Lehmann and Timo Hildebrandt. Performance is now the basis for selection, not historical precedent. And the German team that slumped to 13th in the FIFA rankings following a winless Euro 2004 are once again a team to fear.
Also great to see my heroes Steve McManaman and Robbie Fowler getting a run out for Manchester City in their 1-0 win over Chelski. Good for the universe that the Russian moneybags finally clocked up a defeat, and thus restored balance to the force.
Oh, and Canada have failed to qualify for the fifth straight World Cup. Not entirely a surprise when considering the corrupt nature of the Latin American officials in the CONCACAF group. But with Ipswich Town's Jason DeVos, Fulham's Tomas Radzinski, and other notable Canadian talent playing abroad on the squad, expectations were considerably higher than at any time since 1986. But as a result of the outright unfair referees, the only things that have actually increased is the number of expectorations.
And the Champions' League is back on telly this week, although Liverpool aren't being shown in Canada. But as sad as that may be for me personally, I can still look forward to some very fun games, like Bayern v. Juve and AC Milan v. Barça. Who will win the whole shebang this season? I like my boys, but if I had to put my money where my mouth is, I would go with Barça to do the double, but not the triple, as I think they'll lose out in the Copa del Rey as the fixtures start to pile up. It now appears that the Spanish Primera Liga has become the most powerful league on the continent, as Italian Serie A sides start to falter. When Réal Madrid are being hammered on a weekly basis with their team of galacticos, and Barça looking to do an Arsenal and go on a monster undefeated streak, Valencia and Deportivo La Coruna are looking like world-beaters on a weekly basis - all in all, the whole thing makes the appointment of Rafael Benitez as Liverpool manager look like a wonder-move.
Geez, I've been working on this post for the past two days, and I really want to wrap it up and get on with my life for a while. So the final item on the agenda is Adrian Mutu, who's been busted for dipping his hooter into the Devil's dandruff. The 16.7 million pound man, who apparently already has a bit of a rep as a power-party animal, appears to have thrown away a career worth £60,000 a week. I'll repeat that in North American. This lad pulls down roughly seven and a half million Canadian dollars a year. The last guy to be caught hoovering the pixie dust at Chelsea was Mark Bosnich. And he was canned outright. Contract torn up. Player filling out his UB40 and standing in the queue with the rest of the have-nots. Apparently young Adrian wasn't getting picked in the first team ahead of the other multi-million dollar superstars on the Chelsea side, and missed a training session because he was out on the town. Jose Mourinho angrily ordered a drugs test and bang. Career ruined. We'll see how things go for the precocious superstar, but my prognosis will be a club suspension without pay, and an FA ban of a year. And now, those of you who keep track of such things can add Adrian Mutu of Romania to the list of naughty substance-abusing athletes, along with Chris "Toker" Armstrong (wacky weed) , Tony "Donkey" Adams (drink-driving, assault, cocaine, gambling, nun-slapping... OK I made the last one up), Mark "Heil Hitler" Bosnich (space dust), and Diego "Hand of God" Maradona (cocaine, cheating, amphetamines, cheating, steroids, cheating, tax evasion, cheating, paternity liability, oh, and did I mention his egregious cheating?).
But that's it. I've got to get ready to watch the Динамо Київ - Réal Madrid game. Cheers to you all, and may the force be with you. Back soon with a much more abbreviated, but equally less-football related and hopefully more insightful article.
Justice for the 96
-mARKUS
Geez, I've been working on this post for the past two days, and I really want to wrap it up and get on with my life for a while. So the final item on the agenda is Adrian Mutu, who's been busted for dipping his hooter into the Devil's dandruff. The 16.7 million pound man, who apparently already has a bit of a rep as a power-party animal, appears to have thrown away a career worth £60,000 a week. I'll repeat that in North American. This lad pulls down roughly seven and a half million Canadian dollars a year. The last guy to be caught hoovering the pixie dust at Chelsea was Mark Bosnich. And he was canned outright. Contract torn up. Player filling out his UB40 and standing in the queue with the rest of the have-nots. Apparently young Adrian wasn't getting picked in the first team ahead of the other multi-million dollar superstars on the Chelsea side, and missed a training session because he was out on the town. Jose Mourinho angrily ordered a drugs test and bang. Career ruined. We'll see how things go for the precocious superstar, but my prognosis will be a club suspension without pay, and an FA ban of a year. And now, those of you who keep track of such things can add Adrian Mutu of Romania to the list of naughty substance-abusing athletes, along with Chris "Toker" Armstrong (wacky weed) , Tony "Donkey" Adams (drink-driving, assault, cocaine, gambling, nun-slapping... OK I made the last one up), Mark "Heil Hitler" Bosnich (space dust), and Diego "Hand of God" Maradona (cocaine, cheating, amphetamines, cheating, steroids, cheating, tax evasion, cheating, paternity liability, oh, and did I mention his egregious cheating?).
But that's it. I've got to get ready to watch the Динамо Київ - Réal Madrid game. Cheers to you all, and may the force be with you. Back soon with a much more abbreviated, but equally less-football related and hopefully more insightful article.
Justice for the 96
-mARKUS
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