The Perfect Storm

Football, famously, has no end. A match is gone in an instant, a season soon forgotten and even an era fades. For its followers the lack of ultimate victory is its beauty, for its detractors its futility. No team will ever win, no match will lead to any final conclusion. In the absence of such closure, it is only natural that we point to the game itself: maybe football can never be won, but perhaps it can be perfected. So from Cruyff’s total football to Barcelona’s tiki-taka, via the catenaccio of Italy's extraordinary era, we search for greatness. We search for a sign that a team can play the game, and win, in a way that seems unstoppably, unrelentingly perfect. The ideal game of chess, the mathematical formula that guarantees domination. Yet whenever a team seems to verge on it, they are derided. When perfection appears attainable we yearn for the excitement and beauty of imperfection. The irony is that when a team nears the ideal, they immediately distance themselves from how we really want football to be: fundamentally and magnificently chaotic.

The Good Ship United II

Ander couldn't remember the last time he had seen land. Confined to his small cabin, he had grown restless in the windless seas, but beg as he might for an oar or the watch, he wasn't yet trusted with such a duty. Instead he spent his days buried in his books in the quarters, or occasionally playing cards with Juan on one of the benches which lined the deck above. He had made the mistake of begging the glowering captain to reconsider his uses once before, met only with a pregnant silence before Van Gaal had muttered “What a stupid question. Below decks with you”, and returned to pouring over his endless charts with his Dutch clique, whispering quietly in a strange and ugly tongue.

Wayne's Enterprises

This is a real photo.

It is a sad truth that if Wayne Rooney had broken his leg at 23, like Paul Gascoigne before him, he would be more loved by the English public than he is now; on the verge of becoming our record goal scorer. It is a dark irony that if one cannot live up to the expectation the fans demand, and the perfection they themselves undermine, castigation will follow. Being very good but not achieving greatness is worse than being unexpectedly good when mediocrity beckoned. Because, as Harvey Dent tells us in The Dark Knight, “you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain”. Wayne Rooney is our flawed protector, a man destined for perfection who didn’t quite achieve it, but who still toils to save England again and again and hold us back from the abyss. On Saturday, earning his 100th cap, he dragged us back into the game against Slovenia. People laughed because he scored a penalty. He consistently drives us to tournaments we have no right of reaching. For this he is derided as a player who fails to perform at the very highest level. While Rooney, like Batman, is not perfect, he is the best we have. Yet our brute Wayne, like Bruce Wayne before him, will never be recognised as the hero he is. This is not his fault. It is ours.

Land of Hope and Glory

Fear can hold you prisoner. Hope is Wayne Rooney.

Halfway through The Shawshank Redemption Morgan Freeman’s Red looks up at the newly imprisoned Andy Dufresne. Driven to cynicism by his seemingly endless incarceration he drawls, in his inimitable way, “Let me tell you something my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane”. It is an enticing philosophy: better to live in the emotionless vacuum of hopelessness than dream and have those dreams destroyed by crushing reality. Normally, I would agree. Normally, I revel in boundless cynicism, building barriers of sarcasm and pessimism which mean any event can be met with a wry smile, a knowing shrug. Yet maybe we live in a World which needs a little more hope. Once we had politicians who promised us the stars, dared to dream that we could build Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land. Now they are preoccupied with the imaginary evils of immigration, haunted by visions of invading Romanians who never actually come, and seemingly we lap it up. After all, recent elections prove that about a third of us are racist – and according to UKIP the other two-thirds are Sharia espousing Islamic fundamentalists. Hope died in the elections last week. And now, the final straw, we are told we cannot even hope against hope for England to win the World Cup. The one misguided dream we all share every four years has been shattered by the incompetence of our players and a culture in which we fear the worst, rather than pray for the best. No more. The time has come to dispense with fear and seize the hilarious, naïve and misjudged hope which only football can bring. England can end the hurt. England can win the World Cup. Roar.

The Beautiful Game

"Football is the most beautiful of all the arts. Because it is art. Art is about spontaneity. The quest for spontaneity is fundamental in art and football expresses it best."
Eric Cantona

I suspect the reason I write at monotonous and pained length about why football is more than a game is because of a chip on my shoulder. While my friends discuss art, theatre and music I only really have the ability to talk about the nuances of the late 1990s Leicester City team. Maybe my desire to elevate football is because of my own inadequacy, my lack of ability to comprehend why van Gogh is lauded as a master while van Persie is disparaged as just another sportsman. Maybe I write about ideas because they don’t require any research. Or maybe, just maybe, I, like Eric before me, think football really is an art. Or at least that it gives me the same wonder and pleasure as more established arts give my more learned friends. It is, after all, the beautiful game; a semi-improvised theatre that captivates billions week after week after week. So, to borrow my favourite thing to say when lagging behind in galleries: It is magnificent, but is it art?

The Good Ship United

Wayne makes his escape

The first sign of trouble was Ashley Young hitting the deck. Of course, as Robin knew, this on its own was not remarkable; but there was something about the anguished screams of his colleague that suggested all, this time, was really not well. It was then that he felt it. A great shudder as an iceberg carved a chasm in the hull of the Good Ship United, knocking the hapless crew to the deck. As Robin picked himself up he saw water flooding the ship below, as fires broke out all around him. Young had toppled theatrically into the ocean and, with a look of complete serenity, sank meekly into the waves below. The ship was going down; United was sinking. Robin looked in despair in the chaos around him, desperately hoping for a hero in the darkness. Rooney, however, had jumped ship at the first sign of trouble, and could be seen paddling rapidly away in the distance. Robin would have to be the hero himself. He would have to shoulder responsibility now.

Arsene in the Sky with Diamonds

As Arsene slowly worked his way through the mazy corridors of the Emirates, freshly back from the game, he could muse on a strong day’s work against Fulham. It was, he thought, a little bit good, non? His side had purred to victory against the mighty Cottagers, he had finally silenced his doubters; he was right, as he had always known he was. Yet as he took his seat in the boardroom his was met with stony faces all around. Kroenke, Gazidis and Usmanov met his gaze sheepishly; an elephant hung in the room. “Arsene”, stammered Stan, “we need to talk. One victory doesn’t make a season, we still must strengthen”. Arsene, as was his apt, looked perplexed. “What are you saying Stanley? My boys were a little bit perfect. They have the quality non?” he said, as Carl Jenkinson tripped over a step outside the window. “Yes, but Arsene, we need a defensive midfielder, we need steel at the back”. Wenger paused to fill his small glass with absinthe, and as he drained it a thin smile crossed his Gallic lips. “Say no more monsieur, we will make an offer for Cabaye in the morning. 10 million and un, of course”. Stan glanced at Ivan, who took up the theme with desperation in his voice. “No Arsene, we don’t need any more mercurial attacking midfielders, we need a centre back, a leader”. Wenger looked quizzically at his chairman, before reclining in his seat with a knowing nod. “I see. Gourcuff it is”. Silence hung in the air. At last, Usmanov chimed up in what I can only assume are heavy Uzbeki tones. “Arsene you are not listening. We have plenty of inconsistent forwards, we need a goalkeeper, we need structure.” Wenger put down his glass and looked straight into Usmanov’s eyes. “Gentlemen, I hear you. We must change, that I now understand. Get me Perez on the phone, I’ll make a derisory offer for Di Maria right this second”. No-one spoke as Arsene zipped up his puffy coat and strode out of the door, doubling back on himself when he realised he had gone the wrong way.