Category Archives: Football

N-n-n-n-nineteen

One of the main signs that you’ve finally reached that fully grown, adult stage of your life comes when you’re absent-mindedly listening to Radio 1 or Key 103 or whatever radio station pumps out generic chart fodder these days, and realise you haven’t got the foggiest what you’re listening to.

When I was younger, this situation seemed impossible. Despite hating the vast majority of music in the charts, I’d await the weekly run-down and study them with the same intensity that I’d pore over league tables and football results with. The charts seemed important and served as a barometer as to what was going on. I’d regularly hear adults claim to be unaware as to who or what comprised the top 40 singles, I couldn’t believe their ignorance and never envisaged that would be me, years later.

As a kid in the mid-eighties I considered myself pretty tuned-in musically and quickly developed an ear for what I considered cool and what clearly wasn’t. Half an hour of TOTP on a Thursday presented all the evidence required. Culture Club, Thompson Twins, Wham!, Spandau Ballet – painful stuff. The Jam, Dexy’s, UB40, Madness on the other hand…now you’re talking.

Every now and again, an act would come along which I’d really take issue with – Frankie Goes To Hollywood being a prime example. As well as considering their music ‘shite’ and knowing they were (as the vernacular of the times had it) ‘benders’ – following one revelatory edition of Saturday Superstore, I discovered they were scousers as well. From that moment forward, I loathed Holly Johnson with a passion I’d normally reserve for Rush, Dalglish and Souness.

May 1985 saw Paul Hardcastle’s ‘19’ top the charts for 5 weeks…and it did my head in. Hardcastle’s case wasn’t helped by the fact he looked like Leo Sayer Jnr and tended to wear his jackets with the sleeves rolled up. I mean, c’mon Paul – it’s Elstree Studios, not Miami Vice.

Nowadays I can appreciate ‘19’ for what it is – catchy, sample-laden, Kraftwerk inspired British electro with a powerful anti-war message – it’s aged surprisingly well. Yet to my musically receptive yet somewhat underdeveloped, Simple Minds-loving brain – I just wanted him to fuck off.

26 years on, and I can’t get that Hardcastle tune out of my head. It’s been there for months now, an annoying mental soundtrack I’m carrying in anticipation of the moment we finally overtake Liverpool in terms of league titles won.

‘N-n-n-n-nineteen, nineteen, n-n-n-n-nineteen’ – that refrain is always there, every time 19 is mentioned in conversation (ie constantly) or I read any reference to what we stand on the brink of.

Like many of us mid-thirties types, the FA cup successes of the mid-eighties were the crowning moments of my formative years watching United – the league title proving maddeningly elusive until we finally bagged one in 1993. Just to witness one championship was enough for me back then, though those expectations were quickly raised as it became apparent that Fergie hadn’t just built us a title winning team – he’d constructed the foundations of a dynasty that was going to challenge for years.

All of the titles we’ve amassed since 1993 have been rightly celebrated, but the next one will carry a special resonance for those of us who experienced the drought years – a golden period to watch the reds which contains many cherished memories – but one which brought about numerous false dawns title-wise, culminating in a devastating trio of defeats vs Forest, West Ham and Liverpool that comprised our spectacular implosion in April 1992.

Though that afternoon at Anfield still stings now, it was our visit in January 1994 for the 3-3 that saw them display their infamous ‘Au Revoir Cantona and Man United…Come Back When You’ve Won 18!’ banner. It was a defining moment where the possibility of one day usurping them came into focus. The scousers started this modern day obsession with numbers and statistics, as that was all they had left to cling to – and it was concrete evidence that we’d finally become the dominant force.

Fast-forward to 2011 and with just a handful of games to go this term, a 19th league title is now tantalisingly within reach. N-n-n-n-nineteen. The desire to reach this milestone is so great that even typing out these words feels wrong somehow – I’m writing with the awareness that committing this to print at this stage, might curse us yet. So if it goes tits-up, I can only apologise in advance.

This title run in feels naggingly reminiscent of 1993. I’m finding myself counting the days in-between games and struggling to fully focus on real-life, pressing engagements. As the games get ticked off and we edge closer to the finish line, it’s become all-consuming.

Despite us hovering titles up with gleeful abandon over the last 18 years, it remains a difficult thing to win. Ask Liverpool, or Newcastle, or even City now. Say if we were to repeat the heroics of 99 or 08 and collect another European cup next month – who’s to say that Ferguson wouldn’t then decide to call an abrupt end to his time in charge? Yes, given what’s been hinted at (another 2-3 years yet) it remains unlikely – though not beyond the realms of possibility. 3 European cups in the bag and Liverpool properly de-perched, what a way to bow out.

Where would that leave us? With a new man in charge, new backroom staff and facing the perennial question as to how we’re going to replace Giggs and Scholes when they ultimately call it a day. I know we’ve got this £100M+ cash reserves sat in the bank waiting for a rainy day – but I’m not expecting to see that splashed on replacements any time soon. No, the ‘value’ line is sure to be reeled out again – and any silverware won this season used as justification for United’s relative parsimony.

Given we’re top of the table and have reached the semis of the European cup again, it could be seen as churlish to be questioning the make-up of the squad at this point – but lets not kid ourselves. We all know our shortcomings, the lack of creative midfield options has been terrifyingly obvious for much of the season – yet we’ve somehow survived and managed to kick on. By the way, Michael Carrick – it’s good to have you back, where the fuck have you been?

So in spite of the period of upheaval that could be looming, the financial black-hole we inhabit and us looking anything but convincing all season, we find ourselves on the verge of footballing immortality…again. It’s testament to Sir Alex that the ability to confound, surprise and over-achieve is now firmly a part of this club’s DNA, it’s now almost expected of us. Have no doubt, these are great days – we’re watching history in the making.

So my wish for the coming weeks is to see Paul Hardcastle’s ‘19’ make a surprise return to the charts, just as ‘Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life’ re-emerged into popular consciousness post-Rotterdam. Expect the tune to get hammered in the montages and video clips produced to hail this seasons champions. No.19. N-n-n-n-nineteen.

This time around, it won’t make my teeth itch in the slightest.

www.rednews.co.uk

Sweet FA

Doing It For The Kids

Leave a reply

When my son was born I didn’t buy him an MUFC baby-grow, nor did I name him ‘Cantona’. Similarly, I felt no urge to rush down to the ground to get him a membership the day he arrived, or record him as a toddler gurgling ‘Build A Bonfire’ and upload the footage onto youtube. He was always going to be introduced to football at an early age, there was no need to force the issue. The intention was to let him ask the questions and develop his own interest. I stuck to this up to a point…he was 18 months old before he had his first kit and attended his first match.

As for playing, it all started innocently enough with a trip to the park one warm summers evening, almost two years ago now. My son (then aged 5) came face-to-face with a mate of his from school. He looked at him in awe when he clocked what this kid was wearing. As well as sporting a full United kit, what caught my lad’s attention was the fact his mate was wearing brand new boots and shin-pads too.

Turned out that the local junior team trained on the park during summer and were apparently keen to get new kids involved for the season starting that September. I was buzzing at this news and so was my lad. All I had to do was get him some boots, fill in a couple of forms, pay £2 a week subs and bring him along.

So there began my son’s football career. I instantly felt certain as to what was going to be my place in all this. Other parents were stood on the sidelines barking instructions and offering encouragement to their mostly confused offspring. Ha! I was determined to leave any such nonsense to them, I was intent on being silent and aloof – I would take him, watch him play, then gently offer him the benefits of my considerable football knowledge and experience during the car journey home. I smugly told myself, ‘I’m not gonna shout, I’m not gonna get involved, I’m not gonna get wound up. People screaming at kids playing football look and sound RIDICULOUS, I mean look at the state of the coach there with his stupid tracksuit and his stupid initials embroidered on it. What a DICK.’

As time went by it became clear my initial impressions of the lad in charge were spot on. He was very shouty, clearly in love with himself and unforgivably dismissive of the less-able kids. Resisting the urge to share these observations with other whinging parents, I settled in on the sidelines, keeping both my distance and my thoughts to myself…well, for a while.

Over time you inevitably start talking to people and developing a common appreciation and appetite for the weekly madness being served up. With 5-6 year old kids involved, examples of sporting excellence are rarely encountered, although moments of high-comedy come thick and fast.

That first season contained some classic moments. The midfielder who stopped mid-game to make a sandcastle; the errant substitute who was found playing on the swings; the defensive partners spinning round mid-game, attempting to see who could get dizzy and fall-over first; the day when the goalkeeper was beaten twice because every time a tram went past he’d instinctively turn and wave at it. My favourite of all though was the game when the entire team decided to communicate with each other only by barking.

News arrived that changes were afoot. A civil war had broken out within the club (petty bureaucracy exists at all levels of football, then) and the upshot was that the present coach was leaving and our team had no one to take charge for the new season. Then came a seemingly innocuous approach via the smiley woman with the clipboard who collected the subs each week “Would you be interested in helping out?” “Errrr…”

Looking back, that was the moment I should have replied with a firm, “No”. Instead, my hesitation was somehow mistaken for interest and the gig was mine. It was like she’d tagged me, shouted “YOU’RE IT!” and run off. I’ve subsequently learnt that this is how most people get recruited, mainly because you’d have to be a mental to volunteer.

Luckily, my co-manager is one such mental. This is a man who has taken it upon himself to selflessly tackle all the demands entailed in running a successful junior football team. Communication with parents, updating the website, finances, committee meetings, scheduling fixtures, fund-raising – he loves all that stuff, thankfully. All I have to do is concentrate on training the kids. Thus far we’ve proved an incredibly successful managerial partnership. We complement each other well – he brings the motivation and boundless enthusiasm, I provide the cynicism and a deep sense of despair.

Our partnership has not been totally problem free. My attempts at projecting a Mourinho-esque, studied cool on the sidelines were almost obliterated when he went out and bought us matching Kappa tracksuits. I flatly refused to wear mine and a stand-off took place until we reached a compromise solution of Nike waterproof jackets.

The key word is patience, which is what I don’t really possess. I love my son dearly but I’ve struggled to bond with few of his fellow squad members. Spoilt, middle-class shits some of them – the sort of kids who got off lightly being named Joshua or George; you can just tell their parents were dying to christen something more fitting like Charles or Orlando. Some of these little snots are incapable of standing still and listening for 10 seconds, let alone appreciating the intricacies of the catenaccio system I’ve been attempting to implement.

Most of the kids are brilliant though. Happy, funny, football-daft, credit to their parents etc, etc. We get scouts down from United and City regularly, though for what purpose I’m not sure. They’re always keen to introduce themselves and show ID the first time they appear, probably so they’re not mistaken for paedos. The one lad we’ve got who (to my eyes at least) possesses genuine talent, spends most of his time doing ridiculous step-overs and showing off – you’d struggle to tell he was a half-decent prospect from a single viewing.

So now, several months into ‘the project’, I find myself in deep. As well as spending an inordinate amount of time pondering United’s fortunes, I now find myself looking up training drills on the internet and considering ways I can vary our warm-up each week. My car boot looks like I’ve recently robbed a branch of JD Sports and I’ve slowly developed the temperament required to nurture and encourage mud-splattered, rain-soaked, often-weeping children.

Overall I’d suggest we’ve probably reached the embryonic stage the present-day United were at back in September 1989, mainly due to the fact we’re regularly demonstrating the ability to win 5-1 one week then lose 5-1 the next…and our goalie is shit.

Doing It For The Kids – Part 2

www.rednews.co.uk