A Christmas ‘Andy’ Carroll… 

The crowd at the EPL Christmas party was beginning to thin. Fergie had politely sipped his single glass of house red for an hour and was off home to pull the cork out of something a little more festive. Experience had taught him not to drink at these occasions, as it tended to result in a raging headache and a fine from the F.A. sometime in the New Year. And besides things were starting to get a little messy.

Some of the boot studers were playing drinking games in the corner and those referees who had not already passed out were in various stages of undress. Most of the QPR boys were enjoying the better standard of hospitality on offer but Joey Barton had slipped out an hour ago muttering something about puppies and a razor.

Nonetheless, a few individuals were still milling around Santa Claus, waiting for their turn to sit on his knee and tell him what they wanted for Christmas.

“Ho, ho. don’t be shy, little fellow. Sit up here and tell me your name…Andy? Well you’re a big lad, Andy so you better make this quick. A time machine? Really?  ‘Dr. Who’ fan are we, Andy? No?”

Santa listened as the boy, who was also dressed in a red kit, explained that he really just wanted to travel back in time to five minutes before he signed his last contract, a time when he was one of the most feared strikers in the country.

“That may be a little beyond my powers,” explained Santa. “ I’ll tell you what, why not try these magic headphones instead. They can turn booing into applause so at least it will seem like people love you.”

Little Andy looked sceptically at the device in his hand and trudged off to goal shooting practise.

“Geez Louise, hard case.” Mumbled Santa. “ Who’s next? You there, what’s your name? Fernando. Great. What would you like for Christmas, young man?”

Fernando was a little startled and he refused to sit on Santa’s knee.

“Don’t stand there snivelling, head up, shoulders back. Where’s your confidence, boy?” chided the big man.

“Sniff…sniff…”

“Come on! Don’t be frightened everyone loves Santa Claus. Come sit on my knee.”

Little Fernando burst into uncontrollable sobs but couldn’t move.

“You’re like a rabbit in headlights! Come here!”

The boy took a few stumblingly steps but couldn’t coordinate himself and stood rooted to the floor once more.

“Oh, for God sake, get your act together, son.” Santa was beginning to yell.

By this stage Fernando had become a cowering, shivering, nervous wreck.

“Sorry, sorry.” Apologised the old man. “I’m a little frustrated and you seem very nice but you simply can’t keep on spurning the opportunities that are presented to you.”

Fernando composed himself and took a deep breath.

“Please, Santa, I just need a goal or perhaps two. Could I score two against United? Or Bolton even. Anyone really, mid-week in a cup game, just a tap in to get me started. A penalty, anything. I’m not fussy.”

Santa’s face clouded over. He longed for the old days when strikers just took what they wanted. It wasn’t the spirit of Christmas, he knew, but this lifeless, joyless specimen made him sick.

“See what I can do. Next. You. Yes, the fat kiddie with no friends. Come and talk to Santa.”

“Gimme a transfer to A.C.Milan.” demanded the boy.

“I beg your pardon…” Santa spluttered.

“Now, bubberbelly!” yelled little Carlos.’

“Perhaps you should say ‘please’, if you want something.”

This was rapidly becoming the worst gig since Santa had agreed to coach his son’s U12 football side. He wondered how he could get out of his contract. Maybe he could simply refuse to play the game. He was snapped back to the present by the shouting player.

“OK! Please give me a transfer! NOW, YOU STUPID SACK OF…”

“Do you know who I am?” exploded Santa.

“Do you know who I am?” retorted Carlos.

‘Hey! Weren’t you here last year demanding a blue football shirt? And a couple of years before that it was a red one! I know you! You’re never happy! Get lost you ungrateful little…”

Santa aimed a kick at the spoiled brat but apparently he was already on a plane to Argentina.

Santa took a moment to compose himself. He looked around hopefully and noticed a quite little fellow, red hair, unfashionably dressed, standing off to the side just making up the numbers.

“Now there’s a chap who looks like he needs a bit of Christmas cheer.” Santa thought.

“And who might you be, young man?” inquired a slightly rattled Santa hopefully.

“I might be the manager of a wildly successful football club if I just had a few things.” Replied David in a hurt little voice. “It just isn’t fair.”

“O oh, here we go.” Thought the big man. “Alright, Davey, what would you like for Christmas?” Asked Santa aloud.

“Not much, really, Santa.” David began.

“Ok. Shoot.”

“Oh no. That’s not how I coach.”

“I mean, what do you need.” Urged a patient Santa.

“I’d like a big, strong, smelly, ruthless central defender who doesn’t pick up interest from other clubs.”

“Ho, ho, ho, I don’t see why no…”

“And a tricky little striker, possibly South American.”

“Why not? It is the season for…”

“AND a left back AND a central midfielder who can play a decent final ball and take a set piece.”

“Very well…”

“And could I have a new stadium?”

“Perhaps that’s asking a little too…”

“And a little respect in this league wouldn’t go astray.”

“Now your just being ridiculous, Davey. Nobody really respects Everton. Now run along and try not to sell any more players in the New Year. I remember when kids just wanted a new pair of boots or a replica shirt. Since when did everybody get so unrealistic?”

While Santa’s thoughts drifted off to another less mercenary time little Harry Redknapp shuffled out of the shadows.

“Oh, hello. I didn’t realise there was still anyone here. No doubt there are a few things you’d like from Santa.”

“No, thankyou.” Harry said. “My Christmas has already come.”

“Oh?”

“Ticker’s thumping along just fine and we’ve ‘ad 15 penalties since the season started. It’d just be greedy to ask for anything more.”

Pablo Cruise

Football may be the winner but…

So, it’s 11.30 on Friday night and there’s a key in the front door. Great.

A little late dinner, perhaps get cosy on the couch before bed. All prepared to give it the big, “Welcome home, Buddy!” when the first of two size 10 boots come flying at my head!

Forget supper. I’m lucky to survive 45minutes of high feet and scissor tackles before getting chased outside into the cold Melbourne night. And the abuse! I’ve never been threatened with any of those things before.

Picking through the neighbour’s bin I get lucky. Leftover fish and chips and the back porch is warm and dry…it could be worse, I guess, but sometimes it sucks to be Kevin’s cat.

Pablo Cruise

Don’t blame it on the Dutch

Don’t blame it on the Dutch team, don’t blame it on van Marwijk, don’t blame it on the referee, and don’t even blame it on the boogie. Blame it on Jose Mourinho. That’s right, Jose Mourinho.

Don’t worry that he was nowhere to be seen in South Africa, the insidious influence of ‘The Special One’s’ coaching philosophy was rampant. Not merely in the final but throughout the group games. It was evident in the attitudes of Dunga and Verbeek and it threatens to go global.

We all love ‘the beautiful game’ but we are also continually told we are dealing with a ‘results orientated business’. Game or business? These seem to be the only options that managers offer the fans. If we want free flowing, attacking, joyful football we are told we are naïve and childish. Well, I’m here to tell you, people, if these are the only possibilities then the terrorists have already won.

Forget the World Cup final and the ‘passing Spanish’ victory over the ‘kicking Dutch’. It was a very close run thing (about the length of Iker Casillas’ big toe). A little more composure from Arjen Robben and the fans of beautiful football would be crying in their beer. Much more success for the winning ugly crowd and no one will want to play beautiful.

Witness the dourest Brazilian side we’ve seen for decades. As they exited the tournament they seemed paralysed by the fear of losing. Brazilians playing with fear? Football. With fear? Witness a Dutch side that disavowed ‘total football’ and were disowned by Johan Cryuff, the Godfather of attacking football. Witness an Australian manager who so lacked perspective he entered a game with eight holding midfielders and no strikers.

No doubt the managers of these teams have observed the most successful club boss of recent years, noted the tactics required to win a Champions League, watched Barcelona brought low by Inter Milan and asked themselves, “What would Jose do?”

The World Cup used to be a gift to players. A chance to represent their countries, pit themselves against the best of their generation, display to all the skills gained over a career and perhaps, when the cream had risen to the top, become champions of the world. Now it just seems to be another obligation, another grind, and another potential failure to be avoided or mitigated. There are good players in the England team. What if they came out to play to their strengths and see where their talent could take them? What is the worst that could happen? Scrape through the group and go out in the round of sixteen?

Certainly we are playing for sheep stations (and, just quietly, well done to the boys from Un Zud) and in reality probably more. I just think Jose’s influence may have spread a little far when the boys from the local under 14 side are mob handling the ref, dobbing each other in for yellow cards and screaming like Robben when they trip themselves up.

Pablo Cruise

Day dreaming of Cesc

Blinking in the winter sunshine filtering through the window, I haul myself out of the pool of dribble…for the third time this morning. What time is it in South Africa, anyway? About 4 in the morning?

Crossing back across time zones added to a diet of early morning football games is playing havoc with my increasingly delicate equilibrium. Since returning to Melbourne I seem to have become part cat. Moving around the house I loose consciousness anytime I pass through a beam of sunlight. On waking the recurring dream is not of the Brazilians, although some of their play has been the stuff of fantasy. Nor is it of the Germans. God knows I’ve woken up screaming a few times since the nightmare in Durban. Wave after wave of enormous white jerseys powering through hopelessly out numbered blue shirts, “where’s Jason, where’s Vinnie, what’s happened to Timmy? The horror, the horror…” No, the recurring dream is of Spain, less mercurial than the Dunga-boys, not as regimented as the Germans, certainly not as implausible as the Argentines, they are most similar to Dutch sides we have encountered.

Often worthy contenders for the Wold Cup they are perennial bridesmaids always falling at the final hurdle. (Now there’s a jet-lagged dream sequence, Raul in a wedding gown, galloping down the main straight at Flemington, only to fall in the mud and be passed by Maradona who later accepts the World Cup from a tipsy Sir John Kerr…)

Perhaps it’s just the caffeine talking (I find about eight espressos get me through until kick-off), but could it be different this time around?

Sure, they struggled against the Swiss but this is a tournament and nobody wants to peak in the first round. No doubt, Fernando Torres is yet to fire but big players require big matches and there is no doubt his moment will come.

Puyol and Ramos are a fine balance of ruthlessness and good grooming. (Another sleep deprived thought, do players with angelic hair get called for less fouls and if so, should Michael Beauchamp ditch the mullet?)

As the knockout phase gets under way I keep returning to the same sleep deprived thought. Surely a team that does not require the exquisite talents of Cesc Fabregas is capable of overcoming the perennial favourites.

Could it really be time for a new world champion or am I only dreaming?

Pablo Cruise