Get Her Off the Pitch! (27 page)

The one policy issue I used to argue about with my boss was this irresponsible hyping of British (specifically English) chances in major competitions. The fact that false hope sells newspapers is no excuse. But I think the corollary disagreement we had was even more infuriating. This was the one that invariably took place after England was knocked out at the group stage - or Lee Westwood missed the cut - or Henman reached his predictable (but still very respectable) limit in the quarter-final - when the office would say, dogmatically and harshly, ‘That's it. No one will be interested now. You might as well come home.' That used to make me very cross. For a start, I was sure our football-loving readers weren't all raving jingoists. For another thing, if all the excitement around this tournament had truly been attached only to national expectations,
who was to blame
? And third, although I was careful not to say this too clearly in print (for fear of hurting the already tender feelings of the England fans), I positively adored all competitions the moment the red herring of England's chances was safely off the agenda. It was such a great relief to
get on with the football
. What bliss to watch Holland-Italy, and not worry about hundreds of semi-naked English thugs rampaging in some quaint foreign town and finally being contained by water cannon. As for the annoying people-will-lose-interest-in-Wimbledon-now argument,
I used to point out that, before Tim Henman came along, there had been decades without a realistic British hope, and the fans had happily rooted for Australians, Americans, Germans. All my anti-jingoist arguments fell on deaf ears, though. Presumably the sales figures proved me wrong.

To be fair, however, I don't think sports coverage would be much cop if it woke up one day with a completely realistic attitude about all this. ‘Yes, it's Super Terrific Sky Sports Super Terrific Sunday and blah blah are at home to blah blah, but the likelihood of it producing anything memorable is pretty small, so look, we thought we'd give it a miss, because life is precious, have you noticed, and football is quite often a bit disappointing, and besides it goes on and on and on.' No, better to carry on peddling expectations, and being either totally gob-smacked when things go badly, or justifiably elated when everything turns out well. The supporters expect this Year Zero mentality; for some reason, they don't even see it as dishonest. Yes, they live to remember who scored what, when and how; who won last time, and who won the time before; and to forget entirely what it felt like. In the end, this kind of wilful amnesia is a gift, and I'm quite envious of people who have it. ‘Why don't I ever
learn
?' is not a question they ask themselves. Which, in itself, satisfactorily explains why they never will.

If it's any consolation, I have made a great discovery. The less you know about football, the more you can enjoy it. After a break of eight years or so, I have tentatively returned to footie, and found it fascinating. For a start, footballers
have actually changed shape in the intervening period. It's very noticeable. It's as if they have all been stretched and moulded until they are of identical proportions, using the slender David James as the template. Footballers have got taller and leaner and lighter on their feet, with smaller knees and spatchcock shoulders. This means they all look very fit and nifty, but are much, much harder to tell apart. Whereas a team lining up in the late 1990s might have contained some terriers, an Afghan, a pit-bull, a chihuahua and a few mutts, now every premiership team is 100 per cent greyhounds. Referring to footballers as athletes used to be stretching things, but not any more. It is astonishing how quickly matters have altered to the detriment of square-shaped blokes like David Batty. An England team with Matt Le Tissier in it now seems like something from another world. Paul Gascoigne, with his thin legs and pigeon chest, would today be laughed off the field.

Other things have changed, too. Rules-wise, they have clamped down on goal celebrations and have dickered with the offside rule so that even the commentators are throwing their hands up. Meanwhile, personnel-wise, it's hard to know where to start. No Ron Atkinson, which is good. No David O'Leary, either, who used to preface all his remarks with ‘I don't want to sound arrogant', ‘I'm not trying to be arrogant' or ‘Stop me if this sounds at all arrogant'. What immediately struck me was the way scary hard-man players such as Mark Hughes and Roy Keane have gone into management, and look just as murderous in the dugouts as they ever did on the pitch. As it happens, I was once at Stamford Bridge when Mark Hughes (then on the visiting Southampton side) was awarded a rose bowl
in recognition of his years with Chelsea, and I know what you're thinking because I thought it too. A rose bowl? Yes, not the most thoughtful of gifts for old Sparky. You could imagine the scene at Peter Jones the night before: Chelsea chairman dithering about what to get, and the assistant saying, ‘Well, if you say he likes flower arranging…' Hughes was removed from the pitch in a state of concussion during the ensuing match, and I have to say I did worry about that gift of his. Would any of his team-mates remember to put in on the bus? Would it be left in a corner of the dressing room? Would it be back on the shelf in Peter Jones by Monday lunchtime?

But anyway, back with having General Ignorance about football, it is honestly great fun, and I can recommend it. It's as if I have been in a lengthy coma - or perhaps (nicer image) living in a cave. Thus, I am genuinely agog for information about what ever happened to David Platt (say), but since I have to ask the question, ‘What ever happened to David Platt?', it's obvious that I haven't cared sufficiently in the intervening period to know the answer for myself. I'm sure it's quite irritating, this
faux naïf
act that isn't even quite
faux
, but I can't control it. I only have to spot a chatty football fan and I start in with the questions. I'm like one of those mischievous old people who come up with things like, 'Have
you
ever seen a square-shaped plate?' when you're in the middle of negotiating a complex system of round-abouts and the car is on fire. ‘What happened to Nottingham Forest?' I demand. (And, interestingly enough, it turns out that this question is virtually synonymous with ‘What ever happened to David Platt?') ‘Where did Hull spring from? What on earth is Anelka doing at Chelsea?
Who is Fernando Torres, and is he any good? Did Ruud Gullit run to fat? Does anyone else think Rafa Benitez looks a bit like René in
Allo, Allo
? Will anyone ever save that great man Arsène Wenger from his dreadful touchline torment?'

Since loving sport is all about keeping up with it, I'm aware I have broken its first commandment by not knowing anything. When you are involved in the world of sport, you are never meant to use the words ‘I', ‘didn't', ‘know' and ‘that' in the same sentence, especially not if you put them in that order. But what the hey. It is good to know that at least the spirit of curiosity has survived. And if occasional appalling humiliation is the price, I suppose it must be endured. It is still painful for me to tell the following story, but I think I must, because it lets you see the full horrific extent of how ignorant of sport a person can become if she really sets her mind to concentrate on the cultivation of oregano, parsley and chives. One day in 2002 I happened to meet the lovely John Inverdale in the reception of Broadcasting House, you see, and oh God, I can't go on. It was John Inverdale, you see. And he's such a good bloke. I always craved his good opinion. But it has to be done. The thing is, he mentioned the upcoming Commonwealth Games. And so I said, ‘Oh, of course, the Commonwealth Games. Where are they being held this time?' And his eyes actually started out of his head on curly stalks while his jaw dropped right to the floor. You'll have seen the effect in films like
Ace Ventura
. There is usually a cartoony ‘
Bo-ing
' sound going with it. The answer was Manchester, you see. The Commonwealth Games were about to be held
in Manchester, and it was utterly beyond belief for him that I didn't know or care.

Watching Euro 2008 was bliss for several reasons. First, England wasn't represented, having apparently failed to qualify (hooray). Second, the football was good. And third, the turnover of international players meant there were very few left from my era that I could be irritatingly nostalgic about. I was delighted to see that the gigantic striker Jan Koller was still playing for the Czech Republic, but his immense age (35) was often mentioned along with his immense height, and he announced his retirement from the national team when the Czech Republic was knocked out of the competition. Apart from him, it seemed all young blokes, all capable of greatness, and I was in Ignorance Heaven. ‘That Fôbregas bloke is terrific,' I would say aloud. ‘Perhaps he'll even play in the Premiership when he's old enough.' You see, what I want to argue here is that knowing all about sport may
seem
to enhance one's enjoyment of it, but actually:

1. it's quite time-consuming, and
   
2. it leads to despair, so
   
3. in short, it is a trap we should all avoid if we possibly can.
   

I am in a position to attest all this from experience. But just look at all the dedicated football fans you know and ask yourself: does their deep and wide knowledge of football make them happy? We all know the answer is no.

* * *

Trawling through my old cuttings, I came across the following piece which I had forgotten. It was written at the very end of Euro 2000, and the reason I include it is that I seem to have banged on so much about the discomfort of covering football tournaments that I thought I should offer a straightforward corrective. When I wrote this, I'm pretty sure I was both grumpy and exhausted, having been obliged to drive from Antwerp to Rotterdam and back the day before the final, just to collect my ticket and parking pass, because that's how badly the tournament had been organised. When I had first turned up in Belgium in the week preceding the first match, I had driven to Brussels every day to get the requisite accreditation, and every day they had said, ‘Oh, plenty of time yet!' as they looked with equanimity at the empty shelves behind them. ‘Will you be able to give me all the parking passes for the matches I'm attending?' I would ask. ‘Oh yes, soon, soon, very soon,' they said, vaguely, until the day before the tournament began, at which point they changed the answer to a firm, ‘Parking passes will be available at the stadiums.' This didn't sound too good to me, I must say, because it seemed to contain a logical flaw. ‘In that case, can you park
without
a parking pass in order to go inside and get your parking pass?' ‘No, of course you cannot park without a parking pass!' they said, as if this was a jolly stupid question. Then they turned away to talk to someone else with a more reasonable enquiry. ‘Do you have maps to the stadiums, then?' I would plead. ‘Maps to the stadiums will also be available
at the stadiums
,' they said.

Anyone who has travelled on the roads in Belgium will know about a) the demonic driving, and b) the strenuous
application of the native surreal imagination in the matter of road signage. For one thing, all the major towns have two names (Anvers is also Antwerpen; Liège is also Luik), but the convention is never acknowledged. The name of your destination just depends on which part of the country you are driving from. But it's worse than that. Harry Pearson, in his very funny (and very reassuring) book,
A Tall Man in a Low Land
, perfectly describes the business of following direction signs in Belgium: ‘Genk straight on; Genk 24; Genk right; Genk 12; Genk left; Genk 8; Genk You can find your own bloody way from here, surely?' During the tournament, the Belgians added no useful trains or other public transport, but instituted a travel scheme called ‘Befoot' which warned in English that ‘wild camping' was illegal, and that ‘perturbation' would immediately be dealt with. This last made me hopping mad, as you can imagine. How dare the Belgians clamp down on perturbation, when they deliberately caused so much of it? How unfair could you get?

Anyway, here is the piece:

WELL
, the party's over, it's time to call it a day. And I have to say it's unsettling. Rarely does a three-week period become so distorted as when a big tournament is on. Only three weeks ago that the gigantic inflated footballer was wheeled, striding elegantly, on to the pitch at the King Baudouin Stadium in Brussels? Only three weeks since, in the opening match against Sweden, Filip De Wilde, the Belgium goalkeeper, took delivery of a back-pass, diddled with it perilously and had it nicked off him for a goal by Johan Mjallby?

Seems like years. Seems like minutes. The European championship has been a colourful dream of astonishingly good football which has, rather too persuasively, created its own world. It's a world in which every time you look up you see Gheorghe Hagi staring into the mental abyss of yet another yellow card; or the dainty Filippo Inzaghi caught offside with his hands in his hair; or a blur where Thierry Henry has just streaked through open country to score a brilliant goal. Over? Euro 2000 is a way of life. How can it possibly be over?

Before the tournament, I noticed with some alarm that Belgium (where I've been stationed throughout) did not appear ready for it. I accepted that I might be an incorrigible fusspot in such matters and that it was always a mistake to arrive at a party too early, while the host was still deciding on his socks and there was only an old half-bottle of Tizer on the kitchen table. But I must whisper, as delicately as possible, now that it's over and we know that the nibbles never did turn up, that hosting a football tournament may be something that Belgium does not do best. Spending all the money on bouncers was a valid choice, but not a particularly endearing one.

But did this matter, in the end? Unless you are a deported England fan, not too much. The Netherlands, the co-hosts, evidently extended a warm welcome to visitors - they even controlled the England fans in Eindhoven without bother. Besides, with the quality of football from the qualifying teams, a good time was absolutely guaranteed. It's the people
who make a party, after all. And there is not a single team that didn't turn itself inside out for the sake of this competition, as their fans well know. Even poor old Denmark (played three, lost three) gave their all, with the poignant banner ‘
TAK FOR ALT BOSSE
' displayed in Liège during the Czech Republic match, in genuine gratitude to Bo Johansson, the outgoing coach, for leading Denmark blind and weaponless into the valley of the shadow of the group of death.

So, what I'm saying is, they invited Zinedine Zidane to this party - and memories of this event will rightly focus on Zidane, performing at the height of his talent. From the moment France took the field against Denmark on the first Sunday in Bruges, the pre-eminence of the man was evident.

Unlike Paul Gascoigne, who always suffered from having a brain like a foot, Zidane has a foot like a brain and a brain like a brain. In fact, he is the brainiest footballer I've ever seen. At semi-conductor speed, and with three opponents closing in on him, he simply bends his balding pate over the ball, calculates all coefficients and simultaneous equations, and then not only works out an unfussy way to retain the ball (swivel, counter-swivel, hop, turn, tap), but comes up with a miraculously improvised way to pass it as well.

What everyone has loved about Euro 2000 is the open, forward, dynamic play. More than 80 goals and a million saves; only two goalless draws. High passion, committed athleticism, fabulous hair and great goals. There's nothing to beat it. Hoorah.

England fans will cherish Michael Owen's goal
against Romania and, of course, the glory of beating Germany; less so, perhaps, the false dawn of the two exciting openers against Portugal, before our opponents regrouped and blasted holes through us at close quarters. I was looking at a computer graphic of Luis Figo's goal against England the other day, incidentally - and do you know, it was preposterous. It showed Figo charging directly towards goal, leaving defenders collapsing on both sides, firing through Tony Adams's legs and straight past David Seaman as if he wasn't there. Well, I thought, lucky this was only a graphic. Imagine if such a thing could happen in the real world.

Unsurprisingly, Figo got the man-of-the-match award. It's an award system that has recognised goalscorers in a quite unimaginative way. On the night Martin Keown heroically worked his socks off for England against Germany, for example, it was Alan Shearer who got man of the match.

Goalkeepers, defenders and playmakers don't get a look-in, so the amazing Alessandro Nesta, of Italy, will go officially unrecognised, as will all the goalkeepers, despite the fact that the quality of goalkeeping in Euro 2000 has been one of its great revelations. Toldo's saves in the Holland-Italy match were magnificent; I remember Rustu, of Turkey, taking Emile Mpenza's rocket shot like a bullet to the chest in the match against Belgium; meanwhile, Barthez's vertical salmon-leap to palm a shot from Raul over the bar in the France-Spain quarter-final was frankly unbelievable.

Plus there are players who just physically summed up the tournament. Edgar Davids, in his swimming
goggles, proving that even girlie hair and specs can be elevated to footie fashion if the will is strong enough. Patrick Kluivert having the time of his young, strutting life against Yugoslavia (It's three! It's four! No, hang on, it's three again!). Pierluigi Collina giving red cards to players who weren't even on the pitch, with his eyes popping out of his already quite scary head. Christophe Dugarry with his nostril splints. Jan Koller, of the Czech Republic, biggest man in the world, roaming the field as if looking for someone to eat.

What a shame if an event such as this is remembered for the water cannons in Charleroi. So think of Zidane instead, waiting several minutes for the explosive Portuguese protests to die down at the semifinal in Brussels, knowing he must put the penalty away, his whole body whirring and ticking with controlled concentration. This is not only a contested penalty, remember; it is potentially the golden goal.

But though a few more hairs fall out, this is the only sign of the strain he is under. For Zidane is the Pete Sampras of football. The whistle blows. He makes a short run, fires it into the roof of the goal, into Baia's right top corner. And France are in the final, and on this night in June in the year 2000, Zinedine Zidane is the best footballer in the world.