Enda McEvoy: The monster is back. This season, more than ever, let's pace ourselves
Devils and details: How many Harry Maguire howlers and Cristiano Ronaldo strops will this marathon season contain? The mind boggles. Pic: PA Wire
If you want to blame someone for the theme of the next 900 words â and frankly Iâm approaching the subject with a heavy heart meself even before a ball has been kicked, give or take the one used at Selhurst Park last night â then you may as well point the finger at the GAA. Or the pandemic. Or both.
Were this 2019 the All-Ireland championships would be reaching a climax and weâd have loads to talk about. The usual loads. Whoâll lift the silverware. Who said what, and who didnât say anything at all, at the various media evenings. The deplorable state of gaelic football, why oh why does it continue to exist and why is it far inferior to hurling. You know the kind of thing yourself. Weâve been over these fences before.
But the All-Ireland finals have come and gone and anyone who was reduced to getting stuck into the coverage of the Commonwealth Games during the week is surely in need of some kind of familial intervention. Which leaves us with no option but the Premier League. The monster returns.
The problem is that thereâs no tearing great rush about getting stuck into it. âThere will be time, there will be time,â as TS Eliot said, and indeed there will be. The longest soccer season in the history of the universe stretches before us and thereâll be plenty of time to delve into its intricacies and interstices.
It starts on the first Friday in August. It finishes on the last Sunday in May. In between thereâs the small matter of the World Cup finals in Qatar.
Thatâs ten â â whole months of overheated madness. Real drama, confected outrage, Ronaldo strops, Harry Maguire howlers, Southampton 0-9s, Mikel Arteta trusting the process and enough emotional incontinence for myriad episodes of Love Island. All human life will be there bar a sense of proportion.
Weâll end up gasping for mercy long before that last Sunday in May. We may even end up gasping for some terrible gaelic football.
As for how many spanners the World Cup will throw into the works, halting the momentum of some teams, allowing others the chance to reboot after Christmas and delivering season-threatening injuries for one or two big names, heaven only knows.
By rights definitive pronouncements about what lies ahead should be avoided until after the transfer window closes. Too much can still change, as Arsenal demonstrated 12 months ago when losing their opening three fixtures to much hilarity before stocking up on smart signings in the latter half of August and taking wings, upon which the hilarity ceased.
Ditto with the bizarre latter-day mania for decreeing which team has enjoyed the best transfer window . Is it altogether too boring and literal-minded to suggest that the winners of the transfer window cannot possibly be identified before the halfway stage of the season, if not later?
Still, a few pretty safe guesses can be hazarded this fine morning. Manchester City and Liverpool first and second, in whatever order. One if not both of the north London clubs finishing above Chelsea, who will presumably be required to live within their means for the first time in two decades. And Manchester United not to be the punchline of 2021-22, which will be unfortunate for the gaiety of nations but lovely things do not last forever.
One item of appeal about the new season is the strength of the middle order, the real reason for the Premier Leagueâs competitiveness in that it ensures the top four or five cannot do off-days. Aston Villa, Brighton, Crystal Palace and Newcastle United constitute a cadre of upwardly mobile outfits whoâll give the big guns plenty of it on their day. Wolves, in contrast, look to be marking time while a bad start would soon have Leicester City and Southampton answering a time-honoured newspaper need by becoming the early Crisis Clubs.
And then thereâs Everton. One fears for them. One cannot but.
That they pulled off a great escape a few months back doesnât mean they may not find themselves in similar straits next April. And Richarlison has departed, and Calvert Lewin is injured again, and buying players from relegated Burnley is scarcely a gamechanger, and Dele Alli will hardly get his train back on the rails, and the popular theory that their manager has been consistently overpromoted way beyond his capabilities has yet to be disproved. And and and.
In a Guardian feature involving a fan from each of the clubs outlining their hopes, fears and expectations for the new season, 14 of the other 19 went for Frank Lampard to be the first manager sacked. At the very least itâs shaping up as another long and unlovely slog at Goodison Park.
What will probably save Everton is that Bournemouth will go straight back down, Fulham will struggle to avoid doing so and Leeds are obliged to replace two players of genuine quality in Raphinha and Kalvin Phillips. Your correspondentâs own fancy for the first head to roll, seeing as you didnât ask, is that of Ralph Hassenhuttl.
The safest forecast of all is that social media will remain a cesspit. Nearly 70 per cent of Premier League players received abusive tweets last season, with no fewer than eight of the top ten most abused individuals being from Manchester United (top three: Ronaldo, Maguire and Marcus Rashford). The other most abused duo were Harry Kane and, oddly, Jack Grealish, the latter probably because he has the temerity to appear to enjoy his profession.
The monster is back. More excesses as we get them. There will be time.
Right, the Commonwealth Games, as competitors from exotic spots all over the world descend on equally exotic Birmingham.
Your intrepid correspondent watched some of it so you didnât have to. It was a close run thing, mind, given that Iâd been spending some quality time with my Sopranos boxset and was still picking up stuff Iâd missed, or forgotten, the first four times around.
(Such as: Uncle Junior is under house arrest and in hospital when a US marshal comes in to attach an electronic bracelet to his ankle. The marshalâs name is McLuhan. âYouâre Marshal McLuhan?â the nurse giggles. Even more brilliantly, Uncle Junior doesnât get the gag at all.) Dylan Eagleson, boxing off the back foot and doing so stylishly, makes the bantamweight semi-finals for Northern Ireland. Much lauded by Carl Frampton, it is his third podium finish of the year at a major international tournament but heâs not stopping there. âIâm here for gold.âÂ
Eilish McColgan wins an epic 10,000m final. Back in the day some woman called Liz McColgan won the same title twice. These episodes may or may not be related. These women are.
Guernsey have a 4x100m menâs medley relay swimming team â as by rights they should, being an island and whatnot - but theyâre not very good.
And that was the height of it, really. I didnât spot any members of the royal family at any stage, although given that itâs no longer the âBritish Commonwealthâ Iâve no idea if the Games fall within their remit any longer.
In any case theyâd almost certainly have been reduced to sending the z-lister members of the gang, things being as they are right now. The Queen indisposed. Prince Andrew unwelcome in polite, or indeed any, society. Oh dear.
Back to back All Ireland titles for the ladies and Colm OâRourke finally gets the top job with the men. Things are looking up again. At last.
Hallowed Star wins Saturdayâs big handicap hurdle for John Hanlon, following up Galway Plate glory for the same trainerâs Hewick three days earlier.
Shamrock Roversâ European visitors were outraged at having to land in Shannon rather than Dublin airport. If only theyâd known.
Ban coursing, he warns, and next thing theyâll be coming for horse racing. I never thought Iâd say this but the man may actually be right.
