The no-show must go on
A single, solemn paragraph would appear in this spot, reading as follows: “Our soccer correspondent declined to write his column this week, having at first claimed that he was neither mentally nor physically right to do so. After some further discussion, he offered an alternative explanation to the effect that, owing to language difficulties, he hadn’t understand the instructions he had been given by the sports editor (a Kerryman) and insisted that, at all times, he had been fully prepared to write on demand. The Irish Examiner has launched an internal investigation, imposed a record fine of approximately 25 years’ wages and decreed that, until further notice, his work will only appear in the small ads.”
Being that he’s a great admirer of symbolism, I knew the commander-in-chief would see this for what it was: a bold, imaginative slice of art imitating life and not, as lesser minds might suspect, a sneaky way to try to get off work early and enjoy the last rays of the Indian summer.
Sure enough, I knew by the way he poked me in the eye with a biro and snarled “900 words pronto” that, as usual, he and I were on the same intellectual wavelength.
The no-show must go on but really, what’s left to be said about the Carlos Tevez affair? Best to paraphrase Kenneth Wolstenholme: “Some person is not on the pitch. They think it’s all over. It is now.”
Well, barring all the legal complexities, it is.
My normal instinct when the whole world is again someone, is try counter the consensus and find some basis for showing sympathy for the devil. But this one is devilishly hard. Thus far, perhaps only Paul Scholes has managed to stop short of joining the lynch mob, although, as a robust defence of the Argentinian, his effort was about as useful as one of his tackles.
“I know Carlos quite well. He wants to be playing,” Scholes told BBC. “When he’s a sub, it will be killing him. It’s totally up to the manager but Carlos wouldn’t have been thinking that. He’ll be thinking, ‘The manager is against me, why is he not bringing me on? I’m City’s best player and he’s not playing me’. I’m not saying he is right. It’s up to the manager.”
Hardly enough there to soften the jury’s cough, methinks. However, now that Tevez is the worst in the world, the comments of one of the best English players of his generation do serve to remind us that the striker can be an incredible asset to a team, albeit, admittedly, only when he’s not actually on strike.
Not the least of the ironies of his present situation is that, when he does deign to cross the right line, Tevez is one of the most whole-hearted and hard-working players in the game. As well as being joint-top scorer in the Premier League last year, it’s hardly an exaggeration to say that there were times when, by sheer force of will allied to breathtaking skill, he almost single-handedly carried City through games.
But the fiasco in Munich — the breaking of a storm which had been brewing for some time — has left an ugly stain on his reputation. If this was all about his desire to get away from a club and a manager he dislikes then he has found a way to do it which damages him far more than them. Though, with the likes of Balotelli and Dzeko also prone to childish tantrums, you’d have to fear Roberto Mancini, a decent man, will struggle to retain his position to the end of the season.
Inevitably, the sight of a lavishly paid footballer refusing to put in a modest shift has produced the usual ‘rot at the root of the beautiful game’ stuff from the usual suspects. So, it was so uplifting to be in White Hart Lane on Thursday to find that, as they always like to remind you around those parts, glory still has its place in the modern game.
Here was an occasion that had it all: a big match atmosphere on a gorgeous night in a famous old ground, a magnificent travelling support, and a magical moment for the underdogs in the middle of an always fascinating 90 minutes of scintillating attack versus heroic defence. Having come off the ropes to land their shock sucker punch — even in the press box there were people taking snaps of the scoreboard — there was, in the end, disappointment but no disgrace for Shamrock Rovers, as the sheer class of Spurs saw the Premier League side home.
In our carriage on the late tube from Seven Sisters back into central London, there was a mother with her arm protectively around the shoulder of her sleepy young son, his green and white hooped jersey bespeaking his allegiance as the train rattled to its destination and their shared night of joy and tears and pride drew to a close. Carlos Tevez might have forgotten, but football can still be the stuff that dreams are made of.
