The art of revelling in the self
As we study these people, might there be some psychological clues there, to help us detect where they are falling down in other aspects of their professional lives?
We must begin with what we have largely left behind; normal, human reaction to the joyful business of goal-scoring. Natural, modest mini-orgasms of jubilation.
There are very few of these guys left. Maybe only two; Wenger and Pellegrini. Twin towers of dignity and restraint.
We will get to other celebrants who charge away from the action, urgently creating their own competing spectacle, palpably seething at the goalscorer sucking away their limelight.
Not Wenger and Pellegrini. Invariably drawn, magnetically, towards where the magic has happened; they arise and walk, a spring in their step. A double-arm pump maybe.
Nothing too vigorous. There is no need for that. If it’s the clincher, they might allow their arms drift towards the heavens. An indulgence to relief.
These are powerful men who accept, for 90 minutes, their bit-part role as facilitators, who know they are not the story, indeed hope they won’t be the story.
Invariably trusting men, beguiled by their footballers; unfortunately the very attributes that persuade men to chance two up top on a big night; or leave Big Per to mind the house during an onslaught.
Brendan Rodgers’ now-trademark acknowledgment of a Liverpool goal is still regarded as illegal on many European touchlines. Misunderstandings around the angle of Rodgers’ saluting arm allowed the initial impression to form that the ‘philosophy’ Brendan’s ‘group’ holds so dear might over-rely on attacks down the far right.
But it is Rodgers’ other hand, tucked deep in pocket, that is the critical component; effecting nonchalance but possibly, probably, gripping some hidden, portable totem of self-regard, maybe a keyring bearing a miniature reproduction of the enormous self-portrait that hangs in his living room.
Essentially, this is not so much a celebration, but a special, beautiful moment to recognise the precision engineering that just crafted the opportunity for Jordan Henderson to scuff home. More importantly, it is a plea for recognition of the engineer.
Incidentally, The Engineer may have begun life as Alan Pardew’s The Draughtsman, with Pards using his free hand to thrust a notebook triumphantly aloft; a richly-deserved nod to his tactical acumen.
The work, as a great man on Twitter put it, of the priest on Fr Ted who wanted two parachutes because he was so great.
On some level, a deep-seated insecurity has to be at play here and insecurity tends to be exposed on the big European nights.
A brand new release, unveiled by Roberto Martinez to acclaim Everton’s late equaliser against Leicester last Sunday. Martinez has, during the spells in his career when his stock was highest, tried The Engineer for size. But a certain, natural ebullience often allowed the self-acclaiming arm to wheel into a truncated Mick Shannon-style windmill. That, at least, is to his credit.
Last Sunday, he debuted something different; a moment of compelling theatre. Allowing his knees collapse him almost onto his haunches in a classic lifter’s pose, Roberto reached and hoisted, as slowly as his coiled calves would allow, a notional bar above his head, completing the move in the classic arms aloft pose of rhapsodic fulfilment, a point gained against the Foxes. Part persecuted messiah, part Atlas holding up the celestial spheres.
A messiah complex can take you far, but a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders will eventually bow to pressure.
You have to feel for men like Steve Bruce. Men who expect the worst and are not often disappointed. The winner against QPR was a case in point.
A brief allowance of world-weary relief, a rub of the hands, then an urgent turn to tear his backroom team from their private joy to assemble a crisis meeting on handling this unplanned eventuality.
Hull’s one foray into Europe was mercifully brief and probably wracked with worry.
We are on now to the truly needy. The Engineer is, at least, confident enough to allow the limelight find its way from the goalscorer to its natural resting place. The Showman must hurry that process along.
We have seen many top, top showmen work their magic under the Barclays Premier League banner over the years, the best of them probably Paolo di Canio, who considers the knees of a good suit a small price to wrest the glory from his men.
A man, for example, who will participate in a choreographed exchange of military salutes with Emmanuel Adebayor is, you imagine, capable of anything.
Tim Sherwood’s convulsive celebrations — usually incorporating some kind of full salchow twist and vicious fist pump, might easily seem like a man joyously losing the run of himself, if it wasn’t so easy to imagine him perfecting it in front of a bedroom mirror, imaginary claret and blue blood pouring from his open heart.
Wears heart on sleeveless gilet. But the best gaffers wear sleeves to keep something up them.
It’s always business time for LVG. An admirably restrained celebrator, albeit one who won’t forget to gather his jotter before raising a token fist and convening with Giggsy as though emerging from merger talks gone reasonably well.
Gives the impression his chief joy in the arrival of a goal is the opportunity to reset his players in the positions he gave them.
May, eventually, get the job done, but the likes of Pep and Diego Simeone have found a place for emotion in the big league dugouts.
When Gary Monk drives that fourth or fifth fist pump home, it is impossible not to picture him as a detective constable in The Bill, getting slightly carried away with a recalcitrant suspect. That’s if you hadn’t already pictured him at the scene of the original affray.
Will punch themselves out.
Truly impossible to pigeon-hole. He is, after all, Special. Has every one of these celebrations, and more, in his locker.
From time to time, he will select one for his act, his grand pantomime, designed at all times to combat the vast international conspiracy that has followed him around the continent, dogging his every move; to throw them off the scent. This man can never be himself. Because they are always watching.
Whatever he wins, they will always have denied him more.
I’m not sure we’ve seen it yet. But it’s only a matter of time and all eyes were on Selhurst Park a couple of weeks ago. If anyone would carry the great scourge of modern football — the apologetic non-celebration against a former club — across the touchline, it was going to be Pards.
Thankfully, the overwhelming need to acknowledge himself held sway in the end — helped, perhaps, by a memory or two of what that the Geordies made of him.
He celebrated Fraizer Campbell’s equaliser with gusto. A crisis averted, for now. But this one is coming our way alright.
We need not worry. The gaffer who pulls this off not be playing in Europe. That gaffer will probably be Phil Brown.
