Can Martin answer Championship prayers?
Father Marc Lyden-Smith, Catholic priest for the parish of St Mary, in Sunderland, has emerged as a low-key sporting hero of early 2019.
He can be found on Twitter, @frlydensmith, preaching to a slowly growing flock of followers, railing against poverty and inequality and xenophobia and Brexit and neglect of places like Sunderland.
He recently offered his solidarity to the city’s Muslim community after a Mosque was vandalised. Which is no more than you’d expect from one of the stars of the documentary series Sunderland ‘Til I Die, who called the Stadium of Light “a kind of megachurch that unites all faiths”.
In the acclaimed Netflix show, which delves behind the scenes at Sunderland’s second successive relegation last season, Fr Lyden-Smith admits the football club’s struggles are good for business. “Frustration on the football field has definitely seen an increase in my trade here in the church.”
We fell,
— Fr Marc Lyden-Smith (@frlydensmith) January 12, 2019
We crashed,
We broke.
We cried,
We crawled,
We hurt.
And then...
We rose again!
Let’s continue to get behind our team. #WeAreSunderland #SAFC #Sunderland.
See you at the @StadiumOfLight 💕
At the pulpit, he prays for the team. Alas, the intercession of hapless gaffer Simon Grayson is needed too, a man with an unfortunate habit of likening Sunderland to the Titanic, which just takes time to turn.
It is possible to imagine Fr Lyden-Smith being quite lenient with his penance when somebody from his congregation seeks absolution for the terrible things they were saying about poor old Grayson, before his eventual sacking.
Long before the end, Fr Lyden-Smith’s sermons have taken on familiar themes. A brief fascination with resurrection around the Easter relegation six-pointers. And an eventual focus on the long game. “Wherever we go, we will rise again.”
It is a show about belief, Sunderland ‘Til I Die, but not unbelievable belief. It is often about how fragile faith is, among players and managers who have lost whatever certainty they once had.
It touches frequently on the futility of it all. The anger and the despair. The filmmakers’ camera smashed in rage at half-time in Bristol, the Black Cats 3-0 down.
“The vast majority of the time it absolutely ruins your weekend,” one fan admits. And the most poignant scene takes place at an undertaker in the city, where there appears to be a woman laid out in a coffin wearing the red and white stripes. Laid to rest with Sunderland on the way to League One.
There is naked hypocrisy too in the way fans’ dreams conflict with players’ hopes. Footballers are ceaselessly berated for not caring, but all fans crave is better footballers, to put those players out of a job. Jack Rodwell is painted as the villain for refusing to tear up the mega contract the club unwisely sanctioned during better days, rather than billionaire owner Ellis Short, who has tired of writing cheques.
Is it really unconditional love? The jeers of derision after every goal conceded, the abuse for the manager, the players, the board, the acres of empty seats as soon as hope evaporates.
Maybe it’s the inevitable squabbling of a frustrated family in a neglected city whose identity is wrapped up in football.
Where Fr Lyden-Smith prays for the players’ “self-belief and a spirit of confidence because the success of our team leads to the success and prosperity of our city”. Where 61% voted to Leave, even if they mightn’t have known where exactly they wanted to go.
Desperation brings the constant search for a prophet. Brief auditions for miracle workers and sellers of snake oil.
Chris Coleman swans in to inject charisma, to warm up a club, saying all the right things, explaining why he doesn’t bollock the players because he wants them to take ownership, not simply react to criticism.
He comes across as genuinely likeable but results don’t come and soon all Aiden McGeady wants is a “manager to come in and go crazy”, somebody to offer him outside and tell him to bring his dinner. Coleman lasts six months.
The fragility of belief in the Championship was perhaps best
Read More:
“The place is going to be packed and I’d imagine there’ll be a great atmosphere — at the start of the game anyway.”
If, in one sense, it’s a bleak place, it’s easy to see too why the Championship is now the third-best supported football league in the world, and the sixth-richest.
Genuine competition, unpredictability, a golden stepladder hanging tantalisingly, a trapdoor yawning. Narratives everywhere. Martin’s mission. Golden boy Frankie. Bielsa’s magnetic madness. And now Spygate, the special sauce of controvassy.
One Sunderland fan listened to the Bristol City game at home on the radio. At half-time, he makes tea and considers abandoning his post, before ruefully accepting he still has to take in the second half. “It’s the Championship, you never know what can happen.”
Sunderland come back to draw 3-3. A rare moment of joy. Did they ever feel that alive in the Premier League?
Is the Championship that bad a place for most of Ireland’s best footballers to play? Though two of them, Andy Boyle and Kevin O’Connor, were reportedly told this week they have no futures at Preston. Where the fans dream of more signings before Deadline Day.
How will Martin fare? In their search for a prophet, for unbelievable belief, Forest plumped for a touch of nostalgia. But can a man who wasn’t that keen on telling his players the team, compete with Bielsa’s dossiers? Can he answer their prayers?
That’s the beauty of football, while can avoid the undertaker’s box or cling onto the managerial merry-go-round. Another job, another season, another chance to believe.
On his Twitter account, Fr Lyden-Smith mixes the odd word from the psalms with any message of hope he lays his hand on.
“A mission doesn’t have to be lifelong. Many are temporary and usually prepare us, in ways unknown to us at the time, for some future mission.”
Perhaps a life of unbelievable belief in Cloughie led Martin to this destiny?
And Sunderland could go second in League One today, with a win at Scunthorpe.
