Tommy Martin: Internationals provide meaning in a debased sport where everything can be bought and sold

Interpret Gareth Bale’s story generously and it becomes about man’s search for meaning within the grinding materialism of modern society

Thu, 31 Mar, 2022 - 13:48

Tommy Martin

And so the international window ends and we return to club football. Or, as Gareth Bale calls it, holiday time!

The Welsh wizard was one of the standout stars of the last week, appearing in a puff of smoke to guide his country into a World Cup play-off final. Bale’s appearance for Wales was greeted with the now customary disdain in Madrid, where many doubt whether the intense passion he shows for his national team is matched by his commitment to his club.

Real Madrid pony up almost €700,000 per week for Bale’s services, for which outlay they have received exactly 270 minutes of football this season in return. This is about the same length of time it takes to play a leisurely round of golf, which, co-incidentally, is exactly what Bale prefers to do rather than run around the Bernabéu of a weekend.

To the player’s disgust, the Spanish newspaper Marca depicted Bale last week as a ‘bloodsucking Welsh parasite’. After scoring Wales’ first goal against Austria, Bale shouted “Suck that!” down the lens of a TV camera in a message to his detractors, seemingly unaware that the sight of him rifling a stunning free kick into the top corner – just days after missing El Clasico due to some mysterious ailment – tended to prove their point.

Whatever the reason why Bale continues to troll football’s most pompous institution, the flip side – his zealous devotion to Wales – is part of a wider theme: a romantic nationalism that has rejuvenated international football, just as the club game’s increasingly fetid commercialism has never made it seem less attractive.

Interpret Bale’s story generously and it becomes about man’s search for meaning within the grinding materialism of modern society, rather than that of a malingering sponger in a golf buggy. At some point Bale clearly decided to reject Madrid and all its pomps and channel all his emotional energy into the knockabout joys of leading his mates from home on nights of sweaty glory. Nice work if you can get it.

But when you look around the international scene now you see that same earnest fervour everywhere.

It’s there in Stephen Kenny’s Ireland team, for example, in the way the manager has attempted to shape his vision away from the gritty functionalism of the British game. Kenny set himself in direct opposition to the notion that the Irish team would forever inhabit the spirit of a sturdy mid-table Championship side and has enjoyed a groundswell of native support as a result. One of his most popular players is Chiedozie Ogbene, the Nigerian-born winger whose frequent declarations of pride in playing for Ireland chime with supporters who see in him the best possibilities of who they are.

Or how about this quote: “I want to give the people hope, where they are proud of the boys who are playing for the national team and that they can identify with them…We are going to have their identities in our play, their willingness to give everything they have, show who they are, show who we are. These players are burning madly for the national team.”

Not the words of Stephen Kenny, but of Kasper Hjulmand, the Denmark head coach. Why are international managers talking like this? They sound more like bearded revolutionary leaders rather than ex-players who’ve done coaching badges.

But it seems to work. Hjulmand led Denmark to the semi-finals at Euro 2020 and they qualified for the World Cup by winning their group. Tuesday’s friendly win over Serbia saw the return of Christian Eriksen to the stadium in Copenhagen where he suffered his cardiac arrest last summer, an occasion which felt like a great big national hug.

While declarations of undying patriotic pride have always been de rigeur, there used to be the slight sense that traipsing off to international duty was an inconvenience, especially for those for whom the standard on and off the field represented a step down.

Now the highest echelons of the international game are populated by grizzled patriots, chest-thumping warrior kings like 37-year-old Cristiano Ronaldo and 39-year-old Pepe, who were leading the charge when Portugal secured World Cup qualification this week. Poland’s Robert Lewandowski will be 34 when this year’s World Cup rolls around and shows no desire to spare himself for the benefit of his club employers.

Then there’s the daddy of them all, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, who came back to play for Sweden at the age of 39, having retired four years previously. He plans to continue with Sweden despite their failure to qualify for Qatar. “As long as I can stay healthy and contribute something,” Zlatan said when asked how long he would continue, possibly the most humble thing he has ever uttered. Even in an international team as dull as Sweden, the pull of being part of something bigger is strong.

At the root of all this – both for fans and players – may be a weariness with the continuing debasement of the club game. While there will always be millions whose football club defines a large part of who they are, it has become harder to identify with those that have morphed from community institutions into grasping corporations controlled by hedge funds or despotic regimes. Although ultimately run by the kings of stink at FIFA, international football at least allows the illusion of being part of some nobler collective enterprise.

Romantic nationalism has its roots in the 19th century when bits of old European empires were striking out for freedom. The idea was that by drawing together traditional music, literature and folklore you could create a sense of national identity that everyone could rally behind.

Just as romantic nationalists were looking to break free from the oppressive shackles of empire, so too might international football be providing deeper meaning in a sport where everything and everyone can be bought and sold; a way of giving two fingers to the oligarchs, the sleazy agents, the greedy club executives and all the rest.

Or, as Gareth Bale might put it, of saying “Suck that!”