Tommy Martin: Everyone has a plan until they let the ball run through their legs
Jeepers keepers: Geronimo Rulli of Villarreal
Dodgy keeper! Shoot at them! Pile crosses on them! When they take a goal kick, creep menacingly towards them with scary faces!
Heâs dodgy lads!
Thus, in the febrile arena of a Champions League semi-final, as in parks and pitches since time immemorial, did Geronimo Rulli of Villarreal become the hunted. Albert Camus, goalkeeper and philosopher, said that everything he knew about morality and duty he learned on the football pitch. So it is that the moral fate of the dodgy keeper is to be punished. It must be done. They are the runts of the litter. The lame cubs.
It is reassuring, in a grim way. We are told that the game at this level is different, that it is all about tactics and analytics and infinitesimal detail of preparation. But there he was, at the highest stage that professional sport has to offer, its most human face. Haunted, faltering, lost.
Liverpool manager Jurgen Klopp might have allowed himself a moment of sad reflection when he wasnât celebrating his âmentality monstersâ as they stormed into another Champions League final. After all, it was he who once attempted to subvert the moral order, who persisted for the guts of three seasons with the notion that the dodgy keeper could be redeemed.
First Simon Mignolet and then Loris Karius. Klopp believed that the healing power of his personality could cure keepers of their dodginess. Kloppâs love would save all, even those who could not save themselves. He sent Karius into a Champions League final against Real Madrid, then the most ravenous scavengers of them all, and they picked him apart for sport.
It was one of Kloppâs few big failures at Liverpool, his vibe-generating capacity no match for the money put down to subsequently sign Alisson Becker. The Brazilian, like Peter Shilton for Brian Clough or Peter Schmeichel for Alex Ferguson, has been a keystone for Klopp ever since. His capacity, by his very presence, to out-psyche opponents in one-one-one situations puts one in mind of the way Shilton would demoralise strikers, to the point that Clough didnât want his forwards training with the keeper too much lest he destroy their confidence.
By contrast, the negative vibe-shift of the dodgy keeper is resistant to the modern gameâs attempts to rationalise away human weakness. Unai Emeryâs Villarreal are a case in point. Odds and ends of players picked from the recycling bins of bigger clubs and assembled into a highly functioning whole by the coachâs masterplan. By detailed instruction and careful preparation, flaws can be hidden and strengths enhanced.
But everyone has a plan until they let the ball run through their legs.
The evolution of the goalkeeper has been a process of assimilation, an effort to integrate the daft lads with gloves into polite society in front of them. So they are told they can sweep and pass and playmake. Even Gaelic football has gone this way. A goalie is now a glamorous game-changer rather than a meaty lad with a big boot. They wander up the field and it is deemed acceptable, though for some of us the sight remains deeply uncomfortable, like meeting your mother in a nightclub.
But just as Gaelic goalies have been made look silly by balls lofted over their reverse-scampering heads, so did poor Geronimo underline the positionâs unending capacity for tragicomedy. Giving notice of the potential for slapstick with a series of madcap punches, Rulliâs feeble efforts to save Liverpoolâs first two goals were mere warmups for his contribution to their third.
His decision to take on Sadio ManĂ© for speed in the 74th minute put the tin hat on a night of fatal misjudgements. Liverpoolâs attackers are programmed to spring on mistakes â tiny mis-controls by defenders, passes left inches short, a glance at the wrong time â so Geronimoâs brave sortie was doomed as soon as ManĂ© spotted him gambolling out of his box.
After the game his manager defended him, as well he should. Every dodgy keeper has his day. Wasnât it the bould Geronimo who was the hero of Villarrealâs finest hour? Scored the winning penalty in last seasonâs Europa League final, then saved David De Geaâs effort to seal the trophy on that crazy night. Good enough to be called up to the Argentina squad, even if he has only three caps. Once on the books of Manchester City. Canât be bad.
But on Tuesday night Geronimo Rulli seemed sprung from the deepest imaginings of old-school football men who, upon seeing a shot fisted away uncertainly by an exotic gloveman when a good, honest catch was called for, would think to themselves: âNot sure about this keeper.â Even the name, with its connotations of Native American warriors and something you might exclaim while jumping out of a plane, might have raised eyebrows with the likes of Big Ron or Cloughie. Unless the man was called Dave or Steve and had hands like shovels then you were courting disaster. The old-school football men had an internal logic about this kind of thing. Goalies were daft for a start, so foreign goalies⊠That kind of thinking doesnât wash anymore, not when Liverpoolâs brilliant number one has a name that sounds like he could be the bass player with the Bangles and Manchester Cityâs Ederson can pass it like Pirlo.
Still, for all that the position has been redefined, it remains unforgiving. They are prized for the feet as much as their hands and have become key tactical pieces in the artillery of the modern super-coach. But, as poor old Geronimo now knows, one really is the loneliest number.
